Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(39)
He doesn’t stop but settles into an office chair that looks particularly ergonomic and capable of handling his girth. He reaches around one of the laptops on the desk and pulls out one that looks exactly like the one Ian gave me.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he says, his tone extremely business-like now, ‘this little baby had coffee spilled on the keyboard. But I’ve replaced the whole motherboard, and it’s just fine now.’
I am leery. I need something that will be reliable. It cannot fail.
‘Do you have one that’s maybe just a little old? I don’t really want one that’s had to be completely rebuilt because of a cup of coffee.’
Mike narrows his eyes at me, seeing me for the first time as someone who perhaps knows more than he originally thought. ‘I get it,’ he says, getting up and circling the room, touching the machines on the shelves gently, as though his fingertips will tell him which one is the best one for me.
Finally he stops, runs his hand along the top of a laptop that again looks like the one I’d had. He picks it up and brings it over to the desk, opens it and boots it up.
‘Someone brought this one in a couple of weeks back. Said it was outdated and they were getting a new one. I bought it off him for a lot less than he’d paid for it, but he was happy and I was happy, because all it needed was an update to the new operating system. Works like a dream now.’ He gestures for me to come closer to take a look.
If he hadn’t told me that it came in a couple weeks ago, I would think that it is actually the laptop I’d had. But whoever had taken that one wouldn’t bring it to Mike’s clandestine business, because that person was looking for something. Clues that he wouldn’t find. That didn’t mean, however, he wasn’t looking closely.
I want to check it out, to make sure it works OK, and Mike senses that. He runs me through the systems folder, showing me how much power it has. He points out that it has the most updated word processing program, PowerPoint, Excel and all of those business software programs that I have no use for. But I pretend to be interested in his demonstrations of how each works and works fast, proving that the update has been successful. He then shows me how fast the Internet connection is, even though that would vary with whatever type of connection you’d have.
‘I think this one is fine,’ I say. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
He gets up, a big smile on his face, pleased that he has pleased me, and rummages around on the bottom shelf behind him. He produces a laptop backpack. ‘I’ll throw this one in for nothing,’ he says, putting the laptop and its power cord inside.
I realize now that I have no money for him, but he interrupts my panic by saying, ‘Steve told me he’s going to drop by later with the cash. It’s all taken care of.’
I am more indebted to Steve than I should be. Again I worry that he is getting in too deep, that if he keeps on sticking with me, he is going to get hurt. But I need his help; I can’t do this alone right now. I push away my thoughts as I take the bag.
‘Thanks, Mike. I really appreciate it.’
‘Thank Steve.’
‘I certainly will.’
‘I heard about what happened to your place. Sucks.’
‘Yeah, it does.’
‘So do they think it’s that FBI guy?’
Word has not gotten out that Ian is not really FBI, and I am happy that Frank Cooper is keeping that under wraps, although I am wondering just how he’s getting along with his investigation. Was the BMW impounded from the airport lot, or is it still there? How soon will he find out who I really am?
A sudden urgency hits me. I thank Mike again and try not to show that I am eager to get out of there. He walks me out to the moped. There is a basket on the front, so I tuck the backpack with the laptop inside it.
‘You’ve got one of Pete’s,’ Mike says matter-of-factly.
‘That’s right.’
‘Good guy, Pete.’
‘Yes, he is.’ I am surprised my voice is not giving me away. I climb on the moped and start it up easily, as though I have been riding one of these and not a bicycle for fifteen years. I give Mike a short wave as I go down the driveway and out into the street.
The airport is in the middle of the island. I head up Old Town Road, feeling almost safe in my helmet since I am unrecognizable in it. I think about the route I would take on my bike, turning onto Center Road and then down Cooneymus toward Rodman’s Hollow. It feels like years since I’ve been there, rather than merely days.
I know as I approach the airport that I am avoiding even trying to do the job I gave Tracker, but I need to satisfy this itch before I can settle in with the new laptop.
The BMW is parked outside Bethany’s Airport Diner. I spot it immediately, next to a blue pickup that I recognize belongs to Will, the short order cook. There are a few other cars in the lot, but none that I can identify. I pull up next to the BMW. I commit the plate number to memory as I climb off the moped and circle the black car.
I glance around to see if anyone is noticing me lurking here, but I see no one. I skirt around to the driver’s side and peer inside. It is immaculate, not even a slip of paper on the dash or between the seats. I straighten up as I hear the door to the diner open and a middle-aged man emerges. He doesn’t even look my way as he goes over to a Toyota, climbs in and pulls out.