Set the Night on Fire (11 page)

“What is that?”

“I learned about this from a friend. She heard about it at a rape clinic. The woman who designed this was raped and left for dead. She decided that wasn’t ever gonna happen again.” Reba slid it off her fingers and handed it to Dar. “No woman should be without one. Or two. And now, of course, men’ve discovered ’em.” She looked back at Benny.

Dar fingered the knife. “What do you call this?”

“It’s called a HideAway, because you can hold it in your palm and no one can see it. You can open a door, even use your car keys, while you’re still holding it in your hand. It’s a dandy weapon for close encounters of the human kind. I recommend it to all my friends.”

Dar wondered what kind of friends she had, but decided not to go there.  “So . . . where do you find one of these HideAways?”

She smiled. “Online, of course.”

* *

Dar was working on Cece’s laptop in the kitchen when she got home and shrugged off her jacket.

“How did you get home?” he asked. “I was just about to come pick you up.”

“I got a ride home with Judy.”

“I’m sorry, babe. I must have lost track of time.”

“You do that a lot.”

He gave her a sheepish look.

“Listen, Dar, there’s something . . . ”

Dar broke eye contact with her and studied the computer screen. She went over. “What are you doing?”

He clicked the close button, and everything went blank.

Cece peered at the blank screen, then at Dar. “Let’s get one thing straight, okay? I might cut you some slack on some things. But I don’t do secrets. Even little ones. That’s what destroyed my marriage. Got it?”

Dar didn’t answer.

“So, I think you and I need to talk.” When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Not about what you were looking at online. I don’t really care: porn, guns, whatever. There’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“When Judy dropped me off, I saw a rental truck. I think someone’s staking out the house.” 

A ripple of unease ran through him. “What?” 

“It may not have been anyone. It’s just that . . . we’re a pretty close neighborhood. Everyone knows everyone. But no one’s said anything about moving. And I didn’t recognize the guy behind the wheel.”

“What did he look like? What kind of truck?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s dark out,” she said. “I couldn’t see the guy’s face. But the truck is from Budget. And he’s parked about two houses down, across the street.”

Dar went to the window above the kitchen sink and peered out.

“For Christ’s sake,” Cece said. “Why don’t you just announce yourself? Send him an engraved invitation?”

“It’s okay. He won’t bother us.”

“How do you know?”

“If he was, he’d have done it already.”

“I don’t like this, Dar.”

Dar kept looking out the window. An engine turned over, the truck’s lights flashed on, and it pulled away from the curb. Dar watched as it drove away, but he couldn’t make out a license plate. “Problem solved.”

“Damn it, Dar. It’s not solved. What happens if he comes back?” Cece planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve been sharing my car, my computer, and my bed. Now someone else is taking an interest in you. And by extension, that means me. I think I’m entitled to know who and why.”

He turned away from the window. “I’m sorry, Cece. This shouldn’t have happened. I don’t want you to be involved. Maybe I should go.”

Her eyes challenged him. “Maybe you should.”

When she didn’t say anything more, he slowly stood up. He was on his way out of the kitchen when she called out. “Hold on there, Gantner.”

He stopped.

“Playing Lone Ranger won’t work this time. You can’t just disappear off the grid and think everything will go back the way it was. They know where I live. Even if you leave, they could come after me.”

She was right. He sighed, went back to the laptop, and re-opened the browser. Once he clicked on the website, he motioned her over and scooted the chair back so she could see.

“A HideAway knife?”

He nodded.

“Who’s it for?”

He reached around and took her hand. Then he told her about Casey, the fire, and the girl.

When he was finished, Cece was quiet. Then, “Is that why you drove up to Winnetka?”

He nodded again.

“But why is
she
a target? If what you say is true, the fire should have solved the problem. Why are they after
her
?”

“I don’t know. I just know she’s in danger. The creep on the motorcycle almost killed her.”

“Does she know anything about this?”

“I don’t know. It’s been driving me crazy trying to figure it out.”

“The people you’ve described . . . they sound ruthless. But careful. Why add a new target? It doesn’t make sense.” She paused. “Unless . . . ”

Dar looked over.

“Unless they’re using her to flush you out. Maybe they figure if they can get to her, you’ll jump out of the bush, too.”

“That would make sense, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

He waved a hand toward the window. “The rental truck. They obviously already know where to find me. Why tie up men and resources when they don’t have to?”

Cece bit her lip. Dar was learning that was her way of admitting he was right. He gave her a wan smile, then motioned to the image on the computer monitor. “I’m going to order one of these and have it sent to her.”

“You think that’s necessary?”

“Someone took a shot at her. She needs protection. It might not work if someone’s pointing a gun at her chest, but it’s better than nothing, don’t you think?” When Cece didn’t answer, he looked up. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think . . . ” Cece’s gaze went to the window, then back to the laptop. “ . . . I think you better order two more. One for each of us.”

L
ila was just coming up from the laundry room when the phone rang inside the condo. Hurrying out of the elevator, she dropped the clothes basket and grabbed the wall phone in the kitchen before it went to voice mail.

“Ms. Hilliard?”

“Speaking,” Lila said breathlessly.

“This is Carolyn Bauer from Midwest Mutual. I’m the administrative assistant in the claims department. We’ve completed the investigation into the fire and we’re ready to proceed.”

Finally. The hours of interviews, walk-throughs, and photography were over. “That’s great news,” she said.

“We’ve prepared the sworn proof of loss for you to sign. We also have the subrogation agreement and the settlement draft. I wanted to make sure I have your correct address.”

“Subrogation agreement?”

“When a policyholder is injured by a third party, the subrogation agreement allows us to recover costs that we incurred from that third party.”

“What third party is that?”

“Well, in this case, EZ Lites, Inc.”

“The manufacturer of the tree lights.”

“Correct.”

“How will you recover the costs?”

“I assume our attorneys will eventually file suit. At any rate, I need your address so I can send these to you. You’ll have to get the proof of loss notarized and send it back. Then we’ll release the check.”

“I’ll have my lawyer look it over. Would you mind going over the major conclusions?”

“Not at all.” Lila heard a rustling of paper. Then Bauer’s voice, monotone, clearly reading. “‘The fire that broke out the morning of December 20 resulted in two fatalities. The fire and smoke caused extensive damage to the home. On the first story, only the exterior walls remained standing . . . ’”

Lila twisted the telephone cord. First one way, then the other.

“‘Local and state investigators determined the cause of the fire was a malfunctioning set of lights on the Christmas tree in the living room. The tree ignited, and the fire spread to nearby combustible materials, including drapes and upholstery . . . ’”

Lila twisted the cord more tightly.

“‘The fatalities were caused by co-asphyxiation.’ That’s smoke inhalation,” Bauer explained. “‘The two occupants . . . ’”

Lila knew the rest. “So the official conclusion is an accidental electrical fire.”

Bauer sounded surprised. “That was the operative theory from the start. Is that a problem?”

“It’s just that I remember telling the investigators I thought I unplugged the cord before I left the house.”

“It says here you concluded you could have been mistaken.”

“I was in shock. I wasn’t focusing.”

“The investigators concluded the point of origin was the tree. We found no evidence of tampering, nor any accelerants. And you did admit the lights weren’t working properly. In fact, you were out buying new ones when the fire began. Everything points to an electrical fire. However . . . , ” Bauer paused dramatically, “ . . . if you want to change your statement, we can always reopen the investigation.”

The investigation was the only reason Lila had stayed in Chicago. Once the claim was settled, she planned to sell the house and property, as well as Danny’s condo, and go back to New York. It made no sense to reopen the case. It would take more time, and if the insurance company determined it wasn’t an accident, she might lose the entire payout. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I see.” Bauer paused. “As I said, once we have your signed proof of loss, we’ll release the check.” Ms. Bauer’s voice was noticeably cooler, as if she was reluctant to hand over the company’s funds to someone as ungrateful as Lila.

Lila hung up. Despite what she’d told the fire investigators, she knew she’d unplugged the lights. She always turned off lights, unplugged toasters, ovens, coffee makers. She should have been more assertive in the first place, but given the stress of the fire, the memorial service, and settling the estate, she’d let it go. Granted, she didn’t know much about electricity, but her theory that pulling the plug somehow sparked the fire seemed far-fetched now, even ridiculous. How would severing an electrical connection cause a fire?

But then, how did the fire start? Had Danny come back downstairs and plugged in the lights? No. He was doing downers in his room. Her father? Unlikely. He was barely hobbling around on a cane. And Sadie, the housekeeper, hadn’t arrived that morning.

But according to the fire investigators, not only did the lights set the tree on fire, but the smoke detector wasn’t working. Her father was obsessive about changing batteries every six months. She doubted his hip replacement made him forget. The fact that the tree lights shorted out and the alarm was “malfunctioning” didn’t make sense.

But then, neither did the man on the motorcycle.

She started to pace. What if the fire wasn’t an accident? What if someone tampered with the lights and the alarm intentionally? Her father rarely locked doors—few people did in Winnetka. What if someone was outside waiting for the right moment to sneak in? They could have gone in after she left for Blaine’s, disabled the smoke alarm, then shorted the lights. There would have been plenty of time—she’d stopped for coffee with Annie Gossage before she returned home.

Were they trying to finish the job now? Is that what the man on the motorcycle was about? Was there a connection between the fire and the shooting? If so, then someone was trying to kill her entire family. And without the stranger who appeared serendipitously on the Gold Coast, they would have succeeded.

She should call the police. Let them know what she was thinking. Then she hugged herself. She had called the cops after Motorcycle Man shot at her. They didn’t believe her and weren’t inclined to follow up. Why would the fire officials be any different? They had already decided the fire was an accident. A tragic holiday accident, but an accident nonetheless. And Lila had no proof it wasn’t, just an uneasy feeling. Still, she needed to do something. If only to convince herself that she was wrong. But where to start?

Maybe her father’s computer files. She sat down at the computer. She would pore over her father’s files. She wasn’t sure what to look for—a motive? A deal gone bad? Someone who felt they’d been cheated out of financing? Twenty unproductive minutes later, she stopped. The files she was scanning were full of information about companies her father found attractive. Companies he might have acquired or financed. There wouldn’t be any disgruntled people in them. They’d be in the files that weren’t there. The deals that had never gone through. The deals that fell apart.

She massaged her temples. How would she ferret out her father’s enemies? He’d used investigative firms for due diligence work on potential acquisitions. She’d come across a report from one of them, assessing the stability and equity potential of a particular company. Maybe they could help. Where was that file?

She was deep into the files again, looking for the name of the firm, when she came across the tutorial document:
How to Hide Images in Files.
She leaned back. She’d seen it before. But now, given all that had happened to her, she wondered. Why did her father need a step-by-step guide to encryption? What information was so sensitive he felt compelled to conceal it? Did it have anything do with possible enemies? The fire? Even the man on the motorcycle? 

No. She was overreacting. Whatever he was encrypting was probably proprietary client information, data that might make or break a deal. Nothing to do with his death. Or Danny’s. Or the people who were stalking her.

Still, she had to do something.

* *

 “Brian Kinnear.”

“Brian, this is Lila Hilliard.”

“Lila. Great to hear from you!” He sounded cheerful. Too cheerful.

They traded small talk for a moment, Brian going on about the latest season of
MI-5,
which he’d received through Netflix, until Lila cut him off. “Brian, you worked closely with my father, right?”

“Yes. I told you before. I was on his team.”

The idea of working on “teams” in the corporate environment was nothing new—she’d been on one at Peabody Stern. Still, it seemed hackneyed to Lila, given the cutthroat nature of business. When her boss, quoting some management skills manual, said “there’s no ‘I’ in team,” she’d wanted to shoot back, “Yeah, but if you play around with it, you’ll find ‘me’.”

Now, though, she said, “Brian, I have . . . well . . . a question. Did my father ever talk to you about encrypting data in digital files?”

He was silent for a moment. Then, “Encryption?”

“Well, actually steganography. Concealing sensitive information in files that he didn’t want anyone to access.”

“I’m familiar with the process.”

“Of course. Sorry.” She cleared her throat, wondering just exactly what his familiarity was. “Well, do you know if he did any of that? I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised. There’s a wealth of information that is—or should be—closely held. I would imagine . . . ”

“I never heard him talk about encryption—or steganography—at all. At least on the projects we worked on together.”

She paused. “I see.” She’d have to come at it another way. “What about . . . enemies? Did my father . . . Do you know anyone who might have wanted him to fail?”

“Everybody loved your father,” Brian replied emphatically. “I never heard a word said against him. Why?”

“I . . . I’ve just become aware of some . . . family history. A long-lost but rather cranky relative.” It wasn’t a total lie. “I was hoping Dad might have said something or had some documentation about them.”

“Aside from you, your father didn’t talk much about the family. But he was very proud of you. And, of course, Danny.”

Danny—always the postscript, the sibling people felt obligated to mention. “So, you don’t know.”

“Lila, I was a junior partner. Your father didn’t confide in me. Sorry, I know that doesn’t help much.” She didn’t reply. “Listen, Lila, do you think maybe you and I . . . ”

She knew where he was going and cut him off. “Brian, do you know anyone who does know about this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Steganography,” she said impatiently.

“Sorry.” Brian was turning out to be rather useless. Then he added, “But your father always said his webmaster was a genius.”

“His webmaster?”

“The person who runs the firm’s website.”

“The guy in India?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

“Lila . . . ”

“I’ll be in touch.” She hung up and clicked onto the Hilliard and Associates website. At the bottom of the home page was a tiny box with a link that said the website had been designed by Jayanthra Angler, Inc. She clicked on the link. An email address popped up. She composed a note and was just hitting “Send” when her phone rang. Figuring it was Brian, she picked up without thinking.

“Hey. What did you forget?” No one responded. “Brian?”

Silence. Then a click.

Lila stared at the phone, then checked the caller ID. “Unavailable.” She ran to the window and peeked around the sheet. The street was dark and quiet. Only a few passing cars. She felt cold. She should call someone. But who?

She went to the door and made sure it was locked. Determination was one thing, but stupidity was another. If her pursuers were closing in, she needed protection. A gun was her first choice, but it would take time to get the license and take lessons. Time she didn’t have. She hurried into the kitchen, opened the drawer, and took out a knife.