The app greeted R-e-b-e-l-l-i-o-u-s-S-t-r-i-p-e-s with a cheerful ping and a money-green wave down the screen as the password window cracked and crumbled. She was in, with Arthur’s secret life cradled in the palm of her hand.
11.
Seelie remembered what Brett had told her about WhisperMe: that the app was designed to erase messages after they had been read, to keep conversations safe. Now, as chat windows flooded the screen, she wasn’t sure how much time she had before all those words vanished into the digital ether. She scrambled down an aisle, grabbed a cheap ballpoint pen and a spiral notebook, slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter, and didn’t wait for her change before tearing open the pen’s cardboard sheath. The guy behind the counter gave her a curious look but didn’t say a word.
The cat was more expressive, tail angrily slapping the top of the deli case as she laid the notebook down, stealing more of his territory. She gave the cat an apologetic scratch behind the ears and yanked the pen’s cap with her teeth. Then she started to write, transcribing everything on the screen line by line.
It was a group chat, all the participants identified by numbers. The earliest text was from yesterday afternoon, right around the time she had been meeting up with Arthur for their dinner date. The phone had been tucked away since, snug in its cubbyhole, collecting messages she was never meant to see.
331 (17:02): 419 should be returning from 882 today. Last I heard, he made successful contact with our long-lost brothers. Better yet, they had what we need. He’s coming home with a prize.
The killer’s voice at the door echoed in Seelie’s ears: “You were sloppy in Philadelphia, Four-Nineteen.” She scribbled it all down, double-checking the numbers.
108 (17:04): The formula?
331 (17:05): Not yet. We have to prove ourselves faithful before they part with that. 669 is out there and hunting, after all. But they gave our man a fresh batch of 092 as a show of good faith, and it’s more than enough for now. Everyone still has their own flask, yes? We’ll divvy it up and top everyone’s supply off. And before you ask, our brothers haven’t been any more successful than we have in the matter of finding 355.
The topmost message trembled, shook—then exploded into digital confetti as its timer elapsed. The column of messages slapped upward, filling the now-vacant space. Seelie read faster, scribbled faster.
777 (20:14): Any word from 419?
331 (20:19): Not yet.
777 (20:19): I’m concerned about his communications with Bluth. The woman is dangerous.
Another message exploded. Then another, as more shuffled upward on the screen. Seelie’s hand started to cramp. She squeezed the pen tight, scribbling as fast as she could. Every cryptic line, every coded number might conceal the answers she was looking for, and once they were gone they’d be gone forever. She was Indiana Jones, running just ahead of a rolling boulder.
108 (20:23): Dangerous is why we chose her. Nell Bluth is a perfect media weapon. She’s amoral, unscrupulous, and she’d shank her own mother for a scoop. She’ll be a wrench in 022’s gears.
777 (20:23): And if she turns on us?
108 (20:24): That can only happen if she realizes she’s being used. 419 won’t let us down. Not the most likely outcome in this scenario.
777 (20:24): Which is?
Seelie noticed the gap in the time stamps, twenty minutes of radio silence before the next reply came in.
108 (20:44): 022 will most likely have her killed. Our hands stay clean and our presence stays concealed. No harm, no foul.
“Jesus,” Seelie breathed. “Arthur, what did you get yourself into?”
331 (20:47): Any chance we could use Bluth in the Ramis matter?
777 (20:47): Meaning?
331 (20:48): Ramis needs to be dealt with. Either discredited, and I mean his reputation and career burned down to the ground, or we need to mount a recovery operation and get those letters back. Or both.
108 (20:49): His academic rivals are doing a fine job discrediting him as it is. I got an advance copy of his Washington book from his publisher. It doesn’t use any material from the Hamilton letters, so even Ramis must doubt the cache is authentic.
777 (20:49): I vote for recovery. If we don’t, 022 will.
Seelie raced the detonating messages, cheap blue ink smearing the heel of her left hand as she made her way down the page. Another gap of silence followed and then a final exchange, time-stamped from that morning.
331 (7:42): NO MORE CONTACT. 419 is confirmed dead. Brothers in 882 gone silent as well.
777 (7:42): 669?
331 (7:43): NO MORE. Delete everything. I’m placing directions to our new rendezvous point at 111. Assume 419’s comms were compromised, no more messages on this channel. Go to 111 for further instructions.
And then nothing.
She was copying down the final lines when her own phone’s screen lit up. No name on the other end, but she recognized the number; it was one of Ducky’s burners. She took a quick mental inventory, wondering if she left something behind at his apartment, as she picked up the call.
“Hey, Ducky, what’s—”
Amber’s breathless voice cut her off. “You have to help me. Ducky is dead. He killed him.”
Seelie moved methodically. Swinging her backpack around, tugging a zipper back, stowing Arthur’s phone and her notepad and pen, as if a fire alarm had just gone off and she had ten seconds to leave the bodega. She couldn’t quite parse Amber’s words, like a mental block stood in the way, refusing to let them pass. Did she say dead? She didn’t say dead. I misheard.
“Wait. Slow down. What’s going on?”
“Listen,” Amber gasped. “You have to do what he says, all right? You have to do what he says or I’m next. Please.”
Then came a rustling sound, like the phone had been plucked from Amber’s hand. A second voice came on the line. Crisp, cultured, a man in casual control of the situation.
“Good afternoon, young lady. I’m afraid I missed my chance to make your acquaintance last night. Your friend Amber has been keeping me company in the meantime. I think, for her sake, you and I should meet. Don’t you?”
* * *
“Think harder,” Nell said to the kid behind the counter at the camera shop.
The second log trace had taken her to a busy stretch of road in the East Village, just a twelve-minute walk from the drug dealer’s pad. There were more numbers on the list, more towers pinging north, but the time stamp showed that Arthur Wendt’s mystery woman had spent a good twenty minutes on this block.
She had eyed the trails and greens of Tompkins Square Park as she strode down the sidewalk, and the rainbow-flag facade of the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop. There were bars and lounges whose doors wouldn’t open for hours yet, a place for small-dish Venezuelan bites, a vintage fashion resale boutique. Nowhere she expected a woman on the run to linger. Nell reviewed the trail in her mind, her file folders tucked safely in the faux-leather attaché case at her side.
The woman had Arthur’s phone. That didn’t mean she had Arthur’s trust, or his passwords. Nell tried to walk in her shoes; she was alone, adrift, probably hadn’t slept since the night before, the sole witness to a murder. A witness who had, for some reason, decided she couldn’t turn to the police. The connection to “Ducky” stood out there. Her first move, after a night of terror, was a house call to her drug dealer.