Stocks & Blondes
27
Aunt Flo’s come to visit
DOESN’T MOTHER NATURE KNOW I have things to do besides lie in bed with peppermint tea and moan? What was she thinking?
Apparently my rather risky outburst with Tom could be taken for PMSing. By the time he picked me up for dinner, I was definitely short on good mood. This morning, all I want to do is fix a cup of peppermint tea and go back to bed. No such luck. It doesn’t always hit me this hard, but the combination of stress and nature have definitely taken a toll.
Dating and deception
All I could think of with Tom was I needed to tell him I was Peg Chester and I needed his help. I could have explained the false identity well enough to make him see. But he’d think I was going around behind his back and interfering in his business. Which I was. After all, he was the detective that investigated Georgia’s death and concurred with the diagnosis of the coroner. But I don’t think he was satisfied with it himself. He’d checked in with Peg twice and if it were a closed case to him, he wouldn’t have bothered. The problem was that even if I found video of her being killed on a snuff site, there’s nothing to say it would identify the killer. It was even possible the evidence would be considered an accidental death since she’d done so many kinky things on the web anyway. This might be considered as just being one that went wrong.
Regardless, telling Tom I’ve been deceiving him all this time would be a slap in the face. This secret identity will be something I take to my grave before I tell him I’m that schizo.
So, of course, he wanted to know what I’ve been working on. Not in a prying way but the kind of “I’ll share something and you share something,” way of getting to know each other better. I told him I was recovering files from a computer that the owner forgot the password to.
“You can do that?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s not usually that big a problem if I have access to the computer. Most people don’t actually encrypt the data on their hard drives. They just depend on a password to keep people out. But if I have permission to access the drive myself, I can suck the data off to another disk and read it back to them, or reset the password and unlock the computer,” I said. I made it sound as boring as I could. “I’ll have to keep his computer a couple of days in order to convince the client that it is worth the money I charge.”
“I might have a use for that service sometime,” Tom said. “I’m still so new at being a detective that most of the time they’ve got me doing stakeouts for somebody else. I’ve seen cases, though, where computer forensics might have been a way to close the case.” You bet you have.
“Well, you have to get a special search warrant and there’s a procedure you go through to validate the evidence that requires an officer of the court to witness it. You might talk to Jordan about the legal side of it. I know he’s done it several times. Most of all, don’t touch the computers yourself. Get the search warrant and contact the computer forensics person so the work can be verified as not tampering with the evidence.”
“What happens if someone sends the police a disk or file or mail attachment that could be used as evidence?” Tom asked.
“It will be up to the court as to whether they’ll admit it or not. In all likelihood, it will come down to the credibility of the source. If the source is anonymous, as opposed to a whistleblower who comes to the police and asks for protection, it’s going to have a hard time standing up in court as evidence. People don’t want to believe computers. Only other people.”
Well, that’s the way our conversation went. I asked about his biggest case so far and he said they were working on busting a prostitution ring in which young girls were being trafficked and moved from state to state for clients’ benefit.
Okay, here’s the thing. If a fifty-year-old woman decides she can make a go of it as a sex worker, I guess that’s her business. I wasn’t really interested in the prostitution aspect of Georgia’s business—only in the murder. She was an adult and could make her own decisions. But if some bunch of hoods starts importing twelve-year-olds from Cambodia and telling them they’ll bring mommy over after she’s spent five years working on her back, I’m all for stringing the bastards up by their balls and hanging them from the I-5 bridge. I guess that’s one thing Tom and I can support together. He might think his work isn’t glamorous, but it’s important.
Anyway, when he took me home, I was all for him coming up and cuddling for a while—or all night. He hugged me and held me at the door but said he had to be up early in the morning and I looked exhausted. Then he kissed me so tenderly I almost wept. Then he left.
The next morning, the cramps had settled into my gut and lower back and I didn’t want to get out of bed. I did, though. I got all my makeup on and called a cab to pick me up at Tovoni’s and bring me back to Georgia’s house. I needed to find the damn evidence one way or another. I was sure now that Rick and/or Deon killed Georgia. I needed the proof.
Stepping in it
Gah! How could I be so stupid?
The landlady bitch came over this afternoon and just wanted to chit chat and put her fingers into every box we’d packed. She wanted to know where I’d been and where I go when I leave. Well, Cinnamon and I had covered that this time. I told Susan that the nice young girl I’d hired to help me pack the house had told me about a cabin on Whidbey Island I could rent for a few days and I just thought how lovely it would be to spend a long weekend on an island in the Sound watching the ships come in. Cinnamon drove up the day I left and checked into the cabin using Peg’s name. Anyway, they have a record of me checking in if anyone got curious.
She just kept going and going and all I wanted was to get rid of her. I finally said, “I’m awful sorry to be such a bad hostess, Susan, but I need to take a break and get a heating pad on my back.”
“Did you hurt yourself moving boxes?” She was all sympathy. I should have gone with it.
“No,” I said, “it’s that time of month. You know how it is.” I thought that would shut her up and I wouldn’t get dragged to a chiropractor or anything. Instead, she just looked at me a little strangely.
“No, I haven’t had to worry about that for years. I’m even past the hot flashes now.” Shit! I’m supposed to be how old? Forty-nine? When does menopause start? It’s possible it hadn’t started yet but maybe I was supposed to be in the middle of it. I was so stunned that I couldn’t think of anything to say that would cover my stupid gaffe.
“I guess I’m just a late bloomer,” I said lamely. She smiled and left me to my heating pad.
I’ve got to get this house cleared and get the case closed. I’m not handling the stress too well.
I am going to take her advice on one thing, though. I’m going to cuddle with my heating pad and just watch TV tonight. Maybe Flip that House is on and I can get an inspiration.
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