Fatal Connections

Chapter 71

What I proposed to Terry was that he arrange somehow for Marge Calhoun to be away from her office. This could be done any way he saw fit.

I sensed him thinking it over. "Any suggestions on how?" he asked.

"Good question," I sighed.

Terry and I brainstormed the various potential ruses he could use to lure Calhoun out of her home office. Setting fire to her house was probably not one of them.

"Got any handy blackmail material?" he asked.

His voice said he was joking, but his comment prompted a thought.

The photo of Calhoun and Jaden. But there was nothing obviously criminal in it. So they knew each other. Big deal.

But then I said, "Maybe it doesn't matter."

As I explained my idea, Terry caught on fast. Using what little I knew about Calhoun from Gallagher's files, Terry could claim he had "evidence" linking Calhoun to Embrace the Wild, a letter, a memo, or whatever he could come up with. We did our best to concoct a genuine-sounding threat without nailing down too many specifics, but enough to send Calhoun in search of her own spin doctor or lawyer.

"I'll arrange to meet her at a public place," Terry offered. "Hopefully, that way, she won't feel threatened about meeting a stranger."

And hopefully, she wouldn't call our bluff. Maybe even call the cops. My arrangement with Terry would allow me at least an hour or so to perform a quick survey of Marge Calhoun's office. He wouldn't engage her, but watch her from a distant vantage point. As a long-time resident, Terry no doubt could envision the best meeting place while I proposed the setup. The plan was to keep surveillance on Calhoun, who we assumed would wait a bit for Terry to arrive. Then Terry would text me when she showed signs of leaving.

"This should be more fun than last time," he said and then laughed.

My plan was to drive directly to Calhoun's neighborhood but stay out of sight until she left her house for the meeting with Terry. That would maximize the amount of time I had to search for any helpful material or photos. I glanced at the clock. It was only 10:25 am. I closed my eyes and visualized my first visit to Marge Calhoun's house, recalling the small details. A knock at the door brought that little exercise to a halt.

I got up and moved to the door so I could look through the peephole. It was a college kid dressed like a bike courier with a package. Apparently, I had to sign for the delivery because he also had a clipboard. Was this the package from Alex? Already?

I slid the "useless, but why not?" chain lock into place and opened the door a crack. "Hi," I said to the guy. "I take it I need to sign for this?"

"Yes, please," he said. He slid the clipboard, with pen, toward me through the gap.

"You still use clipboards," I observed.

He leaned toward me. "Some people request a signature on paper," he said. One corner of his mouth curled up and he gave me a knowing look. "More than you might think."

Alex clearly wanted to keep the package contents as off-the-record as possible. Human couriers with clipboards and every reason to please the customer was a low-tech privacy option. It occurred to me that the best form of privacy control when it came to any technology was not to use it.

After we had dispensed with the signing formalities, the messenger hurried off and I examined the package. My name was on it, but not my address. The courier either was told where to take it or had my address in writing on a note. Possibly a now-burned note. Alex's P.O. Box was in the return address corner, which made me really curious about its contents. Was I supposed to kill the messenger? I thought about calling Alex back, but I discarded the idea and dove into the package instead.