Hacker

Chapter 5: Impressionism

Impressionism

(noun)

A nineteenth century art movement, originating in France. Includes many great painters such as  Claude Monet, Mary Cassatt, Alfred Sisley and Camille Pissaro. 

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Chapter Five

Chapter Five

"Okay, here's the internet cafe," Cameron said, pulling up alongside the curb. "You have approximately four hours and twenty-five minutes to submit your findings."

"That's four hours and fifteen minutes more than I need, you know." Eliza pointed out, before getting out of the car. "Keep an eye on her," she instructed, pointing at Reagan, who had been sitting quietly. Cameron nodded, and she took off. Opening the door to the internet cafe, she was met with a teenage boy. "Excuse me miss, there are no open spots right now-" he stopped as Eliza shoved a wad of cash at him, much more than the cheap rates of the cafe required. The boy said nothing more, just motioned for a girl with a cheap tan to get off her computer. When Eliza looked at the screen, it showed her still logged in. Perfect.

Craig Matthews

Forty-eight year old man with German and Irish ancestry. Not U.S citizen, lives off a green card. He visits Fair Haven Pharmacy every third day to buy six pack of cigarettes. Goes there between six and six thirty every morning, which is when store opens.

Typing this into the file and sending it to the address she was given, she hopped in the car, where Cameron was holding his watch, a silver rolex. "You shouldn't wear that watch, people will think you're some celebrities' son and try to ransom you off." she said, climbing into shotgun. Cameron shrugged. "At least I'd be a hot celebrities' son."

"It will?"

"Hey!" Cameron complained, feigning shock before laughing. From the rearview mirror, Eliza could see Reagan looking like she was in a car with two lunatics. She couldn't exactly blame the girl.

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Fair Haven heights was a modest apartment complex. Driving in, the four separate complexes were arranged in a semicircle. The main office was in the center, and a gym and pool were on one side. Eliza turned to Cameron. "Who signed in at the front desk last time?" she asked. Cameron pointed to himself. "Okay," Eliza said, getting out of the car, towing Reagan along with her. "When was the last time you were here?" Reagan asked, jogging to keep up with Eliza's long strides.

"1973."

"Really?"

"No."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Arriving at the front desk, they saw an elderly man at the front desk, his eyes glued to the television screen in the waiting area. Some bimbo, strutting around in eight inch heels and a short skirt pressed buttons while another chirped out Bingo answers. Eliza rolled her eyes, ringing the cheap silver bell on the desk, snapping the man out of his trance. He smiled at her, prominent liver spots on his cheeks. "Penelope Richardson," Eliza said politely, and the man nodded. "That lady you rented the apartment out to moved about a week ago, which means you'll have to pay that rent too." Eliza nodded, before walking out, Reagan once again struggling to keep up. They met up with Cameron, who had their bags in tow. "The usual room?" he asked, and Eliza nodded. "Penelope Richardson?" Reagan questioned, and Cameron stared at Eliza. "You can't keep using the same name you know." he cautioned. Eliza shrugged, "It avoids a hassle with the bills." Reagan remained silent until they reached the apartment.