Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [37]
“There’s nothing rude about it. You’re here on business, and more business has come calling.” I thought it sounded even more rude when he put it that way, but I didn’t argue with him. He downed the last of his wine and rose, going in search of a refill.
I flipped the phone open and realized that my caller hadn’t left a voice-mail message, but rather had sent a follow-up text. It said, “Call BH ASAP re: HP and JR.” The sign-off was a callback number unrelated to the text’s origin.
I unpacked the message to read, “Call Bad Hatter as soon as possible about the Holtzer Point and Jordan Roe information.” But I’d never actually spoken to Duncan in person before, and the prospect weirded me out. We’d exchanged emails, and a couple of text messages here and there, but never when it wasn’t of the utmost importance.
I cursed the other thief’s sense of timing, and when Ian returned to his seat with a fresh glass of wine, I said, “I’m awfully sorry. I mean, I’m even more sorry now than I was before, because I think I have to call this guy. It’s about your case, if that makes any difference.”
“My case? It makes all the difference in the world. Make yourself at home in the bedroom, there, if you’d like a bit of privacy.” I liked the sound of that—even though I knew I was only being dirty-minded and that anyway, he could probably hear every word without even trying. But I accepted his offer and closed myself behind the double doors, into a large space dominated by a frothily overstuffed king-sized bed. I dialed the number that was included at the end of the text message, and it was answered on the first ring by a man who sounded too old to be in this business.
“Cheshire,” he said.
“Yes,” I admitted. “And before you go all strange about it, I’m a woman.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I guessed. But that might not hide you.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
“We have problems.”
I said, “We have problems?”
“That PDF I sent you was flagged.”
“Wait. What? You sent me a PDF?”
He said, “I didn’t know until after I sent it. There are …” I could almost hear the gears in his head turning, tumbling, trying to think of the easiest way to explain it to me. I’m tech-savvy for an old lady, but I don’t know all the ins and outs of the Web. He went on, speaking very fast. “Uncle Sam’s keeping a lookout for keywords related to the info you wanted, presumably because it was a classified program—a very classified program. When the keywords are tripped—like when I nab a file that’s loaded with them—a quiet little note goes back to an administrator someplace, and then the tracing begins. I’m a lucky fucker; I know what to look for. Otherwise I would’ve never seen it coming. I figured it out in time to move, and now I’m telling you, because it’s my fault the thing’s been sent your way.”
“Sent my way…,” I repeated, only barely following what he was telling me.
“Yeah, like a hot potato. Someone’s going to follow it, you can bet on that. They’re already all over my IP and breathing down my network’s neck. I’m sure you’ve got your ass covered in all the usual ways, but this is not a usual situation. I don’t know how they found me so fast, but Jesus, they found me fast.”
“Found you—are you all right?”
“I got out in time. I may be old, but I’m not slow,” he said, reinforcing my impression that he sounded like someone’s grandfather. “Are you at home?” he asked. “That place of yours on Seventeenth Street in Seattle?”
“What? No. Why do you know that address?” I demanded.
“Same reason you probably know mine. Insurance.”
Damn him, he was right. I’d dug up a general location on him years ago. “Fine. But no, I’m not home.”
“Good. And if you want to play it one hundred percent safe, don’t go home. I had to leave without destroying everything I wanted destroyed, including some personal info on some of my fellow freelancers—I’m telling you, kid, they were on me like lightning. I can’t promise they won’t come after you, too. Don’t check anything, just check the fuck out. You’ve got