Come And Find Me Part 7

"I already-" Diana started. Too late. She'd been transferred. This time she let it go to voice mail.

"Hey, Ash, it's me. Again. How'd it go at Copley? Curious minds need to know. Please-" Diana heard the offhand tone in her voice turn brittle. She gave in to it. "I know you're a big girl and I shouldn't worry. But I can't help myself. Humor me and give me a call."

She hung up the phone. Her hand was trembling. She tried to identify the feeling that was giving her hand the shakes. Giving things names, she'd found, often made them easier to control. Not fear. Not anger. Anxiety. Not unwarranted, but still, there were a million explanations for why her sister hadn't called. If she'd merely overslept, she'd be furious with Diana for calling the hotel and drawing attention to her lapse.

As she imagined Ashley yelling at her to "get a life and stay out of mine!" her anxiety abated a notch. But not so much that it stopped her from opening the Spontaneous Combustion video on her computer and watching it, yet again, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ashley that she'd missed.

Systematically, Diana inspected the three-minute clip. There was Ashley, raising her cell phone skyward. Then the camera cut to close-ups of other partic.i.p.ants, of pedestrians, of the hotel window and Superman's flight. It wasn't until near the end of the footage that the camera once again panned over the empty spot where Ashley had been standing. Diana ran the video forward and back in slo-mo, zoomed in and out, but she couldn't find any additional glimpses of Ashley.

According to the time stamps, the short clip represented thirty minutes of elapsed time. It looked like a montage of footage spliced together from at least four different cameras. So that meant at least two hours of footage had to have been taken, most of which hadn't made it into the final cut.

Diana found the Spontaneous Combustion Web site and shot off an e-mail, asking if there was any way she could see the raw footage from the various cameras filming at Copley. She explained why. Then she left the same message on their office phone. While she was at it, she found Spontaneous Combustion's Facebook page and posted an entry asking anyone who'd been to the event and seen a woman wearing a red newsboy cap to please, please, please get in touch with her.

There was nothing more she could do. None of this was getting her any closer to finding her sister. Meanwhile, more messages had stacked up in her queue. On top was another from Jake.

He began with "How's the Vault proposal going?"

"It's going," she typed back.

This was the third time he'd asked. Jake, a person who rarely resorted to all caps, had written in a previous message that Vault Security was a VERY BIG DEAL. Vault had been contracted by the federal government to process medical insurance for everyone from government employees to elected officials to judges to federal prison inmates. SERIOUSLY DEEP POCKETS, Jake had added.

If hackers were targeting their clients, Diana foresaw SERIOUSLY DEEP RISK.

After Vault's head of IT approached them, Jake had flown to their corporate headquarters in Bethesda. He'd been given access to a ton of information about the company and about the computer system that they'd recently adopted with supposedly state-of-the-art security.

But Vault hadn't been bitten by a high-tech breach. Their head of billing-correction, their former head of billing-had left his laptop in a briefcase on a Metrorail train. He said it wasn't until after he got home that he realized he'd lost the computer, and not until the following day when he got back to work that he realized it had a flash drive attached with nearly 4GB of customer billing records. He couldn't explain why he'd felt the need to make himself a copy of the records. In any event, the data that should never have left the building contained tens of thousands of names, Social Security numbers, insurance ID numbers, and medical records. All the data was encrypted, but elsewhere on the laptop were the decryption algorithms.

Though no one had said as much, Jake suspected that the laptop also held access codes and pa.s.swords that could be used to open detailed medical histories, test results, and more, all of it intensely private information, some of it belonging to very public individuals.

The project was, of course, shrouded in secrecy. There was no way to know who'd ended up with the laptop, but if it was someone who knew how to exploit what was there, Vault wanted to be the first to find that out. Gamelan's reputation for discretion and insider knowledge of the computer netherworld was their wedge, their compet.i.tive advantage. Wearing a gray hat, they could be the underground eyes and ears of a legitimate company.

Diana opened the proposal she'd been working on. It was nearly finished. She'd taken special pains, referring frequently to the specifics of Vault's business and inserting statistics that would impress upon their management team how thorough, knowledgeable, and trustworthy Gamelan was. She wasn't about to take this client for granted.

A new text message popped up.

JAKE: You there? Call me.

Automatically she reached for the phone. Stopped. What if Ashley were trying to call her? She didn't want to tie up the line and she didn't own a cell phone-didn't need it since she never left home. Or . . . Then she remembered. Months ago, Jake had sent her a prepaid cell phone so she could make untraceable calls to various 800 numbers that hackers were using to hijack bank accounts.

She found the phone at the back of her top desk drawer. Flipped it open. Of course it was dead. She scrounged in the back of the drawer and found the charger. Plugging it in, she started to punch in Jake's number. Five digits in she changed her mind. Instead she started a message back to him.

Not now. Distracted. My sist She stopped. Her concerns would only cement Jake's opinion that Ashley was an airhead. Texting his way through his one date with her had been his way of dealing with terminal boredom.

She deleted the words and wrote: I'm here. Busy. Expecting a call. Working on Vault proposal. 30 min.

Work was usually good therapy-most of the time it occupied the mind and anesthetized the gut. But today she had to force herself to focus on finalizing their proposal. As she reread and edited, she had to admit it sounded pretty impressive. She'd hire them.

Satisfied, she opened the e-mail account that she shared with Jake, attached the proposal to a message, and saved it to their drafts folder. Then she shot Jake a text message telling him she'd left it for him.

Soon after, she found herself pacing through the house. She peered out between slats of the living-room blinds. Flinched as a minivan drove past. A Volvo station wagon was parked across the street. There was no sign of a gold Mini Cooper.

She turned back and surveyed the room. She'd done a sterling job of destroying what little order Ashley had restored. She did a quick tour of the room, collecting the discarded T-shirts and socks, a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, and one sneaker. Where was the other one?

She checked behind the chairs and sofa, stacking books and newspapers as she went. There was the white toe of the sneaker, poking out from under the side of the couch. She reached down and pulled it free. A silver lipstick tube rolled out. Diana picked it up and stood. Not hers. It had been aeons since she used lipstick except virtually on Nadia.

She opened the tube and twirled the base. Touched her finger to the smooth stub of hot pink that remained. As she did so, a snap of licorice filled her head and she felt Ashley's presence so strongly that she had to sit down.

Ashley was the only person Diana knew who actually loved Good & Plenty candies. For her seventh birthday party, Ashley had wanted only pink and white balloons, pink paper plates, pink plastic forks, and candy to match. She'd been delighted when most of her friends left their candy-filled party cups untouched. Their mother, in a rare burst of domesticity, had baked white cupcakes and iced them with pink frosting.

Diana wondered-maybe Ashley had called their mother.

Chapter Twelve.

"What's wrong?" her mother said the minute she heard Diana's voice on the phone.

"Why should there be something wrong?"

"Because you never call me. I call you. Your sister calls me. That's the way things work in this family."

"So has she?"

"Why is it always a contest?"

Diana took a breath. "Let's start over. Hi, Ma. How are you?"

For the last five years, her mother had lived in Jensen Beach, Florida, in a condo surrounded by golf courses. "Men golf," she'd explained to Diana, forever hopeful that she'd find a better partner than Diana's father, who'd disappeared from their lives long before he'd taken off with the woman whom Diana and Ashley referred to as Tiffany because that was her favorite place to shop. She had not long after been replaced by Tiffany II.

"Sorry. Do I sound cranky? I can't complain. A few creaky joints. I always thought that was a figure of speech but it turns out they do creak. And click. It's unnerving. I mean, I make a fist and the knuckles . . . make this sound. And my back. Doctor tells me to walk more. Says it's normal for my age. Do you think he's just telling me that because there's nothing for it? Like I say, can't complain."

Her mother snorted a laugh. "Guess I can. Ha ha! In fact, I'm really good at complaining. But actually, on the whole and considering everything, I'm good. Hey, I beat the Big C. What else can He throw at me? Carpe diem, that's what I say. Carpe diem every single G.o.dd.a.m.n day. How about you, sweetie pie?"

Her mother actually paused. Diana waited until she was certain her mother wasn't going to answer the question herself.

"I'm good."

"Good? Just good? That's nice. I guess. You getting out of the-"

"Some."

"Good. I'm glad you're getting out. And if you're not, take a vitamin D supplement. You don't want osteoporosis to get you when you're my age. My friend Barbara just broke her radius getting up out of a beach chair."

"It's too cold here to go to the beach."

There was a moment of silence. "You know, all I want is for you to be happy. Your sister tells me-"

"So she did call?"

"Last week. She was supposed to call this morning. Monday morning she usually calls."

Monday morning Ashley usually answered her messages and showed up at work, too.

"Has something happened to your sister?" her mother asked. "Because all weekend I felt like something was off. I thought it was me. Then today she doesn't call and you do. Dee Dee, is something up?"

Diana cringed at the nickname she'd so outgrown. "Nothing's up with me, and I don't think anything's up with Ashley, but I haven't actually talked to her either."

"Since?"

"Friday."

"Ah." A longish pause. "Did you check her apartment?"

"She's not answering her phone."

"Because she's not there? Or . . ."

The silence that followed felt laden with accusation, and an image of Ashley, lying on her kitchen floor, paralyzed and unable to reach the phone, floated into Diana's head.

"If I don't hear from her soon, I'll get someone to check," Diana said.

"When you find her, would you tell her to call me?"

"I will, as soon as I hear." Diana's voice sounded tiny and deflated.

"I'm sure she'll turn up, hon, she always does. Try not to worry too much," her mother said. Two years ago, Diana would have been the one trying to rea.s.sure her mother.

"Good advice."

"I'm full of good advice. Don't you know that?"

"Thanks, Ma. I'll tell her to call. Bye-"

"Shh!" Her mother cut her off. From the day she had been diagnosed with cancer, Diana's mother insisted that they never end a conversation with any version of "good-bye."

"Sorry. I meant talk to you soon," Diana said.

"Knock wood."

By midday, Diana had worked her way through most of the items on her to-do list plus three loads of laundry and a weekend's worth of dishes. She'd also polished off the pint of rum raisin ice cream. Ashley still hadn't called, and as far as Diana could tell, she hadn't shown up at work either.

If Diana had been a normal person, she'd have driven over to Ashley's apartment. She got as far as her garage, where she pulled the old shower curtain off the car, a three-year-old, gunmetal-gray Hummer. Daniel's car. He'd hacked the city's telephone network to ensure that he'd be a radio station's 198th caller to win it. It still looked like your average muscle car, but Daniel had had it tricked out with hydraulic lifts that could raise the truck bed and added custom, oversize wheels and tires. The special hubcaps were like black rubber starfish, each chrome tentacle outlined in black. She had no memory of backing it into the garage for the last time, though she must have been the one to do it.

Diana touched the hood, then jerked away as if the thing had thrown off a spark. Just thinking about driving made her nauseous. She would do it one day. Really she would when it became absolutely necessary. But not until she'd exhausted all other avenues.

Maybe one of Ashley's friends knew something. Diana went back inside and started writing a list of friends she'd heard Ashley mention. The list was pathetic, all first names or, even worse, nicknames. She had no idea how to reach any of them. They'd all be in Ashley's BlackBerry, which was presumably wherever Ashley was. That's when she remembered. Ashley's laptop. It was still sitting on the floor beneath the coatrack.

She carried Ashley's computer into her office, booted it up, and waited until the icons materialized. If Ashley was like most people, she'd have backed up her address book on her laptop. Sure enough, there was the BlackBerry icon. Diana opened it and navigated through the menus until she found Ashley's contacts. She made a list of about twenty-five names she thought sounded familiar, then started writing an e-mail message.

In the subject line she typed: Desperately seeking Ashley Highsmith!

That ought to get their attention. The rest of the message she wrote with a light touch, saying she had needed to talk to Ashley, and if anyone had seen her around in the last few days, please let her know.

She blasted the message to the entire list. Seconds later, she heard ding, ding, ding as responses piled into her queue. A glance told her they were error messages for invalid addresses plus a pair of "Out of the Office" automated replies. She watched the message queue but nothing new popped up.

Move on, she told herself. Next, track down other tenants in her building.

That was easier still. She used a reverse-address search to find people whose address was the Wharf View condo complex, where Ashley had lived for the last two years. With a dozen names and phone numbers, she reached for the prepaid cell phone, now fully charged. There was no answer at the first number. Second, third, fourth tenant, no answer either.

On the fifth try, the line had barely rung once when someone picked up. "h.e.l.lo?" A woman's voice.

"Uh . . ." Diana had no idea what to say, how to explain without sounding crazy.

"Who's there?" the woman demanded, her voice was frail and quavering. A hang-up call would probably freak her out completely.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Diana started. "You don't know me but my sister lives at Wharf View, and you live at Wharf View, and . . . I know this might sound a little bit bizarre, but I'm just trying to find out if she's okay."

"Who are you? And how did you get my number?"

"I"-Diana was about to say "Googled you" but stopped herself. Instead she said, "I found your name in the phone book." Before the woman could think about how unlikely that was, Diana rushed on. "I'm sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time? I'm not selling anything. Really I'm not. It's just that I need someone to-" Her voice broke and a sob escaped. There was silence on the line as she covered the mouthpiece, getting herself back under control.

"Oh dear, is your sister in some kind of trouble?"

The overwhelming relief that Diana felt at this tiny bit of sympathy gave her back her voice. "I . . . I honestly don't know."

There was a little gasp on the other end of the line.

Uh-oh. She didn't want this lovely woman going into a panic-one of them in that mode was plenty. "She's a little flaky, you know? And it's probably nothing, but . . ."

"But you're worried. Of course you are. Younger or older?"

"Pardon me?"

"Your sister."

"Younger."

"Mmmm." The sound was pregnant with meaning. "Which apartment is she in?"

"Eighty-eight N."

"River view."