The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts 2)
Marc went straight for the control panel and quickly zeroed in on what he was looking for.
He pressed the power button on the rack-mounted Sailor Broadband unit and waited for the system to acquire a satellite. Once that was accomplished, he extended the retractable ethernet cable, plugging one end into his netbook, the other into the wall jack adjacent to the mahogany tabletop that served as Fenton’s maritime office. When the Power, Terminal, and Antenna status lights on the Sailor 250 were solid green, Marc powered up his netbook. Opening up Firefox, he entered http://192.168.0.1 to gain access to the main menu.
Done.
Marc clicked on the Messages navigation button to look at all of Fenton’s recent calls and text messages. He downloaded the call log to his netbook, saving the details for Ryan to decipher later.
Abruptly, while examining the phone book, something caught Marc’s eye. It was an entry for Big Money.
Interesting.
He went into the software’s edit mode, then copied the mobile number—870 area code. Didn’t recognize it.
Clicking the Messages navigation button, and selecting the Write Message option, he pasted Big Money’s phone number into the Recipient field and then composed a cryptic, one-word text message:
Status?
He changed Delivery Confirmation to Yes, clicked the send button and waited.
A brief interval passed. Then Marc got a confirmation. Shortly thereafter, his response arrived:
Why are you on your boat? Thought it was in storage for winter.
Marc considered what Fenton’s reaction would be to having his whereabouts questioned. Then he responded:
My business, not yours. WHAT IS YOUR STATUS?
Sure enough, came the reply:
Sorry. All containers retrieved. Heading 4 Bayonne.
Marc did a double take. Then he typed his final message:
Good. Signing off.
Containers retrieved? In Marc’s experience that meant one of a couple of things—either of which would put Fenton behind bars for a long, long time.
* * *
Ryan was sitting in the back of the van, thoroughly studying his computer screen, when Marc yanked open the back door and instructed Hero to jump in.
“Hey.” Ryan’s head snapped up. “How did it go?”
“It went.” Marc gestured for him to return to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a call log for you to decipher. And we’ve got three other stops to make. Let’s start with Westhampton Beach. We’re picking up Claire.”
“And the second stop—you’re going to see Fenton.”
“Yup. And third stop, Mercer. It’s time to blow the lid off this case.”
* * *
Thirty minutes after Marc left the marina, the captain of Big Money was crossing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge when the incoming-message indicator on his communications display terminal flashed again. Pressing the icon on the touch screen, he read:
Fenton (mobile).
The captain was puzzled about why Fenton would text him again, this time from his cell phone. While aboard Lady Luck, he’d made it clear he was signing off, the implication being Don’t bother me.
Quickly, the captain opened the text message. He panicked when he saw Fenton’s request: