“Hey, what’s up? Can’t sleep?” Sean asked.
“I forgot to show you what I found,” Ryan said. He held up a folder. “It was in Abby’s stuff.” Ryan walked over to the desk and opened a manila folder from Abby’s vetting research file. He placed his index finger on some writing in faint pencil on the inside of the folder: [email protected].
“An e-mail account,” Sean said. “Did you try to log on?”
Ryan gave his father a sideways look.
“Oh yeah,” Sean said. They’d reset all the passwords and locked Ryan out of the computers after the Facebook fiasco. He gestured for Ryan to come around to his side of the desk as he started punching keys on the computer.
“What’s ‘SCOTUSgirl’ mean?” Ryan asked.
“SCOTUS is an acronym for the Supreme Court of the United States.”
“That sounds like an address Abby might use,” Ryan said.
A Gmail page appeared. Sean said, “What do you think for a password?”
“There’s some words written on the other side of the folder,” Ryan said. He flipped over the file and directed Sean to two words scribbled on the outside, CHADWICK and WAVERLY. Sean typed them in one at a time and neither worked.
He typed LUCY, for the family’s dog. Abby adored the Labrador, and took it hard when the old dog died shortly after Abby left for college. Ryan nodded.
A lockout again.
“How about ‘Povie,’” Ryan said. “I know she used that as a password before.” For her entire life, Abby loved words—big words, obscure words, complicated words. And she had a penchant for making up words. When she was little she called stuffed animals “la-la,” her favorite hamburger place “gookie,” her baby brother “gi-gi.” It was part of their family lore. And her made-up word for the family dog was “Povie.”
Sean typed in P-O-V-I-E and clicked the mouse. He was in.
“There’s no e-mails,” Ryan said. He stood behind his father, hunching over Sean’s shoulder.
Sean grabbed the mouse and clicked on the Inbox. Ryan was right. No e-mails. He clicked on the Sent Mail folder. Nothing.
“Someone must’ve gone through here and deleted everything,” Sean said.
“Or maybe she never used the account,” Ryan said. “Why would she? She’s had her own e-mail account through Georgetown.”
Sean didn’t answer and continued to move about the page. He opened the Drafts folder, and there was one e-mail written in draft form. He clicked on the little mail icon and lost his breath when he read the message: Meet me at library Sunday, 10pm.
The night Abby was murdered.
CHAPTER 33
The next morning, Ryan and Jack ate their breakfast at the counter like always. Sean thought that the best way to keep his imagination from running wild was to return to work. The boys should return to school because things couldn’t be normal for them until things were, well, normal. But the Gmail message snatched hold of his thoughts and wouldn’t let go. And he fought it, but Japan and Chipotle Man were back in his head. He glanced out the window and happened to catch Frank Pacini taking out his dog, a large, perpetually nervous Afghan hound. Pacini and his wife had sent flowers and a lasagna to the house, but Sean otherwise hadn’t heard from him since the night in the library.
“Ryan, can you wait with Jack until Dean’s mom is here to take him to school? I need to talk to the neighbor for a minute. I’ll give you a ride when I get back.”
“Sure,” Ryan said.
Sean kissed Jack on the top of the head and hurried out the door. He found Pacini standing on the patch of grass that bordered the street. He wore a gray suit and was waiting awkwardly for the dog to finish its business.
“Frank,” Sean said as he walked over.
“Sean, how are you?” Pacini said. “Ouch, what happened to your eye?”
“Long story involving me, a bike, and a patch of gravel.” Funny how when you repeat a lie a few times you start to believe it yourself.
“Are you holding up okay? Ginger said she’s called Emily a few times, but hasn’t been able to reach her.”
Emily lay in a stupor of depression meds swallowed down with Grey Goose, so Sean saved the obligatory we’re doing the best as could be expected and cut to it. “Do you think you have the right guy? Did Malik kill Abby?”
Pacini looked at his dog and his forehead wrinkled. “That’s something you really should discuss with Patti.”
Patti Fallon was the lead prosecutor assigned to the Malik Montgomery case. Because Abby was killed on federal property, the Justice Department asserted jurisdiction.
“I’ve had a couple of calls with her. She seems like one of those prosecutors who’s a true believer.”
Pacini shook his head. “She’s good, Sean. One of the best prosecutors at Justice.”