Only there aren’t—no matter how many times I sift through the DVDs’ files, I don’t find anything.
Lily and Bren go to bed around ten, but I can’t settle down and end up doing homework until after four. The good news? I’m now ahead in math and chemistry. The bad news? None of it drowned out the loop in my head: no more interviews. No more information.
At this rate, I’ll have to wait for another DVD and that’s what? Another two days? Maybe? How am I supposed to sit by?
I swallow and my throat clicks. Answer is: I don’t.
I have a case number now. And was that a mistake? Or was it deliberate? The thought makes the base of my skull prickle and I push the idea under until it stops kicking. Bottom line, I have a case number. I could use that.
I just need to get into the police department’s system.
I close the interview menu and open my browser. I haven’t done this sort of scam since I worked for Joe and my dad and it takes a little setup. First, I check the Peachtree City Police Department’s home page, writing down a few detectives’ names. Then I head to the Fayette County home page, where I double-check the IT director’s name. Yep, it’s still Bill Bearden.
Bill hits the city blogs from time to time because he’s spearheading a modernization movement within the county government—new databases, new computers, new electronic filing systems. It’s about as exciting as drain hair except the Peachtree City Police Department has been taking part—I’ve heard Carson’s bitching—and that means I might have an in.
All I need now is a Peachtree City government phone number. I click the browser on my cell and surf through a few different phone spoofing sites until I get the one I want.
The premise is pretty simple: scam your friends and family by changing your phone number. Well, you don’t actually change your number. You just change the way it appears on your target’s caller ID. You can make it look like you’re phoning from anywhere: Santa’s house or your ex-girlfriend’s. In this case, I’ll be calling from Bearden’s county office.
I plug the IT office’s number into the app and add Bearden’s name to appear above it. Down the hall, an alarm blares. Bren’s awake. I hit send.
“Peachtree City Police Department,” a receptionist says. “This is Molly. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi!” I go a little bubbly, hoping Molly equates perky with nonthreatening. “I’m Drea Thomas. I work with Mr. Bearden’s group over at the sheriff’s office. We’re working on that case file database you’ve been hearing all about.”
The pause is so long I think she’s about to call my bullshit. “Oh, yeah. Right. What can I help you with?”
“I’m verifying some log-in information.” I clear my throat, acting like I’m looking over whatever paperwork is supposed to be in front of me when all I really have is the three names I copied from the department’s website. “Is Detective Thompson still rthompson? Password—”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Molly takes a sip of something, swallows. “I’d have to ask one of the supervisors and they’re not in yet. Can you call later?”
I wince. Definitely not. Odds are, a supervisor would ask more questions, and phishing scams work best on people who don’t. “Yeah, it is pretty early, isn’t it?”
“Disgustingly.”
I eye my bedroom door, listening for footsteps in the hall. “Hey, look, I’m really sorry to ask this, but Mr. Bearden’s going to be here soon for our morning staff meeting and I’ve gotta have this verification for him. Do you think you could look it up for me? I’m really sorry to ask. You know how he is.”
I hold my breath, knowing I’m pushing it a bit. I’m preying on two things here. One, people are usually willing to help coworkers. Two, she knows what Bearden’s like or she’s willing to pretend she does.
“I just want to make sure it’s right for your officers,” I add, forcing a smile into my voice even though I’m cringing.
Molly sighs. “Believe me, you do. They are such babies when stuff doesn’t work. Hang on. I’ve got keys to the IT guy’s office. The chief makes him keep a printout of everyone’s passwords in case they forget.”
I stuff down a squeal when Molly puts me on hold. When she says “everyone” is it possible she also means—
“Okay.” Molly grunts into the receiver as she settles into her chair. “You still there?”
“Yep. I have Detective Thompson’s log-in as rthompson and his password—” I hesitate again like I’m looking up the information when, in reality, I’m making up a variation on the log-in Carson used (and I overheard) months ago. “Password is 865203A.”
“No, that’s not right. His password is 594370LA.”
I scribble it into my chemistry notebook. “And Chief Denton’s?” My tone spikes and I dig my thumbnail into my thigh, hold it. If she gives me the chief’s log-in info, I could access everything: my mom’s case info, my dad’s, everything. “I have pdenton and 962185G.”