to be duplicates of the file, or maybe updates, but they meant nothing. It was all just numbers. Was this what Pete was talking about? Who knew?
Pete didn’t answer when I called back. I found this odd until I realized it was a school day and he was probably in class. I left a message, then decided to text him as well: “Found bunch of files, can’t tell one from another. Can’t give u laptop yet. I’ll be in touch.”
I was pouring myself another cup of coffee and deciding my next move when my phone rang. I looked down, expecting Pete’s number, but it was a caller I didn’t recognize.
“Hello, yes. Andy Hayes?”
“That’s right.”
“Andy Hayes, private investigator?”
“Right again.”
“This is, uh, someone, that is, someone interested in hiring you. If that’s the right word.”
The male caller had a hint of a southern accent and a formal lilt to his voice.
“That would be the right word. Unless ‘engaging your services’ is more your style.”
“Do you, that is, would you undertake investigations of a sensitive matter?”
“Generally, there’s no other kind.”
“And you can be discreet?”
“It’s called private eye for a reason,” I said. “As long as you’re not asking me to break the law.”
“No, nothing like that,” he said. “Is it possible we could meet?”
“Yes,” I said. “But for that I’d need your name.”
“That’s necessary, I suppose.”
“No name, no meeting.”
“I understand. Well, in that case, this is Henry Huntington.” A pause followed, almost as if he were hoping for a note of recognition from me.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Huntington,” I said.
“It’s Dr. Huntington, actually,” he said.
“Dr. Huntington, then. Where would you like to meet.”
“Do you know the Top? The steak house? On East Main?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps we could have a cocktail together. This afternoon?”
“What time?”
“Say, five o’clock.”
“Five o’clock,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
After I cut the connection I did what any other self-respecting private eye would do. I fired up my own laptop, opened a browser, and tried to figure out if I should know who Dr. Henry Huntington was.
9
Not two minutes later the phone rang again. I wasn’t used to such busy mornings.
“Mr. Hayes?” A man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Doug Freeley. I think you know my son Pete.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Old buddies, Pete and me.”
The slightest pause on his end. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you,” he said. “In person.”
“About what?”
“About the laptop.”
“What about the laptop?”
“About getting it back.”
“Not possible right now.”
“The thing is, Pete needs it for school. And, well, there were some files of mine on there that Pete didn’t quite know about. Some things for work I need back.”
I said, “Pete needs the laptop for school?”
“That’s right. I know what he did was wrong. But I don’t think that gave you the right to take it. Be that as it may, we’re not interested in making a big fuss or anything. I’d just like it back.”
“What did Pete tell you he did?”
“What did he tell me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not sure it’s necessary to repeat all that.”
“I think it is.”
“Well, if you insist”—an aggrieved tone crept into his voice—“he said he was at the mall, at Easton, with some friends, and they were using the mall wireless to, well, to download pornography. Stream it. And then you saw them and told them they’d broken mall rules and you’d have to confiscate it.”
“I saw them?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who did he tell you I was?”
“Some kind of undercover mall security officer.”
“He told you I was a security guard?”
Another pause. “Well, aren’t you?”
I sighed. “Where do you live?”
He told me.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“With the laptop?”
“I’ll see you soon,” I said, and hung up.
I was moving up in the world of suburbs: the Freeleys lived in New Albany on the far east side. It was a village once, but the residents now included billionaires, like the guy who founded the Limited. I retrieved my van, caught the NPR headlines update on WCBE, the local independent radio station, then settled in for the station’s morning world music program. It was the perfect accompaniment for my expedition east. After several minutes on a series of highways, I exited onto Dublin-Granville Road, turned down Greensward Road, and soon found myself passing large red-brick houses with double wings and U-shaped driveways and multicar garages in the back. I pulled in behind a pair of Escalades parked in front of the Freeleys’ house, one white, one black.
I hadn’t even made it up the walk when the door opened and an older, slightly taller version of Pete Freeley stepped out. Doug Freeley was distinguished looking, with short dark hair starting to gray, blue eyes, and a chiseled, handsome face. Pinstriped suit, white shirt, dark-patterned tie. He looked to the right and left, making sure we weren’t noticed, before making eye contact and reaching out his hand. If he recognized me, he didn’t
