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  “Call the police. Get the cops! Right away!” one of the men passing me shouted.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” the second man cried.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Someone threw themselves in front of the train!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tuesday

  Everyone’s heard about desperate souls ending their lives on the train tracks. I had a distant cousin who did just that. But what was happening now seemed fantastical, like a script from a tragic film or TV movie. Goose bumps covered my arms, but I felt hot at the same time. I had to remind myself I was okay. Alive and unhurt. I hated myself for looking, but I couldn’t avoid it, and I hustled to the end of the platform, where a crowd of people had materialized. Where had all these gapers come from? A few people were on their cells, presumably calling the police. But others were already taking pictures and probably posting them online.

  I looked around for a Burberry plaid scarf, which Parks had said he was wearing. I didn’t see it. I pushed farther into the crowd but was hampered by a woman who had assumed the role of town crier. I used to work in TV news, and I’ve noticed that people often fall into predetermined roles when tragedy strikes. There’s the town crier, who tells everybody else what’s going on as if he or she has inside information. There’s the Greek chorus, people who listen to the town crier and react with the appropriate horror, sorrow, or fear. Then there are the naysayers, who want nothing to do with the event and barrel through it in an attempt to flee or deny its existence.

  I elbowed my way through the crowd, triggering a couple of “Hey, watch it, lady…” comments, but I still didn’t see Parks. Unease tightened my stomach. The engineer of the train was now on the platform, having cut the power to the train and third rail. He was staring down where a male, with most of his face hidden, sprawled across the tracks. A portion of his cheek was visible, blackened from electrocution. I couldn’t see his face, but when I saw the flap of a beige, black, and red Burberry plaid, I froze.

  • • •

  A wave of nausea rose to my throat, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.

  Someone nearby peered into my eyes. “Are you all right?”

  I shook my head. I was about to say something when a loud voice cut in.

  “Police. Everyone get back. Give us room.”

  The crowd parted to let two officers pass. They’d arrived fast; they must have been patrolling the station. The first officer was a woman. She grimaced when she saw the body.

  “Shit.”

  The male officer followed, looked down at Parks, and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he turned to face us. “Time to go, folks. Show’s over. But before you do, the sergeant here is gonna need your names and numbers. We’ll have someone contact you. Anyone see him jump?”

  I was rooted to the platform, trying to process what had happened. A siren shrieked from upstairs. The paramedics had arrived. The cop tried to keep a modicum of order. “Get back. We got a stretcher on the way. Anyone know this man? Anyone see what happened?”

  He turned in my direction. My stomach knotted. The officer’s eyes narrowed as if he thought I knew something. A wave of guilt washed over me, but I knew from experience that saying anything was going to involve repeating the same thing to different officials for the rest of the day and night. It would also eventually involve Delcroft and Charlotte Hollander. Given my current situation, that would be a disaster. If the company was dragged through the press because of their connection with Parks, and if my name was linked to the mess…I shivered at the repercussions. I felt as guilty as hell, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Thankfully, the town crier interceded. “I saw him, Officer.”

  The cop turned his gaze to her. “You saw him jump?” He pulled out a small notepad. “What’s your name?”

  “Brenda Huffmann.” She was a blowsy woman, with thinning gray hair. I sensed this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her and she was determined to make the most of it. “Well, yes. Kind of.”

  “What does that mean? Where were you?”

  “Well, uh…I was down there.” She gestured vaguely toward the stairs near me.

  “Ma’am, how far away were you?”

  Her face reddened. “Well, I was kind of in the middle between the two sets of stairs.”

  The officer sighed, as if he realized whatever she had to say would be worthless. Still, he made the effort. “Yeah? So what did you see?”

  “Well, it was really fast. All of a sudden. First he wasn’t there; then he was.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  She glanced around at the remaining gapers, like she was fishing for support. I knew the guy. I should say something. I didn’t.

  “I—I’m not sure,” she said tentatively. “The other train?”

  Another man chimed in. “I thought I saw him get off the other train and head for the stairs, but then…”

  “What?” The cop asked.

  “I—I don’t know,” the man stammered. “It happened so fast.”

  I heard a commotion at the top of the steps.

  The cop looked up. “Okay, everyone back.”

  The paramedics trotted down carrying a gurney, a cardiac defibrillator, and a duffel probably full of other equipment. They glanced down at Parks’ body.

  “Well, I guess we won’t be needing that,” one of them said, pointing to the defibrillator.

  A new, artificially loud voice cut in. “Everyone’s gonna have to clear the area. Emergency protocols are now in place. Trains will be delayed for the next few hours. Buses are on their way to take you where you need to go.” A self-important-looking man in a CTA uniform came toward us. “Come on, now.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “There’s nothing more to see.”

  The police officer pulled him aside and spoke to him.

  The CTA man cleared his throat. “Before you go, please give the officers your name and number. We’re going to need to interview you.” His sudden use of the proprietary “we” made me want to smile. Almost.

  The police officers were joined by four more uniforms and two men in plainclothes. Detectives. This was my last chance to step forward. To tell them what I knew. No. The risk was too great. The guilt I felt for thinking about myself at a time like this intensified, but I knew I might never work in this town again if my name surfaced along with Delcroft’s and Hollander’s. I also thought about what Susan, Luke, my father, and even Rachel would say. “Don’t get involved Ellie—Mom—honey. Nothing good ever happens when you do.”

  They were right. I’d have to deal with it in purgatory. I turned around, ready to walk away from the scene. The nearby steps were braced by a sturdy concrete buttress wider than several columns, and the reinforcing support was only a few yards from Parks’ body. In fact, the structure was thick enough to block the view from where we stood. Which meant that no one, including me, could have seen exactly what had happened when Parks jumped.

  I studied the concrete support as I turned to start down to the opposite end of the platform. But I wasn’t really watching where I was going, and I accidentally kicked something with my boot. It rattled.

  I looked down and spotted a crush-proof box of Marlboro cigarettes. Parks smoked Marlboros! And I was only about six feet from the edge of the platform where he had jumped. I bent over, made sure no one was watching, and slipped the box into my coat pocket. Then I slowly walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tuesday

  I jiggled the Marlboro box on my way back to the Red Line. Whatever was inside rattled again, a slight tinny sound. Where was the damn train? Finally it rolled into the station. I tapped my foot until the doors opened, hurried in, and snagged a seat. Then I flipped up the lid of the box.

  Inside was a flash drive, the kind I use to screen shows for clients. The label said it was sixteen gigs. That’s a lot of memory. An average video—at least the ones I produce—runs about thirty minutes, which, depending on the quality of the tr
ansfer, is rarely more than four gigs. I frowned. Why would Parks stash a drive like that in a Marlboro box? He had mentioned an errand he had to run. Was he planning to deliver it to someone? Had it flown out of his hands when he jumped? What was on it?

  I stared out the window but, unlike this morning, paid no attention to the glimpses of Chicago racing by. This day couldn’t get any worse. I’d been fired from a job, someone I knew had killed himself, I was nursing a bout of guilt for not coming forward, and now I had a mysterious memory stick, which, for all I knew, contained proprietary or illegal data. What was next?

  When I got home I treated myself to a big glass of wine and ran upstairs to my office. I slid the drive into my computer. My Mac politely informed me I was now connected to an external drive and asked whether I wanted to open it. I clicked and saw the familiar blue icon that indicates a folder. There was no name on it, just a series of what looked like random numbers. I clicked, and a bunch of files popped up. There had to be more than fifty. They weren’t labeled, though, and I couldn’t figure out what app had created them. I clicked on one. A screen popped up that had nothing but a rectangular box and the instruction to “Enter Key.”

  It was encrypted.

  I tried a few of the other files. They were encrypted too. I closed out and clicked “Get Info” on the folder. The folder contained five point five megs. Depending on what was inside, that might or might not be a lot of data. It was impossible to tell.

  I sipped my wine and thought about it. Then I copied and dragged the contents of the drive onto my hard drive. I reopened the folder, clicked on a file that directed me to enter my key, and took a screen shot. I emailed it to Mac and asked him what he might know about it, aside from the fact it was encrypted. Then I realized I hadn’t told him we’d been fired. I picked up the phone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday

  “Where did you get it?” Mac asked on the phone after he saw the screen shot.

  “Um, I found it in a Marlboro crush-proof cigarette pack.”

  “What is this? A setup for a joke about spies?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Ellie. You’ve seen it in dozens of movies.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Where were you when you found it?” I was about to reply when he added, “You know what? Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this over the phone.”

  I bristled. “Oh, come on. You’re always worried about stuff like that.”

  “That’s because I know who I’m dealing with.”

  I sighed dramatically. “There’s nothing to worry about, except my wounded ego.”

  “I’m not sure I like the direction this conversation is taking,” he said.

  “I’m not liking this entire day.” I swirled the wine. I needed more. I walked the glass down to the kitchen and filled it again. “So, do you know anyone who could take a look at it?”

  “The flash drive?”

  “I’d like to know what’s on it.”

  “Why? It has nothing to do with you.”

  I hesitated. “Well, um, that may not be the case.”

  “Okay. Enough bullshit. What’s going on?”

  I took a breath. “Yesterday and today have been the days from hell. I got an email from Delcroft this morning.”

  “From?”

  “Dave Foxhall, the corporate communications guy.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

  “Because you’re clairvoyant.” I told him about the meeting the day before, how angry Charlotte Hollander had been, the cold, humiliating way she’d burned us, and how we’d been fired via email. Then I told him I’d called Gregory Parks. I reminded him who he was. “But here’s the punch line,” I said. “Are you online?”

  “Of course.”

  “Google his name, or just hop over to the channel seven website.”

  There was a minute of silence. Then: “Holy shit, Ellie.”

  • • •

  I told him what had happened at the Jackson CTA station. How shocked and scared I was. “I’m still shaky.” I also told him how I didn’t say anything to the police.

  He interrupted me. “That’s got to be a first. But what about the flash drive?”

  “It was an accident. I found the cigarette box near the edge of the platform where he jumped.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You were there when it happened?”

  “I was.”

  “And you didn’t talk to the cops and explain your connection to him.”

  “I did talk to the cops, but I didn’t say I knew him.”

  Mac went quiet.

  “So, I’m wondering if you know anyone who might be able to decrypt the files.”

  “Why do you care? Just because some guy you barely know jumps off a subway platform doesn’t prove the Marlboro box was his. Or that it’s any of your business.”

  “I guess that means no,” I said.

  “Ellie, you can’t mess around with people who work for Delcroft.”

  “He’s a consultant. He’s not an employee.”

  “Yeah, and look what happened to him.”

  Mac had a point. “I get it, but consider this. What if the drive did belong to Parks? Maybe he stole data from Delcroft. If I can return it, quietly, with no fanfare, maybe we’ll get back in their good graces?” I said hopefully.

  Mac took a moment to respond. “There’s so much wrong with that assumption I don’t know where to start. First of all, you can’t suck up to a company like Delcroft. You won’t win. Second, you have absolutely no proof the flash drive belonged to Parks, or had anything to do with Delcroft. Third—”

  “But I’d really like to know what’s on that drive. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Not a chance. You have to drop this, Ellie. You’re way above your pay grade. It could get ugly fast.”

  “Mac, you’re scaring me.”

  “I hope so. Throw the fucking drive in the lake. Go find us a new client instead.”

  “Let me ask you this. What if it wasn’t suicide?”

  “Now you think he was murdered?”

  “If Delcroft is as powerful as you say, who knows?”

  “I have no idea. And neither do you. I’ll admit this is probably the craziest thing you’ve ever been involved in. Wait, I take that back. One of the craziest. But just leave it alone. Like I said, find us another show to produce.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wednesday

  That night my bed was either too hot or too cold, and I kept kicking off the quilt then retrieving it. My brain was running in circles. Mac was right, of course. I shouldn’t get involved. This was a potentially dangerous situation. On the other hand, I had been humiliated professionally. If the drive belonged to Parks, and I was sure that it did, and if it had something to do with Delcroft, and if I returned it to them, maybe I’d be a hero. Or maybe it was so sensitive it was going to get me into deeper trouble.

  A lot of ifs, I knew. Still, the temptation to restore my reputation was irresistible. So was my curiosity. What the hell was on that drive? And why was Parks hiding it in a Marlboro box?

  At around five I gave up, went downstairs, and brewed a pot of coffee. I waited until eight thirty, then made a call.

  “Georgia Davis…”

  “Ellie Foreman.”

  “Hey, Ellie, how are you?”

  “In a bit of a jam.”

  “What else is new?”

  I ignored the comment. “How are you doing, Georgia?”

  “Terrific.”

  I knew she was seeing Jimmy Saclarides, Lake Geneva’s chief of police and a close friend of Luke’s. Our paths hadn’t crossed yet, but they would.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “I need to decrypt some files on a flash drive, but I don’t know anyone who does that. I was hoping you did.”

  “I might. Are we on the record or off?”

  “What do you mean?”

>   “You heard me.”

  I thought about it. “Off. Definitely off.”

  “Okay.” I heard soft tapping on a keyboard. “You remember that guy we went to see in Park Ridge who was an expert in enhancing video?”

  “Sure. I don’t remember his name, but he had a dog. Jericho.”

  She laughed. “Right. It was Mike Dolan. Well, he has a brother who’s an ethical hacker.”

  “A what?”

  “You’ll find out. Let me call him and make sure he’ll see you.”

  • • •

  Behind the white-picket-fence colonials and McMansions of Northbrook is the village’s industrial zone. While residents take pride in their well-tended lawns, sculpted landscaping, and tidy exteriors, the industrial section is almost dystopian. Hidden under the spur of the Edens Expressway, it’s a collection of one-story structures, Quonset huts, and parking lots. Every once in a while there’s a tree. I will admit it’s clean—to the point of immaculate. I didn’t spot a dead leaf, fast-food wrapper, or bird droppings. Nothing that would lend the area any personality.

  I pulled into a parking lot next to a one-story redbrick building. I’d called earlier and Zachariah Dolan said if I was a friend of Davis’, I was welcome. I walked around to a concrete path that led to a door with nothing but the building number on it. It was unlocked, and inside was a hall that ran the length of the building. But there was no directory of names in front, and none of the office doors bore nameplates. I checked the note I’d made on the phone. He was in Suite 1505.

  The man who answered the door was burly and sported a beard, but his apple-red cheeks said he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. I tried to remember what his brother looked like, but it was so long ago I couldn’t figure out if there was a likeness. With dark hair and eyes, Zachariah’s hair was long enough to frame his cheeks and blend into his beard.

  We shook hands. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Dolan, but I’ve got to ask, what’s an ethical hacker?”