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I lie, of course, telling her that she knows everything I do. That I am just trying to help FBI Special Agent Amber Burke.
“Have you ever seen one of those Tiffany key pendants?” she asks.
I nod. I vaguely recall seeing a newspaper ad and thinking it was a sign that some people still had way too much money.
“The last time I saw Megan, she had one around her neck,” Tori says, pantomiming. “And it wasn’t the cheap one. It was white gold. Later I checked, and it retails for $1,500.”
“I couldn’t have afforded that when I was seventeen.”
“Neither could Ryan. And you know all about this, so I don’t know why you’re playing games with me.”
“I honestly don’t.”
Tori mashes her lips together, struggles to get it out. “Megan was in something…deep, I don’t know. She’d started seeing someone. Someone other than Ryan.”
“Someone who gave $1,500 gifts.”
She nods and her eyes grow wide with tears.
“She made me swear to keep it a secret.”
Tori shakes her head, anticipating my question. “She never told me his name. Just Mister Big. She was a major Sex in the City fan. Mister Big. She was dazzled. An older man, I learned that much. Probably married—men are such pigs. A wealthy businessman.” She wipes her eyes and draws herself up. “So when you said you were a business writer, I thought you might know.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Monday, November 1st to Wednesday, November 3rd
Back at my favorite hotel, I try hard not to jump to conclusions. Megan was with a rich, married man who gave her expensive presents. Troy Hardesty would fit the profile pretty well. If I were jumping. Troy had the money to have it all: multiple houses, sailboat, Maserati, wine cellar, stunning blond wife, Rainier Club membership—and a teenage mistress, perhaps? I knew all the other things from the profile I had written about Troy, one of the hedge fund managers who had not only survived the crash but was profiting from it.
And yet—if I were jumping—Troy wouldn’t strike me as the type. He had all the goods. He was a walking Robb Report. But he didn’t really seem to enjoy it. He struck me as the least sensual of men. He loved the game of making money. And yet, he was dead under mysterious circumstances. He had asked about eleven/eleven and then I had found the numbers tattooed on Ryan’s leg. Tori didn’t react to my question about the numbers except to plead ignorance. I ignored her answer, as if those numbers didn’t really matter, watching her face, finally believing that she didn’t know their significance. But, as she said, Megan was into something deep.
Amber answers her cell on the first ring and I give her an update. She tells me the Free Press and the Seattle Times both have stories online about me disappearing from the Bremerton ferry. I don’t want to know more. I just hope it shakes my pursuers.
“What are you going to do next?”
When I tell her, the phone carries a long pause.
“Please don’t do that,” she says.
“You told me to get the story. I can’t get it by hiding out here and surfing the Internet. I’m at a dead end on Megan. I’m going after Olympic.”
“There’s not enough time.”
“So you believe something’s going to happen in eleven days.”
After a pause, Amber says, “I don’t know. Like I told you a long time ago, maybe eleven/eleven is a meme that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s a report number.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Silence.
“What if there’s a terrorist attack planned for November 11th? You’re the FBI, for God’s sake.”
Her voice is calm, explaining that the bureau is an investigative agency that gathers evidence for the Department of Justice. It’s all bureaucratic and evasive. Then she reminds me of the agent in Minnesota who brought forward evidence pointing to the 9/11 attack, and how she was ignored.
I say, “You never have told me why you were posing as a reporter.”
“I will someday. For now, I need you to stick to the plan we agreed to.”
