Chapter 9 - THE DEAD MAN'S NUMBER
Z
At 9:14 the following morning, Nora Whitmore discovered that dead men could still have phone bills.
She sat inside Adrian Cross's study with three folders spread across the desk, two cups of untouched coffee, and one document that should not have existed.
The account had been opened fourteen years earlier.
Six months after Thomas Whitmore died.
Subscriber:
THOMAS EDWARD WHITMORE.
Date of birth:
Correct.
Former address:
Correct.
Social Security number:
Correct.
Nora read the page again.
Then a third time.
“Somebody stole his identity.”
Adrian stood beside the window.
“That's the most obvious explanation.”
“You don't believe the obvious explanation.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“Why?”
“Because Richard Pierce didn't use disposable identities carelessly. If he needed a phone, he could have opened one beneath any fictional name.”
“Instead, he chose my father.”
“Yes.”
Nora leaned back.
Outside, Seattle looked washed gray beneath October rain.
She suddenly hated the weather.
Her father had loved rain.
He used to stand beneath the porch roof with coffee and say the city smelled honest after storms.
Nora had been sixteen when he died.
She remembered every detail she wished she didn't.
The hospital blanket.
His thin fingers.
The way he had tried to smile when she cried.
The machines.
The final breath.
There had been no possibility of mistake.
“Where did Richard call?” she asked.
Adrian placed another document beside her.
“The number registered under your father received seventeen calls from Richard over twelve years.”
“Seventeen?”
“Most lasted less than thirty seconds.”
“Recent?”
“The latest was the night at Bellweather.”
Nora stared at the number.
“Can we trace where the phone was?”
“Marcus is working on it.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And what aren't you telling me?”
Adrian said nothing.
Nora knew him better now.
Not well.
But enough.
Adrian Cross did not fidget when uncomfortable.
He became still.
Which meant the man standing at the window had turned into a statue.
“Adrian.”
“I found something else.”
“Of course you did.”
He crossed the room and placed a photocopy on the desk.
A hospital intake record.
Thomas Whitmore.
Seattle Mercy Hospital.
Fourteen years ago.
Nora frowned.
“I've seen his records.”
“Not this one.”
The admission date was wrong.
Three months before her father had supposedly entered the oncology ward.
Nora scanned the document.
Reason for admission:
Trauma.
Multiple fractures.
Gunshot wound, upper left abdomen.
Her mouth went dry.
“No.”
Adrian watched her.
“My father had pancreatic cancer.”
“Yes.”
“He didn't get shot.”
“The record says he did.”
“This isn't him.”
“Same birth date. Same blood type.”
“Coincidence.”
“Same home address.”
Nora pushed back from the desk.
“No.”
She stood.
“My father was an accountant.”
Adrian did not answer.
“He did taxes. He complained about printer toner. He drove a twelve-year-old Volvo.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Her voice rose.
“You know files. You know names. You know whatever Richard Pierce turned him into.”
“Nora.”
“My father wasn't part of this.”
“I didn't say he was.”
“But you think it.”
“I think Richard Pierce used his identity for a reason.”
Nora looked away.
A memory surfaced.
Her father coming home late.
Blood on his cuff.
He had said he'd cut himself changing a tire.
Another.
Men speaking quietly in the kitchen when Nora was supposed to be asleep.
Her mother closing the door when she noticed Nora watching.
Another.
A locked drawer in her father's office.
Nora had once tried to open it.
He had caught her.
It was the only time she remembered him shouting at her.
She swallowed.
“Where did you get the medical record?”
Adrian hesitated.
That was answer enough.
“Adrian.”
“My private archive.”
Nora slowly turned.
“What private archive?”
He met her eyes.
“The record wasn't found this morning.”
The room became very quiet.
“When?”
Adrian's face hardened as if preparing for impact.
“Three years ago.”
Nora stared at him.
“You had a medical record connecting my father to Richard Pierce three years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“I didn't know you.”
“You knew my name at Bellweather.”
“Yes.”
“You knew who my father was when I accidentally texted you.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Nora stopped.
Adrian continued.
“I had seen the record, but Whitmore was one name among hundreds. I didn't connect it to you until after Bellweather.”
“When?”
“The morning after the ceiling collapse.”
Nora felt something hollow open under her ribs.
“That was before the tunnel.”
“Yes.”
“Before Jessica.”
“Yes.”
“Before you kissed me.”
His expression shifted.
“Yes.”
Nora laughed softly.
There was no humor in it.
“So while I was discovering my boyfriend had spent five years lying to me, you were standing beside me holding another lie.”
“I was confirming facts.”
“You were deciding what I could handle.”
“I was trying to understand whether your father had been involved.”
“That wasn't your decision.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her voice cracked.
Adrian stepped closer.
Nora stepped back.
That stopped him.
Good.
For once, she wanted him stopped.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because if Thomas Whitmore worked with my father, his name could have made you a target.”
“I was already a target.”
“I didn't know how deep it went.”
“And now?”
“Now I know it's deeper than I thought.”
Nora picked up her coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You shouldn't be alone.”
She looked at him.
“This is exactly the problem.”
“Nora—”
“You keep deciding when I'm allowed to know things, where I'm allowed to go, when I'm allowed to be afraid.”
“I kept you alive.”
“And I'm grateful.”
The words hit harder because she meant them.
“But protecting me doesn't give you ownership over the truth.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“I never claimed ownership.”
“You didn't need to.”
Nora reached the door.
His voice followed.
“Your father's phone became active last night.”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
“What?”
Adrian held up his phone.
Marcus had just sent a location ping.
The number registered to Thomas Whitmore had connected to a tower thirty-three minutes earlier.
Not Arizona.
Not another state.
Seattle.
Nora whispered, “Where?”
Adrian stared at the screen.
May you like
Then at her.
“Your apartment building.”
