Chapter 7

7

Mid-City, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 9:00 P.M.

ALAN BLINKED HARD AS HE parked his van on the curb two houses up from Medford Hughes's home. His head ached from the bright headlights. He took off his special macular glasses and massaged his temples, hating the glasses and hating the pain.

He'd survive a headache, though.

He wouldn't survive if Medford went to the police.

Medford hadn't done so yet, at least Alan didn't think so. Medford was a coward, evidenced by the fact that, at this very moment, the man was putting a suitcase into the trunk of his car.

Medford was going to run.

Alan couldn't let him do that.

Dread sat heavy in his belly as he slid Sage's ski mask over his face and pulled up the hood on the jacket he'd borrowed from Sage's closet. He then pulled on a new pair of disposable gloves and carefully tugged the gloves Medford had discarded over top of them. It would be hard to bend his fingers, but he'd have to manage.

Grabbing Sage's special bag with the two laptops, he forced himself out of the van. Medford had gone back inside his house, leaving his trunk open and his car unlocked. He probably thought he was safe, parked in his own garage.

He's not.

Alan got into Medford's back seat and hunkered down, drawing his gun from his pocket. It was the same gun with the same silencer that he'd used that night twenty-three years ago. He'd been tempted to throw it away hundreds of times since that night, but he never had.

He'd kept the gun as penance. And as a reminder of what he was capable of doing.

Tonight, it would serve another purpose. Tonight, it was the best way he could think of to redirect the cops' search for Jack Elliot's killer. If Medford told the police about the Broussard laptops, the police would quickly connect Alan to the shooting of Broussard's secretary and to Cora Winslow and her dead father.

Tonight, Alan would give them an alternate, indisputable connection.

Medford would make a perfect fall guy.

Alan had remained hidden for about five minutes when Medford finally left his house, tears running down his face. That made some sense as Medford appeared to be leaving his wife behind.

And she'll call me crying , Alan thought with disgust. She always called, crying about whatever trouble her drugs and gambling had caused, and Alan would have to counsel her. Cheryl Hughes was an unpleasant mess of a woman. Nothing like Alan's own wife had been.

May she rest in peace.

The thought of his Anna still had the power to shred his heart. The way he'd found her body in her favorite chair, her blood and brains staining the paisley fabric, still had the power to crush him in his dreams.

It had very nearly crushed his real life, too. The scandal of suicide would have been terrible. He'd thought quickly back then, staging the car accident and fire that would be the story the media shared.

Over and over again.

A bribe to a corrupt ME had ensured that his wife's suicide would remain Alan's little secret. The ME had died in the hospital a few weeks later as Alan had held his hand.

Alan hadn't used this same gun that time.

He hadn't actually killed the man, either. Not technically. He had held a gun on the ME until the man had taken a handful of his own pills, sending him into a coma.

Alan had been called to the man's bedside by his wife since they'd been part of his congregation. He'd held the man's hand and prayed for him to survive. Out loud, anyway.

In his mind, he'd prayed for the man to stop breathing. And he had. Alan had been there for the man's wife and children in the months that followed. They'd been better off without a man willing to take bribes, anyway.

He'd done all of that while missing his Anna so very much, hating her at the same time for leaving him. But now he felt only sadness. And, in his dreams, guilt.

Cheryl would have to live that nightmare, too, after she discovered Medford dead in his car. Alan might have felt bad about that had Cheryl's excesses not caused Medford so much pain.

Sniffling noisily, Medford closed the trunk and got behind the wheel. He picked up a phone—not his normal cell, Alan noticed—and typed something into a browser screen.

Alan sat up and pressed the gun to Medford's temple. "Drop the phone, Medford."

The phone clattered to the center console as Medford's mouth opened in shock. "Reverend Beauchamp. What are you doing?"

"What I have to," Alan said sadly. "Where is Cheryl?"

"Inside," Medford whispered. "She's dead."

That was a shock. " How? " And then he understood Medford's tears. "You killed her."

"I couldn't leave her alone. Nobody would be here to make sure she didn't shoot up. She'd hurt herself."

"So you killed her?"

"She didn't feel any pain," Medford whispered. "I didn't have a choice."

Neither do I. "I'm sorry for this, Medford." And he really was.

Not wishing to draw it out any further for either of them, Alan pulled the trigger, the silencer muting the blast to a soft pop. He winced at the spray of blood that hit the driver's-side window.

After Anna, he'd wanted to forget how messy a headshot could be.

But he had not forgotten and had come prepared. Carefully removing the outer glove he wore on his right hand, he set it aside and pulled a pack of wet wipes from his jacket pocket, reached around the front seat, and pulled Medford's hand closer. He cleaned the spattered blood from the man's right hand and gave it a minute to dry, looking over his shoulder all the while.

It was a quiet neighborhood. Most of the folks nearby were in their homes watching TV. Nobody was paying attention to Medford Hughes's garage.

Thank the good Lord for that.

When Medford's hand was dry, he tugged the glove onto the dead man's hand and carefully placed it on the center console. He put the gun in Medford's hand, leaving his palm slightly open. Just as Anna's hand had been after she'd taken her own life.

There would be gunshot residue on the glove and, if CSI got creative, they'd find Medford's skin cells on the inside of the glove because he'd worn them in Alan's office earlier that day. It would look like a suicide.

He had the presence of mind to grab Medford's phone off the front passenger seat and glared at the screen. Medford had googled the number for the NOPD's tip line.

Alan checked the call log and was relieved to see that Medford hadn't made a single call. He slipped the phone into his pocket and quickly pulled the first laptop from Sage's bag.

The laptop screen came to life in the darkness of the car, the home screen containing only one folder. The only other detail on the screen was the logo for Broussard Investigations.

He clicked on the Wi-Fi icon and typed in Medford's home Wi-Fi password. He'd been given the code the first time he'd visited after Cheryl had called him crying. Medford had discovered that Cheryl had embezzled a great deal of money from her boss, all of which had been either injected into her arm or lost at the gaming tables.

Medford had planned to leave her that night, so long ago. Alan had convinced him to stay. Had convinced him that a good husband—with a knowledge of computers—could make his wife's misdeeds disappear.

Alan had controlled Medford then. He knew about Cheryl's crimes and what Medford had done to cover them up. Such a good husband Medford had been.

Alan exhaled in relief when the Wi-Fi icon appeared in the task bar. All I need to do is find Cora Winslow's information. He clicked on the single folder on the screen and held his breath.

Then frowned. It was gibberish. He scrolled down, his pulse ratcheting up as he recognized the phrases thrown in among the random characters.

Oh. Oh no. This was worse than gibberish. The words were the ones used as place markers in document templates. Lorem ipsum dolor…

This was a trap. Medford had been right.

Someone was probably tracking him right now.

Which was what he'd expected, but he'd hoped to get a payoff for the risk. Instead, he had nothing and, if Broussard's people were as talented as their press made them out to be, they'd already be on their way.

Alan shook the second laptop out of the bag and left both machines on the back seat, taking the bag with him. He got out of Medford's car, opened the driver's door, hit the trunk release, then shut the door, hoping he hadn't disturbed any blood spatter.

Grabbing the suitcase from Medford's trunk, he hefted it up and out of the car, staggering a little at the unexpected weight of it. He had to grip the lid of the trunk to remain upright.

What had Medford packed? A load of bricks? Luckily the suitcase had rollers.

He closed the trunk quietly and, dragging the suitcase behind him, headed for his van, grunting as he lifted the heavy bag into the back. He then took off his gloves and shoved them into the pocket of the jeans he intended to burn.

As he drove away, Alan whispered the same words he'd uttered twenty-three years ago. "Forgive me, Lord. I didn't have a choice."

Squinting against approaching headlights, he drove away.

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 9:05 P.M.

They'd been sorting boxes for half an hour before Cora began seeing the unlabeled boxes her mother had packed. There were boxes of photos and art from her childhood and knickknacks her mother had once adored—gifts from her father throughout their marriage.

That her mother hadn't simply thrown them away said quite a lot. "It still kills me that she died thinking he'd left her for someone else," she said to Phin, who'd stuck as close to her as SodaPop did to him.

"Maybe they're back together now," Phin said softly.

Cora swallowed. "I like that thought." She refocused on the boxes, opening one to find office supplies. "We could be getting to the right ones. This could be what you're wanting to search."

Phin set the box on the window seat. "You sit and search this one. Rest your feet. We'll check the others."

She did as he said, and it was a relief to take some pressure off her feet. She'd been lucky she hadn't broken an ankle during her run that morning. So many sidewalks in the Quarter needed repair.

She wondered what the man would have done had he caught up to her.

She wondered if he would have killed her.

And that kind of thinking was unproductive. Focus, Cora. She opened the box and stared at the contents, her heart hurting once more. On top of a stack of folders were the photos her father had kept on his desk. They were framed in a set of 3D twenty-sided photo cubes…or whatever a twenty-sided thing was called. Pictures of her, John Robert, and her mother filled each of the twenty faces. Another held photos of her parents when they'd been much younger, back when they'd met in college.

She remembered sitting on her father's lap, playing with the photo displays when he was on the phone with clients. She'd roll them like dice, needing both hands to hold each one back then. She'd march her Barbie dolls across his desk, making them take whatever number of steps she'd rolled. The dice had no numbers, just photos, but she'd made numbers up.

All while her father cradled her in his arms, dropping kisses on her hair from time to time. And when he'd ended his call, he'd tell her what a good girl she'd been. How proud he was of her. What a good helper she was.

Her eyes burned once more and she let the tears fall.

She knew the others could see that she was crying, but they left her to her grief and she appreciated it. For so long she'd hated her father for leaving. Now she knew the truth and it would take some time to fully process.

Except she didn't have that kind of time. Not right now. She had to find out who was after…whatever they were after. She would cry later.

She wiped her eyes, put the photo cubes aside, then pulled out the folders that were stacked beneath them. She glanced up, again unsurprised to see Phin watching her.

"I'm okay," she mouthed, then tried to smile.

He gave her a nod, then went back to moving boxes so that the others could search them.

She focused on the folder in her hand, startled at the three words written in her mother's looping scrawl— For Divorce Attorney . Her heart hurting anew, she opened the folder to find it filled with old credit card receipts. Like really old. They'd been created on the old card imprinters, the carbon copies faded. She pulled a receipt aside. It was signed J. Elliot. She turned on her phone's flashlight, squinting to see the vendor and the date.

She pictured her mother looking through these receipts, believing her husband had left her for another woman. Oh, Mama.

Steadying her voice, she called out, "Um, everyone? These are old receipts. This one's from a few weeks before my father was killed. A gas station in Baton Rouge. I think my mother thought they were evidence of my father's cheating. They might be useful."

Molly was at her side in seconds, gently taking the receipt from her hand and using her own phone's light to study it. "Did your father do business there?"

"I don't know. Like I said, he worked from home, but he sometimes went to see clients. I have no idea if they were all local. The first letters he wrote were postmarked from Baton Rouge. Maybe…" She winced. "Maybe he really was seeing someone else and got shot by a jealous husband."

"Possibly," Molly allowed. "We'll go through all of these and see if there's a pattern to his travel. Don't touch any of the other receipts. I'll go through them wearing gloves."

"I should have thought of gloves," Cora said with a sigh. If they'd simply been old papers, wearing gloves might have caused more damage than the oils from her fingers, but these were no longer simply old papers. Now they might be evidence.

"You've also had a pretty crappy day," Molly said kindly. "Cut yourself some slack."

Phin brought her another box and the search continued until Antoine crowed, "Bingo! Found them!"

In his gloved hands, he held a half dozen three-and-a-half-inch floppy disks, fanned out like cards from a deck. "They're all labeled ‘Client Files.' There have to be fifty disks in this box."

Cora rose and carefully made her way through the maze of boxes littering the floor. She stared at the old disks. "Do you have a computer that reads disks? Because I haven't seen the old computer my dad used anywhere. I hope someone didn't pitch it."

Antoine grinned. "Of course I have one, expressly for this purpose. Don't you worry."

"What's wrong, Burke?" Molly asked, because Burke was staring at his phone in horror.

"I just googled ‘do people still use floppy disks.'?"

"And you didn't like the answer," Cora said knowingly. "Some airplanes still use them for their navigation systems."

"I'm never flying again," Burke muttered.

"Or you'll just get super drunk at the bar before you do," Molly said soothingly.

Cora returned her attention to Antoine. "You'll check the disks quickly?"

"As soon as I get home. I have my old computers there." He dropped the disks into a plastic bag and sealed it. "You guys can keep searching, if you want, but I want to see what Cora's dad was doing before he died."

"Call me as soon as you find something," Burke instructed.

"Yes, boss." Giving a salute, Antoine left the attic.

Burke tilted his head, studying Cora. "How did you know about disks and airplanes?"

"I'm a librarian. I know a little bit about a lot of stuff. This terrifying trivia came from some middle school kids doing a project on my library's computer. Their mother is a housekeeper in one of the houses near the library and they don't have internet at home, so they do their homework on our computers. One of them read this tidbit and shouted, ‘Hell to the no!' I reprimanded him, of course, both for yelling and swearing in the library, but he said, ‘Miss Cora, you gotta see this. I'm never flyin' again.' And then I read what was on his screen and whispered ‘Holy shit.' They were delighted that I swore, too," she added wryly.

Molly laughed. "I bet you notched up a hair in the cool category. Miss Cora has a potty mouth. Here's another box for you to check."

Phin was slicing at the tape when they heard a shout from downstairs, followed by footsteps thundering up the stairs.

Burke and Molly reacted immediately, each pulling guns from holsters.

Phin was standing in front of Cora before she could blink.

"Just me!" Antoine called out. "Don't shoot."

Burke and Molly lowered their weapons but didn't put them away. Cora felt a little safer, seeing how quickly they all responded. Especially Phin. He'd been willing to use his own body to shield her.

That shouldn't have been as hot as it was.

Antoine came back into the attic, eyes alight. "I just got notification that someone's playing with our laptops. I've got a location and I need backup."

Burke holstered his gun, as did Molly. "I'll go," Burke said. "Molly, you're with Cora. Phin, you're with me."

His back was still to her, but his shock was unmistakable. "Me?" he asked.

"You," Burke said. "Bring SodaPop. We need to roll before they realize we're tracking them and toss our laptops. Let's go."

Phin looked over his shoulder at Cora as he was leaving the attic. "You'll be okay." It was mostly a statement, but there was a hint of a question there.

She gave him a firm nod. "I will be. Go. I wanna know who's doing this."

The alarm beeped as the front door slammed and Cora reset it using her phone. "Are you upset you're stuck with me?"

Molly shook her head. "No way. I've had my share of excitement on past jobs and will have more in the future. But I don't want to be up here in the attic all by ourselves. Phin hasn't secured all your windows yet and with the lights on up here, we've lit a big neon sign saying where we are. Let's take those receipts downstairs. You can help me catalog them. We'll be faster working together."

Mid-City, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 9:50 P.M.

"How much farther?" Burke asked tensely.

They'd been driving for about twenty minutes, as fast as Antoine dared. Burke was in the front passenger seat, Phin in the back with SodaPop, her muzzle resting on his thigh.

Phin checked his phone's map app. "If the laptops haven't been moved, we're about three minutes out."

Antoine glanced down at his own phone before returning his eyes to the road. "They haven't moved. Still the same GPS coordinates."

That was good at least. "When do you want to call 911?" Phin asked, still not sure why he'd been included. Maybe Burke was still trying to make up for suspecting him that morning.

If so, the boss's concern was misplaced. Phin knew where he belonged. He was nighttime security and the firm's handyman. He'd be okay with that, even if everything in him yearned for more, because he was still a liability.

A liability with a service dog in tow.

Burke exhaled heavily. "I don't know. I think I want to wait until we get there before we bring in NOPD. It might not add up to anything. The computers could have been ditched in an open lot."

Phin didn't agree. As much as he didn't like the NOPD, his gut was telling him to call this in. "The address at these coordinates is a house, Burke."

"Could be a garbage can outside a house," Burke countered.

Phin didn't know why Burke was so loath to call the cops, but he trusted the man and knew his reasoning would be sound. So he pointed to the next stop sign. "Left up there, Antoine, then the house is third on the right."

Antoine slowed as they approached the house, a small but tidy two-story.

"Owners?" Burke asked.

"Medford and Cheryl Hughes," Phin answered. He'd stayed busy during the drive, looking up the owners and their professions, and had run a quick background check on his phone. All things that Burke and Joy had taught him to do over the two years that he'd worked for Broussard Investigations.

They'd been training him to take a greater role in the business and Phin had been ready to step up. Until six weeks ago when he'd spiraled again.

He shuddered at the memory, his fingers sinking deeper into SodaPop's coat. She turned her head, licking his hand and grounding him enough to focus.

Phin suspected Burke had thrown him the easy tasks tonight to keep his hands and mind busy. A busy mind was less likely to spiral.

"Medford is fifty-eight years old, his wife Cheryl is fifty-five," Phin went on. "Medford was an IT consultant with a firm in California for twenty years but hung out his own shingle ten years ago. His wife used to work for an insurance business but quit a few years after they moved to New Orleans."

"So an IT guy stole our laptops?" Burke asked, staring up at the car in the garage.

"Or he was hired to break into them," Antoine offered. "Although that seems unlikely. A good IT guy would be wary of tripping booby traps like the tracking software on the machines."

"Maybe he's not a good IT guy," Burke said.

"Maybe," Phin allowed. "But he makes a good enough living to afford this neighborhood." It wasn't as posh as the Garden District, but it was definitely nicer than Phin's area. "I found photos of this guy on Facebook. His body type is different than the guy who shot Joy. Medford Hughes isn't as tall and he's about fifty pounds lighter."

Burke opened his car door. "Then let's go see what's what. Phin, you comfortable coming with us or do you want to stay here?"

"I'll come with you." He'd pull his weight in the search for whoever shot Joy.

Together, the three of them walked up to the open garage, SodaPop at Phin's side. The car was a white sedan and needed a washing. There was a mud stain on the trunk lid.

Antoine got there first and made a harsh sound in his throat. "Goddammit."

Burke took a few more steps forward, then sighed. "Hell. You were right, Phin. We should have called 911. Just…go back to the car. You don't need to see this."

Phin knew that Burke was trying to shield him from something horrible, but Phin was feeling okay. "I need to see," he said softly, and Burke moved aside with no argument.

One close glance at the car revealed a bloody mess. The driver's window and part of the windshield were covered with blood.

And other things. Brains. Bone.

Beside him, SodaPop whined softly and Phin realized he'd tensed up. Employing the breathing exercises he'd learned in therapy, he felt the anxiety fade enough that his chest no longer felt constricted.

He didn't have to go any closer to know what he'd find. "Shot in the head?"

Burke nodded grimly. "Suicide." He went around to the passenger side of the car and looked in the window. "He's still holding the gun." He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the car's interior. "And our laptops are in the back seat." He frowned. "That's weird. The guy's wearing a latex glove on his right hand. Why would he wear a glove to shoot himself in the head?"

"Good question," Antoine said. He turned and gripped Phin's shoulder. "You okay?"

Phin nodded. He knew his limits and he was pushing them. "Yeah. I'll make the call. Should I contact André, too?"

Burke sighed. "Couldn't hurt. Otherwise, we'll get hauled in for questioning again and I'm tired. I want to go home and get a meal and some sleep, in that order."

Captain André Holmes was Antoine's older brother and a close friend of Burke's. The cop had been an invaluable resource to the firm.

In return, Burke's group helped the cop solve cases that NOPD couldn't. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. More importantly, Phin trusted the man.

Stepping behind the car, he placed the call to André first and brought him up to speed. André was on desk duty for a few more weeks, still recovering from a recent injury.

"You guys," André said with a sigh. "Never a dull moment. Antoine's with you?"

"Yes. He was the one who traced the stolen laptops."

"I figured. I'll call it in. You guys sit tight. Stay away from the victim."

" I'm not touching him," Phin declared.

André sighed again. "But you can't make promises for Burke."

It was the truth. "Sorry, André. Listen, I checked into the dead guy on our way over and he has a wife. There's another car in the garage, so she might be inside the house. Just so you know."

"Thanks, Phin. I'll be there in ten minutes. Uniforms should be there in less than five. I'll let Detective Clancy know, too."

Phin ended the call. "André's calling it in. He'll be here in ten, uniforms in five. You okay, Burke?"

Burke was still staring inside the car, his brow furrowed. " Why is he wearing a glove? And why just one? His other hand is bare."

Phin felt like he should look because the others were looking, and he didn't want to seem squeamish or…broken. But SodaPop whined again, and Phin listened to her, taking another step back.

Don't push it. Better to be a little squeamish and broken than totally nonfunctional.

"Why did he shoot himself?" Antoine asked, wearing an equally puzzled expression. "I made sure that everything was wiped from the laptops. Was he so afraid of whoever hired him that he killed himself rather than take whatever punishment his boss would dish out?"

Phin kept his gaze on the back of the car, knowing that if he stared at the blood too long, he'd slip. Blood and bone and gore were all serious triggers for him. But as he stared at the car, his mind cleared and his gaze zeroed in on what he'd thought was a mud stain.

It didn't look right. It was thinner than mud would be. But it was just thin enough to be a smear of blood.

He pulled the flashlight from the carabiner clip on his belt and shone the light at the car. Yep. That was blood. It wasn't enough blood to trigger him, and it wasn't on his hands. Those were the things he had to watch for.

"Burke? Come and look at this."

Burke immediately jogged around the victim's sedan. "Shit. Either he cut himself before he blew his brains out or…"

Antoine joined them. "Or that's no suicide."

"Still doesn't explain the one glove," Burke grumbled. "Let's wait by the curb. We've contaminated the scene enough."

Phin backed away, turning to walk down the driveway, flashlight still in hand. He kept the beam at his feet, not wanting to step on evidence by mistake.

He saw no more blood, but his light did pick up on something else. Something dark, down on the curb behind Burke's SUV. It looked like a backpack.

Abandoned backpacks had the potential of being very dangerous. Something else Phin had learned the hard way. He opened the SUV's door and patted the seat. "SodaPop, in." Because there was no way he was endangering the life of his dog. She jumped in obediently. "Good girl. Hey, Burke, Antoine, look at this."

Both men followed him to the dark object, which was indeed a bag of some kind. Phin shone his light on the bag, stopping when he got to a logo that he recognized.

"Holy shit," Antoine breathed. "That's a Faraday bag. I have several from this same company. What do you want to bet that our laptops were in that bag?"

"Sucker bet," Burke said. "But why is the bag here? Did it get dropped by Medford Hughes? Or by whoever killed him?"

Antoine crouched beside it, using his phone to snap a photo. "And is there still something in it? I want to check it so bad."

Burke's chuckle was a welcome sound. "Sorry, Antoine. Hopefully André will pass us some information."

"For now, step away from it," Phin said quietly. "It could be harmful."

Antoine looked like he'd object, then he nodded. "You're right. Pays to be careful."

"Pays to stay alive," Phin muttered.

Burke clapped him on the back. "That too. I'm glad you came, Phin. I was so stuck on the glove that I wouldn't have noticed either of the other things."

Phin's insides warmed with the praise, even though he knew that what he'd done was nowhere close to enough. They needed to find out who'd shot Joy. Because that person had intended to harm Cora Winslow, too.

Maybe they still did.

Gert Town, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 10:05 P.M.

Alan was shaking as he approached his storage unit.

"Pull it together," he snapped at himself.

He was almost finished. He could fall apart once he got home. In the privacy of his study where no one would bother him. But first he had to park the van and change out of his bloody clothes.

Blood had spattered in all directions, staining his hoodie, which Alan had expected. He'd burn everything he was wearing.

Just in case. He couldn't be too careful at this stage.

Medford's suitcase had to be dealt with as well. He didn't want to take it home, just in case there was something in it that could be tracked. He wouldn't put anything past Medford Hughes.

He'd search the suitcase in his storage unit. If it was just clothing, he'd toss it into a dumpster. Any electronic equipment would have to be destroyed. Which was fine. He had a hammer and a lot of stress to work through. He'd smash Medford's electronics to bits.

Starting with the man's burner phone. Alan took it from his pocket with a shudder. If Medford had been allowed to make that anonymous call to NOPD's tip line, Alan would have been put into prison and a lot of people would have been impacted.

Alan's business was caring for people. If he went to prison, everything he'd built would crumble. People would suffer. Their faith would falter. Many would fall.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

He'd done what he had to do. Now he had to clean up. Wearily he took his macular glasses off, got out of the van, and stretched his back. He was tired, but there were still things to be done.

He surveyed the front bumper in disgust. That list of things now included having the crunched bumper of his van repaired. Alan had hit a parked car when he'd swerved out of the path of an oncoming vehicle, the headlights having blinded him. He'd heard a loud crash behind him, but he hadn't looked back. He'd gotten out of there.

At least the bumper could wait a little while. He might even be able to fix it himself. That way if the owner of the parked car reported the damage, no repair shops would be able to report him to the cops.

Opening the back of the van, he unzipped Medford's suitcase and rifled through it. It mostly held clothes, but he found Medford's personal laptop.

He retrieved his hammer and a bag of trash bags from the shelf where he kept his tools. It was a basic solution, but it would do. He put Medford's laptop and phone in the bag and hit them with the hammer, the bag keeping shards of plastic from flying everywhere.

When he checked inside the bag, the workings of the laptop were exposed. He pulled out the hard drives and went back to hammering them to pieces.

Exhausted, he took the bag filled with the remnants of Medford's laptop and set it aside. He'd throw it in a dumpster on his way back to the college campus where he'd catch a cab home.

And then he'd get a good night's sleep in his own bed. He'd earned it.