Doesn’t Mother Nature know I have things to do besides lie in bed with peppermint tea and moan? What was she thinking?
10:00 a.m.
Apparently my rather risky outburst Thursday night could be taken for PMSing. By the time Tom picked me up for dinner last night, I was definitely short on good mood. This morning, all I wanted to do is fix a cup of peppermint tea and go back to bed. No such luck. It doesn’t always hit me this way, but the combination of stress and nature have definitely taken a toll.
Last night with Tom I kept thinking all I have to do is tell him I’m Peg Chester and I need his help. I could have explained the false identity well enough to make him see. But he’d think I was going around behind his back and interfering in his business. After all, he’s the detective that investigated Georgia’s death and concurred with the diagnosis of the coroner. But I don’t think he’s satisfied with it himself. He’s checked in with Peg twice and if it were a closed case to him he wouldn’t bother. The problem is that even if I find video of her being killed on a snuff site, there’s nothing to say that it would identify the killer, and it’s possible the evidence would be considered accidental since she’s done so many kinky things on the web as it is. This might just have been one that went wrong.
Regardless, telling Tom that I’ve been deceiving him all this time would be a slap in the face. This secret identity will be something I take to my grave before I tell him I’m that schizo.
And of course he wanted to know what I’ve been working on. Not in a prying way, but just the kind of “I’ll share something and you share something,” sort of get to know you better. I told him that I was recovering files from a computer that the owner forgot the password on.
“You can do that?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a problem if you have access to the computer. Most people don’t actually encrypt the data on their hard drives. They just depend on a password to keep people out. But if I have permission to access the drive myself, I can just suck the data off to another disk and read it back to them, or reset the password and unlock the computer,” I said. I made it sound as boring as I could. “I have to keep the computer over night in order to convince them it’s worth the money I charge.”
“I might have a use for that service sometime,” Tom said. “I’m still so new at being a detective that most of the time they’ve got me doing stake-outs for somebody else. But I’ve seen cases where computer forensics might have been a way to close the case.” You bet you have, I thought.
“Well, you have to get a special search warrant and there’s a procedure you go through to validate the evidence. Here’s a tip: call the computer forensics person before you touch the computer. The work needs to be verified so the court knows there has been no tampering with the evidence.”
“What happens if someone sends the police a disk or file or mail attachment that could be used as evidence?” Tom asked.
“It will be up to the court as to whether they’ll admit it or not. In all likelihood, it will come down to the credibility of the source. If the source is anonymous, it’s going to have a harder time standing up in court as evidence. People don’t want to believe computers, only other people.”
Well, that’s the way our conversation went. I asked about his biggest case so far and he said they were working on busting a prostitution ring in which young teens were being forced into prostitution and moved from state to state for client’s benefit.
Okay, here’s the thing. If a to year old woman decides she can make a go of it as a sex worker, I guess that’s her business. Yeah, there’s laws to deal with, but they are adults and can make their own decisions. But if some bunch of hoods starts importing 12 and 13 year olds from Cambodia promising to bring their mommies after they’ve worked on their backs for five years, I’m all for stringing the bastards up by their balls and hanging them from the I-5 bridge. I guess that’s one thing that Tom and I can support together. He might think the work isn’t glamorous, but it’s important.
Anyway, when he took me home, I was all for him coming up and cuddling for a while—or all night. He hugged me and held me at the door, but said he had to be up early in the morning and I looked exhausted. Then he kissed me sooooo tenderly I almost wept, and he left.
This morning the cramps had settled into my gut and lower back and I didn’t want to get out of bed. I did, though. I got all my makeup on and called a cab to pick me up at Tovoni’s and bring me back here to the house. I am going to find the damn evidence one way or another. I’m sure now that Rick and/or Deonn killed Georgia. I need the proof.
5:00 p.m.
Gah! How could I be so stupid?
The landlady bitch came over this afternoon and just wanted to chit chat and put her fingers in every box we’ve packed. She wanted to know where I’ve been and where I go when I leave. Well, I already had that covered for this week. I had told her that the nice young girl I hired to help me had told me about these wonderful cabins on Whidbey Island and I decided that it would be a shame to come all the way from Cleveland to Seattle and not go up to stay on an island in the Sound to watch the ships come in. Cinnamon had driven up the day I left for Las Vegas and checked in using my name. Then she went back to the office. Anyway, they have record of me checking in if anyone happened to check.
Well, she just kept going and going and all I wanted was to get rid of her. So I said, “I’m awful sorry to be such a bad hostess, Susan, but I need to take a break and get a heating pad on my back.”
“Did you hurt yourself moving boxes?” she was all sympathy. I should have gone with it.
“No,” I said, “it’s that time of month, you know how it is.” I thought that would shut her up and I wouldn’t get dragged to a chiropractor or anything. Instead she just looked at me a little strangely.
“No, I haven’t had to worry about that for years. I’m even past the hot flashes now.” Shit! I’m supposed to be how old? 49? And menopause starts when? Well, it’s possible it hadn’t started yet. But maybe I was supposed to be in the middle of it. I was so stunned that I couldn’t think of anything to say that would cover my stupid gaff.
“Well, I was a late bloomer,” I said lamely. She smiled and left me to my heating pad. I’ve got to get this house cleared and get the case closed. I’m not handling the stress too well.
She did have one good idea, though. She suggested we watch TV tonight. I’m going to do just that. Maybe “Flip that House” is on and I can get an inspiration.
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