Next, she opened a simple template and titled it: “A story you might be interested in.”
Her heart was thudding hard now, sweat prickling her skin. If there was spyware on this computer… if they were monitoring it…
She drew in a deep breath and inserted the extra flash drive to which she’d copied Danny’s logbook.
The PDF of the letter he’d written in the back opened immediately. This computer had Acrobat Pro installed. Good, she thought. You couldn’t insert PDFs into one of these newsletters; she’d tried it before, and you had to use JPEGs or PNG files (whatever those were). She saved the file as a JPEG and uploaded it to the file manager section of the email service, where it appeared as a thumbnail above other thumbnails of images she’d used in newsletters past: Her shot of the redwoods, an artfully arranged plate of seasonal root vegetables, a staff photo celebrating Christmas last year.
She went back to the newsletter she’d started. If she’d had more time, she would have written something better, more persuasive, more informative. But she didn’t have time.
She wrote:
My name is Michelle Mason. For the last two years I was known as Emily Carmichael, and I owned and operated the Evergreen Bistro in Arcata, CA. I lived with a man people knew as Jeff Gregerson. His real name is Daniel Finn.
This is a crazy-sounding story, and if you’d tried to tell it to me a few years ago I never would have believed it. I wouldn’t have even listened. But it’s true, and the materials linked to this email can prove it. I’ve sent other people this infomation as well.
She inserted the JPEG of Danny’s note below that.
The email service offered file-hosting, where you could upload documents and then insert links to them in your email blasts. Using Acrobat, she combined the two hundred PDFs from Danny’s logbook into nine files. She kept the links in her newsletter simple. “Captain Daniel Finn’s Logbook, Part 1.” “Part 2.” “Part 3.”
She’d send it to everyone on the email list. The more the better. Maybe there were a few conspiracy theorists among Evergreen’s clientele.
The last thing she did was schedule the email to go out in seven days.
When she cleared the browser and logged off, it was just after 8:30 a.m.
The Bank of America branch near Union Square opened at 9:00 a.m. Bank of America was where Emily had her checking account. With $10,000 of the cash she’d brought from Arcata, she purchased a cashier’s check made out to Derek Girard. She wasn’t sure how much of the original $10,000 retainer was left at this point, something she should have asked about but had been too distracted to even consider. He’d said the ten thousand would be more than enough to cover the costs if the case didn’t go to trial, when he’d thought they’d bail Danny out and get the case dismissed or make some kind of deal. Now? With visits to jails six hours away from Houston? Who knew what the tab would be?
Next, she headed to a different bank, Chase, where Michelle had a bank account. On her way, she used one of her new burner cells to call Alan Bach.
“Michelle, good to hear from you.”
She was a little surprised that he wasn’t busy, that he took her call. If he hadn’t been able to talk to her, she would’ve gone ahead to the bank and gotten another cashier’s check and sent it to him anyway. She had no idea how much was appropriate for this situation, but where could you look up the going rate for receiving tinfoil-hat material that might get you killed?
“Hi, Alan. Thanks so much for taking my call. How’s everything?”
“Great, fine.” A pause. “I got your package.”
“Oh, good. That’s why I was calling, actually.”
“Ah. Yeah. You know, I have to say, it’s not every day I get that kind of… James Bond scenario in the mail.”
She faked a chuckle. “I know, I know. That must have seemed… just completely melodramatic.”
“Well, a little out of the ordinary.”
“Yeah. It’s… a complicated story. But I just wanted to make sure you got it, and I also wanted to let you know that I’m sending a retainer for any expenses you might have.”
“For this?” He sounded in equal parts amused and puzzled. “Listen, why don’t you save the money until you actually need me to do something? I know how difficult things have been for you.”
“Well, I do have some money now. And… just in case… I’m going to send you something.”
He laughed. “In case you need me to open this in a week and a half and do… something?”
“Hah, yeah, I know, it sounds a little… crazy, but… yes. Just in case.”
“Okay, sure. If that’s what you need, happy to do it for you.” A pause. “And I meant what I said about it being good to hear your voice. The way you vanished a few years ago, as bad as things were… well, I’m glad that things seemed to have turned around for you.”
Michelle laughed. “Yes. Things have definitely changed.”
At the Chase Bank, she purchased a $5,000 cashier’s check for Alan Bach.
Next, she went to the FedEx office on Kearny and sent the checks off to her two lawyers.
There was a Starbucks just around the block on Montgomery. She stood outside it and stared through the tinted windows. Not too long a line.
10:35 a.m. Plenty of time to do what she needed to do next.
She just was scared to death of doing it.
You have to, she told herself. It’s either this, or go back to the hotel, pack your bag, take all the cash you have left out of the safe in the closet and run. Run, and don’t look back. Leave Danny where he is and hope the $10,000 is enough for Derek and Marisol to work his case. Leave them to explain to the court why “Emily” had vanished without a word. Leave Caitlin to whatever fate Gary had in mind for her.
Or roll the dice and make the phone call.
“Sam. Hi. It’s Michelle.”
She’d called him from the same burner she’d used to talk to him on Wednesday. She’d called Alan on one of her new phones. No way she wanted Alan associated with a number she’d used to call Sam.
“Do you have news?”
“I do,” she said. “Danny’s still at the Weaver Detention facility. It wasn’t a mistake. They’re putting pressure on him, and on me. I need you to do something about it.”
“In other words, nothing’s changed since our last conversation. I already told you how we should proceed.”
She took in a deep breath. Stay calm, she told herself.
“I have something of Danny’s,” she said. “I think you should see it.”
“All right. I’ll give you an address.”
He already sounded wary. Good.
“I can email it. I think you’ll want to see it right away.”
A long moment of silence. Michelle waited.
“You’ll need a pen,” he finally said. “I’m going to give you an IP address.”
She ordered a coffee of the day and bought a bottle of Eos water, which was supposed to be ethically sourced. Found a table in the corner and wiped off the crumbs and coffee ring and dribbles of milk with a napkin. Sat down and got out the iPad she’d bought at SFO. She’d never set up the internet on it; she’d wanted to keep it secure.
Now was the time.
After that was done, she went to Yahoo and created an email account. Hit the “Compose” link.
She wondered briefly what she should use for a subject line and settled on “Requested information.” Then she slipped the flash drive into the USB port and attached one of the files she’d made from multiple pages of Danny’s logbook, plus the note he’d written. She typed: “There’s a lot more, but this will give you an idea. Call me when you’ve had a chance to review.”