Page 65 of The Girl Who Survived

But Margrove had been old school, had grown up and completed his education and law degree before the widespread use of personal computers and the Internet. And in recent years, he’d had no secretary or legal assistant or junior partner. Margrove was an old one-man show. An old one-man show who once had a thriving firm filled with a staff eager to do his bidding, younger associates and aides who’d been tech-savvy and would have handled the mundane day-to-day routines of the suite of river-view offices located in downtown Portland.

So now, alone, alcoholic and aging, would he have trusted himself to remember his own passwords?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

He shined his light under the space where the desk chair had been tucked into and searched for a list of passwords taped to the underside. All he found was a brass plate with the name of the manufacturer,CAL’S CUSTOM FURNITURE,and the phrasePROUDLY MANUFACTURED IN OREGON SINCE1966 etched into the metal. On impulse he touched the plate and it moved, the panel unlocking and becoming a wide wooden tray on a hinge that clicked into place to provide additional desk space. Tate half expected to find a list of personal information, client names and phone numbers and the like adhered to the smooth wood surface, info that Margrove could have accessed while working on the computer.

But no luck.

Maybe the old guy had been sharper than Tate thought.

He tried a couple of passwords—easy numerical sequences, or the wordPASSWORD, or a combination of Margrove’s initials and dates on the certificates lining the walls, all to no avail.

“Crap.”

It was useless.

He decided to file this illegal break-in under Barking Up the Wrong Tree, when he thought of the hidden tray he’d discovered and the fact that this desk was “proudly” custom-made. If one secretive panel, why not others?

Once more, Tate searched the drawers of the desk.

Again he found nothing.

He was about to give up, figured this was all a wild-goose chase, when he stopped short and eyed the blotter again. It looked small on the massive desktop, and he realized the long drawer in the center of the desk wasn’t as deep as the desk itself, even though there was no overhang on the side facing the client chairs.

Just the design? Or . . .

He pulled out a side drawer and the center drawer.

The side drawer was about six inches longer.

Why?

Using the flashlight app on his phone for illumination, he checked inside the center drawer again, shoving aside the carton of cigarettes, and discovered a small metal indentation in the back corner. Even under the harsh beam, the depression was hardly visible.

Tate reached in and pressed.

Nothing.

“Son of a—”

He tried again. Harder. Pushing the tip of his gloved index finger into the slight dimple.

Click.

The drawer slid open another six inches and there in a long, narrow cubby running the width of the drawer was not only a small leather-bound address book but several zip drives. All hidden away.

Tate hesitated a second.

He heard the sound of a truck’s engine and caught the glint of headlights showing through the space where the door was cracked.

Every muscle in his body tightened.

Had someone seen him? Or was the camera he was certain was fake, real? Or had there been another small security camera hidden in the building, one he’d missed?

It didn’t matter.

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