Wired Truth

by Toby Neal

  Pim Wat, Sophie’s mother, had stolen Sophie’s baby when the infant was less than twelve hours old. That venomous spider of a woman had then executed an entire rescue party sent to recover the child, and only Connor and Jake, Sophie’s lover, had been spared. Connor had negotiated Jake’s freedom in exchange for staying at the compound as a hostage. Additionally, he’d asked that the Master hold Pim Wat in check, keeping her away from her daughter and granddaughter. That last condition hadn’t been necessary once Pim Wat had been captured by the CIA.

  “I thought Pim Wat died in Guantánamo,” Connor said carefully.

  “She is alive, though not in good health, from what I overheard.” Nine rubbed at his shiny, shaved skull. “I’ve had my concerns, and since you are the Master’s number One, I think you should know everything I know.” Nine swiveled his chair to face Connor. A short, stocky man, Nine was built strong through the chest and midsection. He normally radiated calm and purpose, but worry now tightened the corners of his eyes. “I never thought Pim Wat was a good fit as the Master’s lover, but it was not my place to have an opinion.”

  “The Master can handle Pim Wat.” Connor chewed rapidly, considering what more to say. “Since we are speaking frankly—I thought he was using her more than she ever used him. She was an assassin for the Yām Khûmkạn, and he controlled her, at least in part, through their relationship. When she was captured—he showed no interest whatsoever. I was watching for any sign.”

  “There was much you did not know.”

  “True. He told me more than most trainees, but he never spoke of her.”

  “They were lovers. He used her, yes, but he also had an attachment to her. He was distressed when she was captured; I perceived that. Then he seemed to decide something, and put her out of his mind.” Nine poured a cup of tea for Connor and set it beside his plate. “I thought she was no longer in the picture, but I was bringing the Master his dinner the other day and I heard him speaking on the phone. He had sent our best team of assassins to free her from the CIA compound in Guantánamo, and was following up. He closed the door before I heard anything more.”

  This was much more definitive than anything he’d yet said, and Connor dropped a chopstick, scattering rice over the table’s surface. “An attack on the U.S. base would endanger the Yām Khûmkạn’s low profile and put them on the radar. That’s not the kind of clever strategy the Master is known for.”

  “The Master will have done something to obscure who is responsible. I suspect that she has been extracted by now, and that he is meeting her somewhere,” Nine said.

  “Well. It’s none of any of our business what the Master does. We are here to serve him and the Yām Khûmkạn. I’m sure he will communicate what he wants us to know,” Connor said.

  “Yes.” Nine stood up. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Nine glided out. The heavy wooden door shut behind him with a thunk.

  Connor flexed his fingers on the keyboard, collecting himself as he gazed at the blank monitors.

  He had to warn Sophie!

  If he reached out to her, it would be the first contact Connor’d had with Sophie since he last spoke to her on the phone, severed all ties, and joined the Yām Khûmkạn.

  Did she ever check the encrypted chat room they had used over the years to communicate secretly?

  Connor leaned forward, fingers flying, reaching out to the woman he loved—the woman he had given up his life for, sacrificing himself to the Master so that she could be a family with Jake and her child. Thinking of them together had brought him comfort on many a lonely night.

  Now it was time to ruin that happiness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Raveaux: Day Two

  Raveaux entered Mel Samson’s office with Sophie close behind, after the woman’s receptionist buzzed them in. The visitor badges identifying them as investigators were pinned to their lapels, and Raveaux tapped his as he advanced to the large desk Samson was seated behind. “Bonjour, Madame. Pierre Raveaux with Fidelity Mutual, and this is my associate, Sophie Smithson.”

  Samson did not rise when they entered. What had looked like a silver helmet of hair in the video turned out to be an artistically draped scarf that wrapped her skull, fastened with a decorative knot in the front. Her face was round and full, with doll-like features and intelligent hazel eyes. She wore a full-length, embroidered caftan, and would have looked like a fortune teller if given a crystal ball. “What can I do for you investigators today?”

  Sophie closed the door behind them as Raveaux, uninvited by Samson, drew a couple of chairs close to her desk. They seated themselves, and Raveaux removed a tablet device from his leather satchel. “We are engaged in our annual security audit, and during the course of that, we have come across some anomalies. I have an item in question that we need to draw your attention to.”

  As the device booted up and Raveaux scrolled, looking for the saved bit of video, Sophie gestured to the paintings on the walls, bright and lively Impressionist seascapes that looked original. “Those are lovely. Are you a collector, as well as an assessor?”

  “I am not an assessor. If you have checked my curriculum vitae, I am the manager of inventory, and one of the quality assurance evaluators for intake,” Samson said frostily.

  “Tell us what brought you to Hawaii,” Sophie’s tone was still caring and relaxed. “According to the company records, you’ve only been here a year.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about what brings you to Hawaii?” Samson wasn’t warming up.

  No point in further pleasantries. Raveaux cleared his throat. “We were reviewing video documenting the intake process, and came across a gap in the recording.” He set the tablet down on the desk and tipped it toward Samson. He pressed play, and the diamond assessment with Agrippa Polat leaped into movement.

  Raveaux didn’t watch the video. He watched Samson’s face instead. The color drained from the woman’s already pale cheeks.

  “You might find this section of particular interest,” Raveaux said, and, with a twist of his fingertips, pulled up the screenshot Sophie had taken of the stitched video clip. “This splice is very well done, but we can see where the video was altered.” He laid the tablet down in front of Samson and made a steeple of his fingers on the desk as he addressed her. “Mr. Childer has identified the loss of the diamonds. He has tasked us with recovering them prior to the sale. We know you took them.”

  “Ridiculous. I’ve been a good employee of this company for more than twenty years.” Samson sat back in her chair, interlacing her fingers across her ample midsection. “If that’s your evidence, it’s pretty thin.”

  “We’re giving you a chance here,” Sophie said softly. “We have discussed the situation with Childer, and he is willing to offer you clemency in the form of not reporting this to the police if you will share the other players in your theft scheme with us—whoever doctors your video. Your fence for the stolen goods. Anyone else involved.”

  Mel Samson’s remarkable eyes flicked between the two of their faces. Raveaux could almost see the woman’s prodigious brain ticking through her options.

  “You’re dying,” Raveaux guessed. “You don’t have much to lose.”

  Samson’s eyes reminded Raveaux of the heart of a fire: brown, black, gold. “That’s exactly right. I don’t really care what happens next.”

  “Why are you still working, then?”

  “Working distracts me. Working helps me forget about dying for a few hours.”

  “You need money,” Raveaux said. “For medical expenses, if nothing else.”

  “And I don’t much care whether you believe me or not,” Samson said.

  Sophie cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry about your health, Ms. Samson. I can see by these paintings, and by the curriculum vitae I reviewed, that you are a woman of sensitivity and refinement. Surely you want to spend your last days in comfort, rather than in a jail cell. You must have someone you are leaving y
our legacy to, whose opinion you care about, who could be hurt by what happens to you. Please pause to consider the full picture of what you will leave behind.”

  Samson looked down at her blotter. Tucked in the corner of it was a child’s school photo, yellowing with age, its edges curling.

  Sophie had hit the right note. There was someone in Samson’s life whom she cared about.

  They had some leverage, after all.

  Raveaux pressed in. “As I said, you probably have medical expenses. A life insurance policy that will go to your heir. You don’t want to endanger your legacy and leave a loved one nothing but a pile of unpaid bills.”

  “Why do you think I took the stones?” This time, when Samson’s eyes met Raveaux’s, there was resignation in them. “The diamonds are gone. I can’t get them back. I plan to be dead before the auction.”

  Raveaux grunted, the sound wrenched from his gut by the woman’s despair.

  “Tell us who your fence is. Tell us where the diamonds went. Tell us who did these other jobs, and we will let you execute whatever end of life plan it is that you already have made, without informing the authorities.” Sophie pushed a list over to Samson.

  The list denoted a series of three previous breaches in Finewell’s security that had resulted in missing merchandise. Insurance had covered the thefts and allowed the auction house to maintain its pristine record—but that record was going to be broken this time. Mr. Childer was going to lose his job, most likely, and Mel Samson would spend her last days in a prison cell, if she wouldn’t work with them. Hopefully, that would not be the outcome of this particular drama.

  “Tell me again what you will give me in exchange for information,” Samson said.

  “We aren’t really insurance investigators,” Raveaux said. “We are private investigators, hired by Mr. Childer, on his own. We’ve been tasked with recovering the diamonds in advance of the auction. He wants to keep everything quiet, to avoid publicity and any potential impact to his job. He has already been apprised that we’ve identified you as the likely thief. He just wants the diamonds back.”

  Sophie picked up the thread. “However, of particular import, if the diamonds are out of your reach, we are interested in the bigger impact of your activities on Finewell’s. If you help us capture those who participated in the thefts, we will keep your name private. We suspect Finewell’s won’t want to go to the police with any of this. The other stolen goods were already paid for with insurance money. All they care about is that their name is not dragged through the media. Their attitude provides an opportunity for you, Ms. Samson.”

  Samson’s smoldering eyes flicked between them, and then back down at the child’s photo, tucked into the blotter. A long moment wound by.

  Who was that? A daughter? A little sister? A niece? According to her bio, Samson had never married, nor had any children. But there was someone . . . Raveaux flashed painfully to his own loss. Were he to get sick or die, there would be no one to care, no one to leave anything to.

  Samson inclined her head. “All right. I’ll tell you what I know. In return, you must keep my name quiet and let me keep my job until I . . . die.” Her voice caught on the word, but no expression accompanied it. “I will try to get the diamonds back. I will reach out to my contact and tell him that the loss has been discovered early, that I need the gems returned. Perhaps they aren’t gone. But, it’s likely I cannot get them back, and things will play out as I first thought they would—the loss will become public. And I will be gone by then.”

  “Do you have a suicide plan arranged?” Sophie asked softly.

  Sophie seemed so matter-of-fact about it. Raveaux could not contemplate suicide without a sense of revulsion—life was too precious, too easily snatched away.

  “I do. And though my cancer is incurable, and progressing, my life insurance policy pays out regardless of cause of death.” Samson smiled mirthlessly. “It was an expensive policy.”

  “Now you are asking us to not only cover up your theft, but to participate in insurance fraud,” Raveaux said. He tapped the paper before Samson. “Did you perform these thefts?”

  “I did not devise them, but I was the one to execute them, yes. I was recruited through an anonymous source on email. This person tells me how and when the theft should be done, and then alters the video and surveillance feeds to hide my actions. I receive detailed instructions, and then my cut of the money is wired into an account in the Caymans. I have been using the money to pay for my medical bills, and for alternative treatments not covered by insurance. But nothing is working. I told my source that I would do one last job.” Samson stroked one doughy hand with the other.

  Raveaux’s eyebrows snapped together. “So, you don’t know who is behind the thefts?”

  “I figured it was better not to know,” Samson said. “I don’t know who the fence is, either. I merely place the items, boxed and bagged, in my trash, or in a dumpster where the theft architect tells me to leave them, and they’re gone in the morning.”

  Raveaux glanced over at Sophie, and was encouraged by the alert brightness of her gaze. Sophie was intrigued by tracking the master thief online. “Give us what you have. And we will do what we can to find this master thief,” she said.

  “This is not what we hoped for,” Raveaux temporized.

  “Ms. Samson will help us all she can, won’t you, Ms. Samson? Can I have access to your computer? Perhaps I can track the master thief through his digital footprint.”

  “That would be fine. I am contacted to do the jobs on a personal email on my own computer. I figured I would wipe the hard drive before . . .”

  “Before your suicide,” Sophie finished. “Why don’t you give me that laptop now.”

  Samson leaned over and dug into her briefcase. She lifted out a slim, silver HP laptop and handed it to Sophie.

  Raveaux was frustrated by the extra challenges to their plan. There was a good chance they wouldn’t be able to trace the master thief if he’d hidden his tracks professionally enough. “Open that laptop and give Ms. Smithson all of your passwords. The two of you can compose an email to the thief, asking for the diamonds to be returned. And in the meantime, I will talk to Mr. Childer about this latest development.” He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “I can make no promises to protect you, Ms. Samson, with such a minimal amount of information to go on. The company may well insist on a ‘fall guy,’ as Americans call it.”

  “It is what it is,” Samson said. “I cannot make it something different.” She seemed to be speaking a deeper truth.

  Sophie inclined her head as she met Raveaux’s eyes. She seemed to be telling him to relax, that she had this under control—but it was one thing to read of Sophie’s expertise with computers, and another to hang their budding case on that premise.

  He gave the women a curt nod and exited the office, heading for the elevator. He took the lift to Childer’s top floor office, using the moments alone to brush off uncomfortable feelings engendered by Samson’s sad situation.

  Everyone had a date with death, and sometimes that day just came much sooner than anyone was ready for. He knew that bitter truth more than most.

  The portly manager was pacing when Raveaux entered his office, looking decidedly crumpled by stress. Childer patted his cheeks with his kerchief and tugged down his jacket. “Well? What did you discover?”

  “It’s not good news, Mr. Childer.”

  Raveaux steered the man by his elbow over to the seating area and settled him on the loveseat. Raveaux took a comfortable armchair across from Childer and sketched out the results of their conversation with Samson. “Samson claims not to know who designed the heists. She will go along with giving us all that she does know, in return for being kept out of a police report.”

  “This is terrible!” Childer popped up from the loveseat like a jack-in-the-box, pacing again. “Not at all acceptable!”

  “Let’s get your immediate superior on the telephone, Mr. Childer. It’s time to go public with
the loss of the diamonds, at least as far as the company is concerned, and appeal to Finewell’s desire to stop this master thief. If we play our cards right, you can come out of this smelling like the proverbial rose—you discovered the theft. You took the initiative by hiring Security Solutions, to both retrieve the gems and stanch a bigger leak. If the diamonds cannot be recovered in time for the sale, which seems likely they cannot, then your only hope for saving your job is to bring your bosses a bigger fish.”

  Childer required more hand-holding and reassurance, but eventually they got the central manager of Finewell’s on the line, and with Raveaux’s help, Childer explained their case.

  An hour later, feeling decidedly sweaty and crumpled himself from all the wrangling, Raveaux left Childer’s office with authorization to expand the investigation by going after the supposed master thief through investigating the prior breaches.

  Raveaux enjoyed the hum of excitement tingling along his nerves as he got on the elevator. It had been a long time since he’d looked forward to digging deeper into a case.

  Was it the familiar world of high-end theft that excited him, or the prospect of working closely with Sophie?

  He didn’t have to know the answer to that right now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sophie: Day Two

  Tracking passwords and access codes as Samson input them, Sophie smelled the subtle but deeply unpleasant scent of death rising from Samson’s skin and hair.

  “I’ll compose my email now.” Samson opened a private, encrypted email. The sight of the masked interface against a black background screen reminded Sophie of her correspondence with Connor as the Ghost, when she’d first begun tracking his online vigilante activities. They had communicated through an encrypted chat room similar to what Samson pulled up now.

  How was Connor doing at the Yām Khûmkạn compound? The surveillance cam looking into the stronghold’s dining room that her team had planted had run out of battery power long ago, depriving her of glimpses into his new life.