None of her cleaners acted like a software engineer in disguise, sneaking in to rob the mansion's owner. She paid them at noon and was delving into last night's leftovers when Bettijean reappeared. “No luck,” she said morosely as she plucked a shrimp from among the noodles. “Lost the trail again."
"Time's getting short.” Dawna stabbed at a piece of green pepper with her chopsticks. “I need to smoke out any villain lurking at Garvin-McCarty. This afternoon, we retrace yesterday's footsteps. You wear the same game-face—excited and happy. Tonight, you e-mail a message to your CEO. Tell him things are moving ahead of schedule. Say that WiZer's specs for the copyright application will be completed Wednesday, too late for delivery to the legal team that day. You'll take the data home with you and bring it personally to Garvin-McCarty on Thursday morning."
Bettijean blinked as she put it together. “You're setting me up to be robbed by a colleague who wants to get the specs ahead of our legal team."
Dawna nodded. “You won't use authentic data. Any robber shows up to snatch your briefcase, you let go without a fight. I'll keep you safe. And maybe nothing will happen. Then, I'll know to focus on everyone who'd recognize that your e-mail was a fake."
"On the WiZer folks,” Bettijean said, reluctantly.
"Right. They know the megabucks involved. You have to be vigilant. Keep a sharp eye on every one of them."
On Ken Watson, Dawna meant, but she wasn't ready to reveal his obsession to her sister.
Bettijean made a face. “Ugly strategy, but I can live with it."
She played her part convincingly during the afternoon. That evening they fine-tuned her planned Wednesday performance. Luckily, they had privacy because Ed worked late. The only evidence that he came home at all was the hum of the elevator at midnight and again at five thirty a.m. and the coffee waiting for her in the kitchen on Wednesday morning. She was halfway through her first cup when a jumpy Bettijean joined her to confirm that her computer had forwarded their e-mail message intended for Garvin-McCarty to the unknown raider.
That afternoon, Dawna reassured herself that Bettijean would be surrounded by the WiZer copyright team for the next two hours and safe from Ken Watson's attention. She slipped away to Daly City to meet her FBI buddy, pick his brain about computer espionage, and borrow what she needed to execute her plan. Back at the WiZer parking lot, she raised the top on the Mazda. With the loaner Beretta holstered at the small of her back, she escorted Bettijean and the bait out of the building.
While her sister drove, Dawna exchanged the envelope in Bettijean's briefcase for an identical-appearing one she'd picked up in Daly City. She spent the next fifteen minutes trying to spot a tail. Alert, she was ready for an ambush that never happened. Nor did any bad guys in ski masks appear at the mansion later that evening to demand the envelope.
"We still have tomorrow morning,” she told Bettijean at eleven p.m. as they rode the elevator down from the top floor, having made a final check of Bettijean's office and the briefcase stashed in it. At the middle floor, the doors opened directly into the master suite, which was furnished with only a massive king-size water bed and a half dozen neatly stacked moving boxes. The security panel on the wall showed no detectable motion elsewhere in the house. “Might try something en route to your firm,” Dawna added.
"You wish.” Her sister's tone was resigned. She held open the door into the hall. "I wish you had a chance of winning this bet. Make my life easier. But nothing supports your theory. This must be happening long distance."
"You could be right.” Dawna gave her sister a good night hug and stepped over the threshold, heading for the guest suite. Where she stayed only long enough to grab the comforter and a pillow from her bed before taking the staircase back to the top floor. She held the bedding above her head and lifted her legs high to avoid triggering the motion detectors on that crucial route. Low-tech offense was often the best way around a high-tech defense. A truism she applied again when she punched this week's code into the office-door keypad. Bettijean's mistake, writing the four numbers on that scrap of paper in a wallet she allowed her sister to hold for five minutes in the gas station queue.
Dawna's study of the security panel yesterday had revealed the programmer thought it unnecessary to alarm the invulnerable office door. She opened it and entered, glancing up at the full moon shining down through the skylights. To be thorough, Dawna had to spend the night with the bait. If Bettijean found her, she'd claim that an agile cat burglar with a glass cutter and a mountain-climber's tackle could easily bypass the security system and enter the office from the roof.
Plausible, though improbable. Ed was a more likely suspect, but she didn't want to alienate her sister by accusing him. In the morning, she'd cross him off her list and Bettijean would never know his name had been on it. Tomorrow, she'd contact the local cops and go after Ken Watson. She wanted Bettijean protected from her stalker by a restraining order. Thinking through her plan for the morning, she bedded down behind the breakfast bar, her loaded weapon beside her head.
The elevator hummed at midnight. Probably Ed coming home. Dawna dozed, coming fully awake instantly when the humming resumed. She checked her watch. Half past two. Was the car descending to the basement? She couldn't tell.
The humming stopped. Weapon in hand, Dawna peered over the counter. The elevator doors reflected the moonglow. Molten silver, they whispered as they began to open.
She ducked below the bar. Who was in the room? Bettijean making a final check? Ed using an elevator key kept secret from Bettijean? Or a stranger who'd managed to get into the house and operate the elevator?
She stayed out of sight, the Beretta in her hand.
The overhead fluorescents remained dark. Bare feet slapped against hard wood. A stray popcorn kernel crunched beneath a hardened sole. The desk chair squeaked as it took weight. The clasps on Bettijean's briefcase snapped open.
Paper rustled.
Dawna sprang up to her full height.
The envelope lay on the desk in front of Ed. He trained his cell phone light on the brad holding the flap closed.
Dawna holstered her weapon. “Working late, again?” she drawled.
Ed turned his head and saw her. Anger roughened his voice. “What are you doing here?"
"Waiting to see who'd show up."
"You're telling me that Bettijean—"
He stopped, as if in reaction to his own outraged words. The laugh he forced out next was authentically sheepish. “Well, you caught me,” he said. “Couldn't resist knowing if those guys at WiZer solved that last little glitch. For Bettijean's sake, I was hoping they'd figure it out before I did."
Dawna marveled at Ed's swift recovery. His response had to be derived from the well-polished story he planned to use down the line. Smart guy with a king-size ego, planning to put one over on all the dumb jocks. To keep him talking, she allowed only mild surprise to flavor her words. “I thought you were into widgets. What, all along you've been working on the same gizmo as WiZer?"
"Quite often, two guys on opposite sides of the world simultaneously make the same breakthrough,” Ed said. “Coincidences like that are common in scientific advancement."
Dawna wrinkled her forehead as though perplexed. “Opposite sides of the world sounds like coincidence. Opposite ends of the same house doesn't. The WiZer folks might believe Bettijean gave their data to you."
Ed shrugged. “Who cares? She and I know that she didn't.” He sighed with pleasure. “We'll own the patented Gustafson chip. Huge military potential. Aren't you glad your sister will never have to work again?"
"Won't be allowed to work, you mean. She'll be under a permanent cloud."
"She won't care. She loves me."
"She won't love hearing that you waltz into her office whenever you please."
"She won't like you going behind her back,” he retorted. “I know Bettijean. This is her domain. She didn't let you set up in here. You're running your own number. Don't know what you hope to gain
, making me out to be a bad guy. Tonight was only a one-time whim on my part. I've never been in her office before."
"No, you bugged her computer, instead."
Shock widened Ed's eyes.
He hadn't imagined Dawna would figure that out. “Oh yeah, Mr. Thrifty who does all the household shopping in bulk,” she went on. “I figure Bettijean's computer components came into the house under your supervision like everything else. And I had a chat with a pal of mine about how computer infiltration was done in the pre-Internet days. A good old-fashioned sleeper chip activated by remote control can make a computer do anything you want it to do."
His features relaxed then. “Bettijean won't find any sleeper chip on her computer."
He'd deactivated it, Dawna realized. Ready to jettison his device along with her sister's career so he could be number one nerd in the valley.
She wanted to pull out her Beretta and plug him right between his lying eyes. But Bettijean loved the weasel. Dawna had to offer him a way out. “If you care for my sister, you won't open that envelope."
"Fine.” He tossed it back into the briefcase. “I don't need to see the WiZer specs. My legal team will submit my application in another hour when the patent office opens in D.C. All above board, even though you seem to think you caught me red handed, engaged in this crime you've imagined. You have no proof of wrongdoing. And no reason to wake Bettijean. So why don't you sneak out of here as quietly as you got in?"
Dawna let out a defeated sigh. “All right, you win.” She gathered up the comforter and pillow and headed for the door. “Rather sleep in a bed, anyway."
"No hard feelings?” he asked her back. “You keep this conversation between us and I'll charter a plane to bring your folks to the wedding. Tropical paradise—they'll love it."
"You think?” Dawna stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door closed with an audible click. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening for the echoing clicks made by the briefcase latches. Instead, she heard a satisfying whump. Ed had tried to open the envelope flap. Twisting the metal clasp triggered the explosion of the dyepack inside. Now, not only his hands were red, his entire upper body would be stained bright crimson. Another low-tech option, designed for bank robbers, yet also effective with state-of-the-art geeks.
Time to invite Bettijean to the party. Dawna threw the pillow at the motion detectors, tossing the comforter after it. Then she grabbed the door handle, bracing herself against the frame to keep Ed from opening it.
Fewer than ten seconds later, the elevator was humming again. Roused by the activated alarms, Bettijean was hell-bent to reach her office.
Even through the closed door, she heard bare feet thumping toward her. The doorknob struggled to turn. She held it firm.
The bottom of the door was suddenly edged in light. Bettijean had arrived and switched on the overheads. Her wordless shriek penetrated the wood.
Pressure on the doorknob ceased. Ed must have released it to defend himself.
Dawna heard muffled voices, volume escalating. Punching in the keypad code, she eased the door open an inch. She had to be ready to intervene if things got ugly.
Bettijean was blasting through Ed's sorry excuses with Texas dynamite. Dawna picked out “no-count horse thief” and “mangy varmint.” Colorful yet apt descriptions of Ed.
Dawna was glad the culprit hadn't been likable Ken Watson, who was probably skilled enough with hardware to pluck that deactivated sleeper chip off Bettijean's hard drive. He'd be delighted to provide his ideal woman with decisive proof of the startup addict's long-term systematic deception.
Ed muttered something she couldn't decipher.
His words enraged Bettijean. “Lower than a snake's belly,” she shouted.
Dawna smiled, pushing the door open. Time to intervene. She'd promised Mom to keep her sister safe and that meant protecting her from a charge of domestic violence too.
Dawna could see she wasn't going to collect for winning the bet. Bettijean wouldn't marry Edward Ulrich Gustafson in Amity, Texas. Or any place else on earth.
Copyright © 2009 Diana Deverell
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE HIGH HOUSE WRITER by Brendan DuBois
Among the things private investigators must be able to do—besides searching the Internet, lying fluently to public officials, and locating the best public restrooms—one very important skill is sizing up potential clients. Most of my jobs are pretty straightforward. Lawyers will come to me for asset investigations, insurance companies for photos of fender benders or employment verification of customers submitting claims; even other investigators come for advice on the best way to approach the local police.
Pretty basic stuff, which can be boring, but despite what you read or see on the silver screen, boring private investigation work is a good thing. I love boring. Boring means steady work, means a thick wallet, means a good night's sleep without worrying who might break in at three a.m., upset over some imagined slight.
So always keep an eye on clients. A good rule, and one not made to be broken.
* * * *
On this particular day in late May, the door to my one-room office opened up and a young man came in. He had long, black hair to his shoulders, a sparse beard that probably went by the term scraggly, and khaki trousers. He also had on a brown leather jacket and he carried a bag over one shoulder, something I think nowadays is called a manbag by those with a sense of humor. He came in shyly, like a boy buying his first six-pack of beer with a fake ID, and looked around my office. Not a very impressive office, but it works for me: desk, phone, three chairs, computer and two three-drawer filing cabinets with good solid locks.
"Miss Dunbar?” he asked, his voice soft.
I said, “The same,” as I opened up the center drawer to my desk. Not that I'm paranoid or anything, but whenever a male potential client comes into my office, I make sure my .357 Ruger stainless steel revolver is readily available. Most men who come into my office are under some form of stress, and that can result in some off-the-wall behavior. Though based on what I had seen and heard so far, it looked like I could have knocked over this wisp of a boy with a flyswatter.
"My name's Terry Crandall, and I'd like to hire you,” he said, standing behind one of the two chairs in front of my desk.
"Have a seat,” I said, which is what he did, and I kept the center drawer open, took out a black ink pen and found a clean notepad to make notes. “What can I do for you?” I asked. I usually play a little game called “what does this potential client want,” but I had to give up. Terry Crandall was unlike anyone who had ever stepped into my office before.
He coughed and said, “I'd like for you to find someone for me."
"And who's that?"
He paused, like he was still deciding whether to proceed, and he lowered his voice a bit and said, “Harmon Blake."
That's what I wrote down, and I looked to him and said, “Who's Harmon Blake?"
Terry's eyes widened, and I knew I had committed some sort of faux pas. “You know, Harmon Blake."
I shook my head. “Sorry, no. Don't recognize the name."
"Harmon Blake—” He repeated the name, trying to jog my memory. “—is one of the best science fiction authors we've ever had. He started off writing television screenplays back in the sixties, before turning to short stories and novels. He's won almost every major writing award for science fiction there is. He's a famous author, a legend."
"And you want me to find him?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"He ... well, um, it's personal. But I need to find him."
I doodled on my pad. “And how can I help you with that?"
"Because he lives here, in Purmort."
I stopped doodling. “He does?"
"Yes."
"And why can't you find him on your own? Even if he has an unlisted number, if you're sure he's here in Purmort, he can be found. It's not that big of a town."
His fac
e flushed. “I can't find him because no one will help me, that's why. The post office, the people at the town hall, even the police department ... nobody will help me find him."
"Uh-huh,” I said. “Where are you from, Terry?"
"Cambridge, Massachusetts,” he said. “I'm a grad student and, well, I took a bus up here. I'm staying at a motel out on Route 4, and I've got to find him. I've just got to."
"Why?"
He seemed to struggle with something for a moment, like he was going to reveal some secret. Finally, he said, “Look. I've been a fan of his as long as I can remember. He wrote a famous script for one of the Solar Voyage episodes, called ‘High House Horror.’ A classic, considered one of the best ever done for that or any other science fiction series."
My little computer of a brain switched into gear. “Solar Voyage ... wasn't that on back in the seventies? About a starship exploring the galaxy?"
"Yep."
"A little old for you."
"Classic science fiction lives forever,” he said. “Some of my favorite authors—like Asimov and Heinlein—they've been dead for decades. It doesn't matter."
"I'm sure."
"But still ... I've got see him. I've just got to."
So I've had my share of wild and woolly visitors, but this young man was something else.
I doodled some more. “I'm not sure I can do that, Terry."
"Why not? I thought that's what you private investigators do, find people."
"We do. Among other things. But Terry, you're not his father, his son, nephew, or anyone else with a connection. If Harmon Drake does live here in Purmort, he probably values his privacy, and that's something we all value around here. Privacy. If you can't find him through whatever public resources are out there, I really don't want to take the case."
The poor guy looked like he was going to cry. “Please ... I don't know what else to do. Can't you help me?"
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 5
