After I’d shipped EG off and sent Tudor back to work upstairs, I directly called Patra, figuring I’d be dragging her out of bed at this hour.
“What’s this about EG having her own limo?” she cried as soon as she answered.
From Patra’s irate question, I deduced she’d already been up and reading her messages and EG had told her about the limo ride. The brat had probably been texting the world. I’d hear from Magda next.
“Graham’s call,” I said insouciantly. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this Stiles thing, and he didn’t want me taking time out.”
“BS,” Patra said succinctly. “She’ll be rotten. I need to snag that DC job and move back in there. The flat here is hideous.”
Since I’d lived in Atlanta and was aware of the cost—Patra’s entry level journalism job paid squat—I understood her complaint. “Tell me you’ve found out about Tray Fontaine. Prove your worth, grasshopper. This is a huge case and could be a career booster.”
She grumbled while she apparently opened her files. “Not that you’re feeding me anything useful, but—Tray Fontaine just came through a messy divorce and declared bankruptcy. He lost his house and his Ferrari and partial ownership of some fancy LA restaurant. He’s clinging to majority ownership of a small restaurant in Seattle and just bought a more modest condo nearby, modest as in Seattle millions.”
I whistled. “He lost everything and now he’s buying million-dollar houses?” Money inevitably raised my suspicions. “Any record of how he got the funds?”
“Credit reports show two mortgages against the property that nearly equal the purchase price. He must have wealthy friends the bankruptcy court would like to know about.”
“Possible,” I agreed. “Million-dollar loans are fishy under those circumstances.”
“Fishy, har-har. Since I was already in Seattle databases, I ran some searches on the poisoned guys,” she continued. “Adam Herkness, the PR guru who doesn’t like salsa, is part owner of Tray Fontaine’s remaining restaurant. He’s recently divorced as well and is hurting for funds.”
“So it isn’t likely that he loaned Tray any.”
“Exactly, but—” She hesitated, apparently hunting for another file. “Bob Stark, the financial officer who is still comatose, is rolling in riches. Wealthy parents, never married, heavily invested in the market—although he sold all his MacroWare options last week.”
Uh-oh. Remembering my thought on MacroWare’s stock plunging even more once the police revealed the spyhole, I opened my suspect file and started typing. “Do you have a date when he sold them?”
“Tuesday, the day before the poison dinner,” she reported. “Why?”
“Because that’s when the internal problems started to unravel.” I hadn’t told her yet about the spyhole, so I fudged. “Aren’t there laws about insider trading?”
“Yeah, except Stark wouldn’t poison himself,” she pointed out.
That had been the reason I’d left this research to Patra. I figured the five poisoned men weren’t suspects. In theory, they had been a danger to the real killer. So far, Tray Fontaine was the only connection to MacroWare who had walked away—except he hadn’t been in DC. His stooge Kita had.
Tray went to the top of my suspect list—but he had utterly no motive. He was a chef, for pity’s sake. What did he know about operating systems?
“Any reason to believe a wealthy accountant like Stark would loan money to a bankrupt chef like Fontaine?” I asked.
“Tray was blackmailing Stark?” she suggested. “I’m grasping at straws, but Tray’s ex-wife moves in the same circles as Stark’s family. Stiles liked his employees to be straight up good guys. Stark’s family are heavy duty loan sharks who have skirted the law for decades. Maybe Bob was involved in financial shenanigans and Tray found out.”
“Insider trading is not straight-up behavior, so you may be on to something there, except I can’t see a chef and a finance guy communicating on the same level. Stiles was an ass if he hired a financial officer with that background, no matter how much he liked the guy,” I concluded.
“They went to the same school, different years,” Patra added.
I pondered old school connections and tried to douse my bias, but I read the papers and understood the old boy network of “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” Had Stark “scratched” Stiles’ back at some point? With funds, probably. Nothing new there.
“At the very least, we could conceivably be dealing with stock fraud,” I decided. “Check with the SEC. Still, Stark wouldn’t murder himself to save his family.”
“You said there might be some connection to government financial committees,” she pointed out.
She might be my sister but she was a journalist first and foremost. So I was limiting what I fed her. Now that Graham had given our information to the cops, could I tell Patra? The news of a spyhole in government computers would create an international sensation and make her career.
It would probably also cause a stock market crash and panic, for all I knew—
Sorry, Patra.
“Possible connections,” I agreed cautiously. “But the Stark family wealth doesn’t lead directly to government fraud.”
“Understood, but MacroWare’s current operating system software is viewed as problematic by most businesses. Sales are way down, which means there aren’t any lucrative government contracts pending either. Consumers are waiting for the new roll-out. If MacroWare could tell corporations that the government was upgrading to the new version they’re supposed to be testing—“
“Or vice versa,” I added, thinking hard. “I’m not making the dots connect,” I admitted, “but I think you’re on to something. Except why would Stark sell now if the new roll-out will put them back on top? Think Sean can dig into the financials?”
“On it. I’ll send him what we have here. He’s pretty good about sharing the glory.” This last sounded tentative.
There was roughly ten years difference in Sean’s and Patra’s ages, but I wasn’t entirely certain there was a vast lot of difference in experience. Patra had lived what Sean had only heard about.
I tried to give her what she wanted. “Sean still believes in truth and justice and apple pie. He plays fair.”
I could almost hear her grin. “That’s what I thought. Keep me updated. I want that DC bureau position.”
As I hung up, I wondered if the feds could tap our lines. I had to hope Graham’s security prevented it—for now. If he’d really disappeared, we were up the proverbial creek. Technology might be my friend, but I didn’t have Graham’s expertise or maniacal preoccupation with keeping people out.
I was trying not to panic, but this scenario was playing too close to my life before I ran away. Life and death with the kids in between and no protection other than poor pitiful me... Not a road I wanted to travel again.
How had I let Graham give me the confidence to think I had someone at my back? That was crazy thinking.
Rattled, I stuck to researching from my underground office, where I felt safest. I let my lizard brain ponder action while I read up on everything that came in overnight. Somehow, Graham was still forwarding his various feeds, so I knew he was alive—at least until I found and killed him.
The hospital report showed Enrique Gomez, MacroWare’s security guy, had come out of his coma but wasn’t talking yet. Could I hope they’d start ratting on each other and solve all our problems? Of course not—because the bottom line was that even though Stiles’ close compadres had the most to lose, they wouldn’t poison themselves.
So if I accepted the motivation for murder was that someone didn’t want the spyhole revealed, the number of suspects was too huge and too anonymous to investigate from that angle.
Which brought us right back to—who had the opportunity to poison? Kita and Maggie—one dead and one not talking. Who else might have had access to both the soup and the vegetables? Botulism was far more likely to be found in vegetables—like canned t
omatoes or minced garlic. Anyone who made salsa from canned tomatoes and bottled garlic probably deserved to be sent up for murder.
I was scrolling through the files on Tray Fontaine that Patra had sent and thinking I really needed to get into the hotel kitchen—when I struck pay dirt.
From the list of stockholders in Tray’s restaurant that Patra had sent, it appeared our Seattle chef had borrowed or coerced all his restaurant pals into buying a share. Kita had a tiny share, so did Adolph, Kita’s boss here in D.C. And also—one Wilhelm Vokovich.
We had a winner! I didn’t need the hotel’s HR to respond to my inane attempt to phish the new cook’s name from their records.
I gleefully dug into Wilhelm—and came up with almost zilch. I needed Graham to hack through immigration files, because as far I as I could tell, Wilhelm hadn’t been born here. He had no credit record and no tax files. I opened the hotel’s HR database again but couldn’t find Vokovich on the roster. No social security number would be my guess. Adolph was paying him under the table. Why?
I really needed into that kitchen, which reminded me of Euon Yung’s resume. I texted Nick to ask if she’d found a job yet, and on a whim, I asked Mallard if he knew of anyone who needed a cook. I really wished she hadn’t quit her job. I needed inside information on that hotel restaurant.
Mallard studied her resume and nodded solemnly. He occasionally met at the pub with a bunch of other upper crust household personnel. If anyone needed a cook, he’d know about it. Even if Euan turned out to be useless, I could feel as if I’d held up my part of the bargain.
And then from the depths of cyberspace, Graham sent me the Holy Grail—a pass into a memorial service for Stephen Stiles and Henry Bates, in the hotel in which they’d been poisoned. Holy Irony, Batman.
How did I work this.... Let me count the ways.
I studied the invitation. It appeared to have been on formal paper originally, but there was a barcode on it for electronic use. The geeks quite possibly could have assigned a different code to each invitation to identify the guests as they entered rather than ask everyone for their ID. Or possibly not.
However—the disadvantage of barcodes is that if they’re bent or damaged in any way, a scanner can’t read them. Or . . . if I ran the image through my photo program and smudged the code, it would force security to ask for ID. This wouldn’t work for expensive theater tickets, but this was a memorial. If I had the bad luck to meet a truly anal guard who knew how to track down a guest list, I’d lie—or hope Graham had my ass covered.
He’d sent this invitation expecting me to use it—and as Thomas Alexander, he probably controlled security.
The service was scheduled for two, today. Even though the memorial was likely to be nerd city, I couldn’t go in as my normal nerdy self, not with the feds believing I was out of town. My distinctive black braid was probably on every wanted photo in their system.
My slanted eyes and high cheekbones were also giveaways, but they could be played down with make-up and glasses. I’d already used the Russian hat. I didn’t want hotel management recognizing me.
I was seriously conflicted. I wanted in the hotel kitchen, but I also wanted to hobnob with the people who had known Stiles. For all I knew, the murderer would attend. How did I dress for both?
I ran upstairs to contemplate my limited wardrobe.
I had the dorky black designer silk suit that Nick had made me buy to impress EG’s last fancy-schmancy school. With that, I could wear my hair up in a roll and slap a veil on it. Not that I owned an actual veil, but Nick had also shown me the value of accessories. I had a lacy black scarf that I hadn’t figured out how to use until now. Bunched up with pins and stuck on top of my hair—it would conceal my widow’s peak and eyes.
With my face hidden, I could circulate in the memorial reasonably well, but not in the kitchen. Maybe I could bring the kitchen to me. It had been a long time since I’d exerted myself to mischief. I was supposed to be a grown-up now. But old habits are ingrained and a natural fallback position.
Humming to myself, I returned to my computer and began multiplying the pass to the memorial service. Stiles had invented cut and paste for good reason, I’m sure. He would be proud of me. By the time I was done, Graham’s invite had been copied onto good card stock. I was wagering the fancy stock went on the invitations to special guests, and security wouldn’t even ask for ID when the smudged barcode failed.
If they didn’t get past security, I’d come up with another solution. Half of my job relied on luck anyway.
A list from Tudor on additional corrupted websites reminded me of how hard he was working. He deserved a reward. I IM’d to ask if he’d brought anything suitable for a funeral. He returned the graphic of an upraised middle finger.
I laughed and saved the graphic. Then I ran back-upstairs to rummage in his backpack and Nick’s leftover wardrobe. I left khakis, a black t-shirt, and Nick’s blazer on the geek’s bed.
Tudor’s hair was as much a problem as mine, though.
I ran up to where he sat alone in that ugly room, staring at his monitor. I dropped the cardboard invite on his desk. “If you want to go, you have to get your hair cut.”
His eyebrows rose to the aforesaid curly mop. “Really? An official MacroWare invite? All the local office will be there!” he said in drooling awe.
“Exactly,” I said in satisfaction. “And possibly the families of some of the poison victims, since they’ve flown in from Seattle for bedside duty. Opportunity knocks.”
“You could at least pretend you’re offering a little respect,” he chided, running his hand regretfully through his thick curls.
“I can’t think of a better way of showing respect than to find out who killed them. Now, can you get your hair cut before lunch? We can probably run some dye over it so you won’t look like you. A knit cap is probably uncool at an indoor funeral.”
“A cap is never uncool. It’s a badge of honor,” he muttered. “How much do haircuts cost?”
Triumphantly, I handed him some cash and reminded him to leave through the garage, preferably looking like a bum. That wasn’t hard for him to do given his current state of grunge.
Heading back down to tell Mallard we’d be gone all afternoon, I realized I was actually anticipating mischief and mayhem. My, my, how times change.
Fifteen
Given that there was a big empty house being renovated across the street that was a haven for anyone watching our front door, I called Graham’s car service again. Tudor and I walked out via the backyard tunnel and the back street to meet the limo on busy Massachusetts where we could blend into the crowd and traffic.
I’d persuaded Tudor to rub some men’s hair dye on his newly-scalped hair, but he still kept a black knit cap in the pocket of Nick’s overlarge blazer. We all had our own comfort zones.
I missed Tudor’s red curls, but the dark military cut and blazer emphasized his long nose and sharp cheekbones. His big glasses added years, and he almost looked distinguished sauntering into the hotel lobby—well, compared to all the other slouchy, badly dressed nerds. I was starting to understand Nick’s obsession with making me dress properly. It was pretty easy to stereotype the bigwig families and the worker bees just from their differing attire.
Earlier, Tudor had dug out the hotel schematics and memorized the floor plans. He more than happily ditched me in the crowd to work his way down to the basement kitchen with pockets full of mischief.
I produced my phone and invitation from my attaché, then balanced the case under my arm as I strode across the lobby. My stupid veil brushed my nose and got in the way of studying my phone as I joined the stream of mourners heading for the ballroom. Half the people here had their phones in hand. Some of the women even wore black feathery fascinators and several wore hats, so my veil wasn’t a total give-away.
And Tudor was right. Some of the dorks honestly wore knit caps which they left on even inside the ballroom. Incipient baldness would be my assumption in the ca
se of a few older men. Bad hair day for the women. I really wanted to join my tribe, but it was the CEOs I needed to talk to.
There were ushers at the door wearing black suits and mics that screamed security. I had to hope they were Graham’s minions. They were scanning the invitations as expected but some of the guests received special treatment. I watched security escort a stylishly garbed matron to the front of the room. They knew their audience, so I was betting at least some of the guards were “Thomas Alexander” hires. From all I’d discovered, Graham’s firm had pretty high-profile clients.
I watched Brian Livingston, the hotel manager, and Roger Tulane, the catering director, enter together and take seats toward the back. I texted Tudor to look for a seat near them.
I stood to one side and read my messages until the usher returned. Then, with an air of impatient importance, I stepped crisply in front of someone fumbling for their invite and handed over my stock one.
He didn’t even raise his eyebrows as he offered his elbow for me to take. I’d guessed right—one of Graham’s plants. The invitation had probably been coded. It was interesting working with the madman for a change, instead of thumping him upside the head to get his attention.
And it was a major relief knowing the spider was still alive, just in someone else’s attic for a while.
The usher placed me in the same row with the elegant woman he’d brought in earlier. Nice. Her ruby-studded rose brooch seemed out of place on her severe black suit, but I was no fashionista and just admired her attitude.
Several men in tailored suits nodded in my direction. The women mostly ignored me. There were no young children, although I recognized several as adult children of the victims. Setting my portfolio attaché on the floor, I took a chair next to a plump Latino woman in her forties who watched me with unabashed speculation.
“Linda Alexander,” I murmured and held out my hand. “And you are?”
Heads perked up all around me. My murmur had been deliberately carrying.
“Victoria Gomez,” the plump woman said aloud, almost defiantly. “Are you one of Mr. Stiles’ associates?”
Cyber Genius Page 13
