Cyber Genius

by Patricia Rice

  Whatever had scorched through the plaster had burned out quickly. Maybe it had only been an electrical fire, but it had damned well kept me from learning anything useful. I was furious enough to want to punch someone, but I couldn’t tell who I’d be punching.

  The lights in the ballroom had been doused as well, I discovered when I finally located the door grip. Pure blackness greeted me, but no smoke.

  I froze at the gunshot in the salon behind me.

  A woman screamed, and a dozen people attempted to trample me in their rush to escape into the ballroom. I had no means of holding back a panicked mob, even if one might be a murderer—or at the very least, Wee Willy.

  Double foul word.

  Without my handy army jacket, I was essentially weaponless. I clung to my attaché case, but I hadn’t thought to add a flashlight to its contents. I needed to know what was happening, dammit. I flattened myself against the door jamb and aimed my cell phone light into the dust cloud, hoping to see Tudor or maybe a silhouette with gun in hand.

  Following the light I provided, my captives shoved past me to stumble into the darkened ballroom. The main doors on the far side of the ballroom crashed open to reveal squares of light from the central atrium as hotel security dashed to the rescue.

  I couldn’t see any guns in the dim beam from my phone.

  A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me in the opposite direction from the incoming police. I could have broken his wrist, but I sensed Graham in that masculine grip. Since I wasn’t in any humor to be interrogated by cops, I followed him.

  Graham wasn’t a talker at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t one of our better moments. We ran to the back of the ballroom and out the stage door through which our distinguished guests had entered—and departed—an eon or so ago. Time was irrelevant. My heart was pounding too hard for my brain to hear myself thinking.

  “The gunman is escaping,” I finally pried past my tongue as he tugged me into one of those dreadful concrete block stairwells.

  “He’ll have washed his hands of residue by now. You practically offered him his victim on a silver platter.” He nearly jerked my arm off when I tried to pull away.

  I didn’t even know who the victim was.

  Graham’s insult got my blood flowing again. I ran up the stairs after him, while trying to dig my fingers into the pressure point above his elbow to make him release me. The maneuver would have brought any normal man to his knees. Graham deflected me without a flinch, damn the man.

  “The whole friggin’ memorial was a set up,” I argued, although I’d only just realized that. “Were those your men leading us all to the front?”

  “I had security by the podium—not in the damned salon.” On the landing on the floor above the ballroom, he pushed open a fire door. The lights weren’t on up here either.

  “Yeah, well, your security sucks,” I retaliated, still frightened but growing more irritated.

  I could see flashlights on the far end of the corridor and hear men shouting. Graham yanked me through a doorway into a laundry room. He opened a rear door into an unlit service hall. It was a damned rabbit warren back here. He flicked on a handheld LED to keep us from falling over laundry bins and cleaning carts.

  “Where’s hotel management?” I asked. “I saw them in the ballroom. They should be in charge of fixing this mess.”

  I was almost back to normal now. I hoped he was leading me to the area over the not-so-safe room so I could see how we’d been invaded. “That side room should have been secured. That’s what it was designed for. Your communication leaves a lot to be desired.”

  He didn’t argue with my conclusion. Ha! Of course, he really wasn’t saying anything, period. In my nervousness, I was doing all the talking.

  We halted behind the service wall when we heard the voice of authority shouting commands on the other side. I sighed with impatience as I realized the cops and firemen and hotel management were all shouting conflicting instructions.

  “Do they even know someone may have been shot down there? Don’t you have a friend to buzz?” I asked in disgust, finally hearing Brian Livingston, the hotel manager, yelling at his maintenance workers. By the time his maintenance crew got finished trampling around, there wouldn’t be a shred of evidence left.

  “I don’t have friends,” Graham said coldly, dropping my arm.

  But I noticed he got out his phone and texted someone.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Tudor.

  Tudor responded instantly. “Cops everywhere. I’m guarding Mrs. Stiles.”

  I showed the text to Graham, who cursed and started punching out another message. I was getting bad vibrations from his urgency.

  “Tell Tudor to get the hell out of there,” he ordered as he typed, keeping his voice low.

  My thinking, too. OUT NOW I text-shouted in all caps. With no ID on him and the feds probably plastering his face all over the internet, we really didn’t need Tudor anywhere near the police.

  Tudor didn’t immediately reply. I didn’t want to contemplate what he was doing. That was his hero’s widow in there. He might have some stupid notion she would listen to him about the spyhole. He didn’t need to be revealing that to someone else who could get murdered for the knowledge.

  Although after this past hour, I had the edgy notion that the refined Mrs. Stiles already knew more than I did. The lady was one tough cookie.

  I breathed easier when I received a message curtly saying gone.

  take the limo and go home I typed back. i’m good

  I got a crusty K in return. You gotta love cryptic texts.

  “We won’t accomplish anything with all those people out there,” I told Graham, once I was reassured Tudor was out of the way. “Shouldn’t we make ourselves scarce?”

  Admittedly, I had a fondness for enclosed spaces like closets for spying, but this dark corridor didn’t seem a particularly healthy harbor.

  “I need to check something.” He ran his pocket flashlight across the wall. Wires and plumbing ran everywhere.

  His light hovered over what appeared to be a jury-rigged electrical connection—now burnt to a crisp.

  “Old trick,” he said in disgruntlement, switching off his light. “Let’s go.”

  “Stuck a penny in and shorted it?” I asked dubiously. “All that commotion for a simple short?”

  “Bad wiring, heavy chandelier, weak ceiling. Someone knows this part of the hotel hasn’t been recently updated.” He grabbed my arm again. “Quick thinking on their part.”

  Hotel management came to mind. I checked the clock on my phone. I could bail now and go after Livingston—or indulge my sick curiosity about Graham and his habits and let him drag me away.

  He hauled me to a freight elevator. Guess that answered that. I was practically humming with anticipation to see how Graham worked, although that might have been hormones. Even in the dark my pheromones were loving his.

  We took the elevator up two floors and walked off into a well-lit, carpeted office area. My good black silk suit was covered in plaster dust, and the stupid veil had slipped over my ear. I hurried after Graham’s long strides while trying to remove the pins with one hand and hold my case in the other.

  Graham glanced back to see what was keeping me. His Superman jaw was set in a grim lock—not unusual. His black t-shirt and jeans exhibited none of the dust that covered anyone close to the mayhem, so I knew he’d come running at the explosion.

  Mostly, I was too busy engaging in pornographic daydreams gazing at his broad, muscled chest and shoulders to yank the veil off. I had a thing for big shoulders.

  He grabbed my lace and ripped it off, flinging it into an open trash bag in a maid’s cart. “A blind man could see through that disguise.”

  “Only if he knows me,” I countered. “And nobody does. By the way, I’m now Linda Alexander, Thomas’s wife, should any of your pals ask.”

  He suffered a fit of coughing as he hurried on, but I suspected he was covering a laugh. H
e’s rusty at it. He opened the door to another stairwell and we continued upward.

  “Is this your way of telling me you’ve not hiding anymore?” I asked, half in curiosity and half in aggravation as we climbed still more steps.

  “There are very good reasons that the Secret Service is secret and the CIA doesn’t announce their presence,” he grumbled, using a card key to enter an unmarked door on the landing. “My existence doesn’t need to be known either.”

  “I didn’t think fire exits could be locked.” I chose not to acknowledge his reference to agencies I knew my mother aided occasionally.

  “These aren’t fire stairs. They’re private ones for the security around the presidential suite. This is the reason foreign dignitaries stay here.”

  He had keys to presidential security. I wouldn’t want this man as an enemy.

  We walked down a plush maroon-and-gold carpet in a hallway so insulated we couldn’t hear ourselves breathe, much less a toilet flush. Genuine artwork adorned the discreetly papered walls, not the cheap knock-offs most hotels displayed.

  I knew there were spyholes or cameras behind half the wrought iron sconces between the paintings. This was the world I’d grown up in.

  “Are they filming every move we make?” I asked warily.

  “There’s no one staying up here now. I set the film to loop,” he said casually, as if making a mockery of hotel security was a matter of snapping fingers.

  Using his card key, Graham opened one of the unmarked mahogany doors and dragged me inside. If he meant to murder or ravish me, I’d go out in style.

  Or not. I stared in disbelief at the wall of computer monitors where there really should be plush sofas and a baby grand. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Heavy draperies along the long far wall covered what was probably a spectacular view of the Capitol. Graham flipped a switch over the wet bar for light and rummaged for bottled water. He flung one at me before opening another for himself.

  From the bar counter, he flicked on the monitors. One showed the ballroom, now illuminated by big police lamps. The memorial guests were gone. The chairs were knocked over and scrambled. Anxious hotel execs conferred with maintenance men. Cops did whatever cops do. The firemen had gone away.

  Several other monitors focused on closed hotel doors.

  “You’ve tapped into hotel security?” That wasn’t really a guess given what he’d just told me about looping the cameras.

  “The families of the MacroWare execs are staying here. Henry Bates has stopped by to suck up to them. Beyond that, they’re not talking to each other. The atmosphere is as poisonous as that dinner.”

  Ah, so my suspicion that MacroWare was not one big happy family was right. Interesting.

  Graham lit up another monitor. That one came up black. He cursed more out of habit than surprise—probably the salon. He hit another key. This time we saw a plain room full of desks, computers, black suits, hotel security, and a really official looking Captain Theodore Donovan. Oops.

  “Does security know you’ve bugged them?” I rummaged through the fridge and appropriated some high-end cheese and crackers. I tried to look nonchalant as Graham listened in on the man who had come to our door looking for him.

  Graham didn’t answer. I took that for a no. Graham apparently thought his security was more valuable than the hotel’s. For all I knew, he was right.

  Knowing Tudor was safe, I had time to reconnoiter. The elegantly upholstered blue and cream sofas had been shoved to the wall opposite the monitors. Graham had dragged a crude collection of tables and consoles from around the suite to create the line of monitors along the window wall—similar to his office at home. So, this was what he did in his spare time.

  On one of the tables, I found an array of flashlights and dropped a few into my attaché. I needed to find a fancy leather tote if I was doing this again. The leather portfolio was too small.

  I wasn’t much used to actually being part of the action. After appropriating what I could, I collapsed on a sofa cushion and swigged my water to watch the monitors. I checked the time and texted EG that I was running late. I got the ubiquitous K in reply.

  Graham turned up the sound, but I wasn’t much of a listener. On all those little screens, people hemmed and hawed and talked in circles. I liked my info condensed, summarized, and neatly edited into factual lists with bullet points.

  I sat up when Graham opened a screen showing a stretcher carrying a covered body being unobtrusively rolled down a service corridor. “Who?” I demanded, thinking of the gunshot and all the people crowded into that little room.

  “Hilda Stark,” he said as nonchalantly as if he’d just said “Big Bird.”

  For his callousness, I flung a water bottle at him. It smacked him on his brawny shoulder and bounced to the thick gray carpet. He didn’t even turn around. “Why?” I cried. “She was just a loud old lady.”

  “Exactly.” He switched on another monitor showing Louisa Stiles delicately dabbing at her eyes while a police woman handed her a glass of water. Anxious security and hotel staff hovered nearby. The room looked like a private salon with gilt-edged French chairs and a writing desk.

  I got the message. Lady-like Louisa, who kept her mouth shut, got star treatment. Loud-mouth, argumentative Hilda, who’d been on the verge of revealing company secrets, got shot. I ground my teeth in frustration.

  “Why weren’t there metal detectors or searches to prevent weapons?” I asked, belatedly. I should have questioned everything about this memorial instead of spending my time designing appropriate costumes.

  “That was the point of invitations—so we didn’t have to strip search executives. Everyone on the list had high security clearance. How would you have reacted if we’d had to search your attaché case? We couldn’t put detectors on fire and service doors. I expected you to use a little judicial wisdom in handing out the invitations.”

  “I don’t think it was my invitees with the gun. If anything, they would have used knives and gutted their victim. If you were listening in, then you know this looks like a spur-of-the moment murder. The killer is getting nervous.” Finishing off my crackers, I finally formulated a plan and stood up. “I have to catch Maggie before she goes into hiding.”

  “You are not going into that slum at this hour,” he said with conviction, not looking up from his keyboard.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a perfectly respectable residential area. She’ll run if I don’t get to her. She knows something. Did you hear her talk about Wilhelm? Our murderer didn’t care if she pointed her finger at staff.” I shrugged out of my dusty jacket and looked around for a mirror to inspect the damage. This was a bad outfit for the Metro.

  “Hilda and Kita knew something too, and you see where that got them. Maggie is better off hiding.”

  I winced, wondering if he was right. Maybe we should all hide and sneak around behind the cover of Graham’s computers. My gut said no.

  If Graham had any expectation of us working together, he’d have to listen to someone besides himself.

  I turned my back on him while I yanked my loose tank top from my skirt band. “Maggie will be better off when the murderer is caught,” I insisted. “Hiding is not her style.”

  “This is why I can’t get a damned thing done with you around,” Graham muttered from right behind me.

  He walked on cat feet. I hadn’t heard him approach. Before I could react, his big arms circled my waist and turned me around as if I were no more than a computer monitor.

  His kiss stunned any other reaction except lust.

  Seventeen

  Oh, blast, that man could kiss! Graham hauled me off my feet and devoured my mouth. I retaliated by wrapping my legs around his hips and rubbing. Spontaneous combustion happened.

  He didn’t falter but shouldered open the bedroom door.

  I yanked my mouth away. “I’m still going after Maggie,” I warned him.

  He dropped down on the bed, crushing me between his heavy we
ight and the dreamy mattress. “That’s the problem here. I can’t protect all of you, all of the time, and get my job done!” he said in frustration before he returned to smothering my mouth.

  I wiggled beneath him and caught his attention by yanking his hair until he let me speak. “Your job isn’t to protect us. That’s my job. And we can’t always be successful.”

  I knew that from harsh experience. We’d lost a sibling to a terrorist bomb. He would have been twelve about now. That had been one of the many reasons I’d abandoned my family after EG had been born. Old story, but I understood his complaint—Graham hadn’t been able to protect his wife or hundreds of other people in 9/11. For control freaks like us, who care too much, that’s the end of the world.

  Like us. Graham and I were too much alike in too many bad ways.

  I didn’t want to think anymore. I just wanted to feel.

  He chose to drop the argument once I ran my hands under his t-shirt. Thinking went straight away once he fastened his hands on vital parts.

  This was nuts, but I was doing this, no question about it. I didn’t know about Graham, but I hadn’t had sex in so long that I figured I needed to clear my hormone-fogged brain.

  Not that I was thinking anything that logical when he opened a foil packet.

  ***

  Less than half an hour later—I think Graham had been as sex-starved as I was—I was a puddle of wax lying half under one heavy naked dude. I’d seen his scars when we’d worked out in the gym, so they weren’t new to me. The rest of all that gloriously muscular maleness—I’d have to examine another time.

  I wriggled until he lifted his hip. I slid out from under him even as he grabbed to hold me down. “Save Maggie, first,” I told him, heading for the bathroom.

  “Send Sean,” he shouted after me. “The two of them can out-Irish each other.”

  He had a point there. I didn’t know if it was enough of a point to persuade me to crawl back into his bed. I was pretty limp but still hungry for more of what he had to offer. Like sugar, sex is addictive. I didn’t need either, but boy... I wanted them.