“Was the salsa and risotto only for the head table, then?” I asked, hunting for a means of injecting botulism into this joint project. “I can’t think you’d have enough for everyone at the last minute.”
“Of course,” he said bitterly. “Everything for MacroWare so precious Tray will hear how good we are. But no more! I could not work for pigs like that,” he said, facing me again and making a rude gesture of disgust.
“So who was doing whom a favor by pleasing the execs and Tray?”
He looked rightfully puzzled by that mangled question, but my teeth were chattering. It was dark enough that the street lamps had come on, and the wind was picking up, wafting the stench of garbage my way.
“Adolph wanted to open a kitchen in the MacroWare office in D.C.” Wilhelm sounded sullen as he figured out my question. “Tray said he would talk to Stiles if their hotel dinner was good.”
“You said this was all about money. I’m not seeing it yet,” I said patiently, under the circumstances. “I’m just seeing good ol’ boy scratch my back syndrome.”
He wrinkled his nose to puzzle his way through that. His grasp of idiom was pretty sound, as reflected by his reply. “My Aunt Hilda knew Tray from Seattle dinners. As personal favor, she arranged big loan for him so he would hire me and help me get green card. Tray could not hire me because of MacroWare security, so he asked Adolph to help. Adolph wants to open kitchen in MacroWare office here. If he does that, I can be head chef. Because they know Adolph drinks too much, MacroWare would not hire him as chef, but they would not care if he owned kitchen. Aunt Hilda would help us.”
This was making absolutely no sense on the murder front. Well, it wasn’t as if Wilhelm would say, “Adolph used bad tomatoes for the salsa to kill the MacroWare bastards who fired him for drunken driving convictions”—especially if Adolph was hoping to gain a restaurant from live execs. I wasn’t even seeing a way to arrange botulism poisoning from this scenario, provided Wilhelm was truthful. I had my doubts about that.
“You handled both the soup and the vegetables, correct?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Kita was slow. He wanted to clean before filling bowls. Adolph said to serve now. So I did. I know nothing of puffer fish.”
“Serve—as in dishing the food out, not taking it from the kitchen?” I was running out of questions. I’d never worked in a kitchen and couldn’t really puzzle out at what point tainted tomatoes or puffer fish could be added.
“Exactly,” he said impatiently. “I filled bowls like peon because Adolph ask me. I add risotto to plate with chicken and top with salsa. Servers add dishes to tray and serve tables. No poison, nowhere.”
“And you know of no one in the kitchen who might want to poison Stiles?” Now I was fishing without bait.
His hand gesture indicated his opinion of my question. “You think I would not tell police if so?”
“I think you told the police nothing because they didn’t know you were there. Adolph threatened his staff to keep your presence quiet. Do you have any idea how suspicious that looks?”
“It is so,” he said gloomily. “I should go home now and forget new life here. It is not much different from old life.”
“I can’t help you there. It will look like you’re running away, though. Maybe you should just try to figure out how to be legal without your aunt bribing people.” I looked at my watch. Time to be moving on. “Open the gate for me, will you? And if you think of anything else that will help, call me.” I handed him one of my fake realtor cards.
I left him to clean up the garbage bins.
Patra called as I trudged back to the Metro debating my next stupid move.
“We can’t find anyone to verify the operating system leak,” was her opening volley. “But MacroWare stock is falling on rumors.”
“Not news,” I retorted. “Can anyone get their hands on the beta program and test it?”
“I had a nerd at our bank score a copy from their D.C. office. I just sent it to Tudor to see if it’s one of the flawed ones. I’ve made enough brownie points with this case to earn a travel budget to follow the story. If I fly up there, will Maggie O’Ryan let me interview her?”
“You want to get her killed?” I asked in horror. “Send her a bodyguard. I know it’s not Hollywood exciting, but see if you can find out who held the mortgages on all the major players. I’ll get back to you when I know more, okay?” I wanted Patra working on our side, but I was too tired and disgusted to come up with a more challenging job for her other than doing the tracking I didn’t have time to do.
“That’s too easy. Come up with something better soon.”
Yeah, like visiting Maggie again.
Or better yet, returning to Graham in his suite and having hot monkey sex.
I went home by way of Metro and hid in a pizza delivery truck that conveyed me to the carriage house garage, avoiding the goons with guns watching the house.
Nineteen
Tudor’s Take:
Tudor glared at prissy Nicky and turned his tablet face down on the dinner table as ordered. He could argue that Nick wasn’t his father and couldn’t tell him what to do, but he didn’t know his half-brother as well as Ana and couldn’t judge his reaction. “People could die while we’re stuffing our faces. Why isn’t Ana here?”
“Probably for the same reason Graham isn’t,” his barmy brother said too cheerfully.
As if Tudor knew what that meant. The way he saw it, both adults had scarpered just when he needed them most—not anything new in his life.
“Graham never eats with us,” EG pointed out. “Are we having a Thanksgiving dinner? Can I invite Mom? And Tex and his family?”
“That would certainly provide traditional family entertainment,” Nick said wryly, without really agreeing.
Tudor didn’t know EG’s father and didn’t want to. Since he didn’t intend to be here that long, he didn’t care who they invited. “I’m done. Can I go back to my program now?” He scooted his chair back. “It’s kind of important.”
“And we’re not? You have much to learn, cherub, but run along and save the world while EG and I send photos of your empty chair to Ana.” Nick produced his cell phone and waved it in Tudor’s direction.
Tudor scowled but ignored the threat. “Saving the world is more important,” he insisted. “Ana would agree.” He thought. Being abandoned didn’t give him warm fuzzies.
He left EG and Nick snapping photos of empty chairs and debating clever tag lines. Some other time it might have been fun to pretend he was part of the family, but not now, with the fate of the internet on his shoulders.
The attic echoed hollow without Graham’s scary vibes. Tudor hadn’t realized how much the silent dude had occupied the space until he was gone. He’d been kind of chuffed working with someone who appreciated how his head worked.
Graham wasn’t completely gone though. His files had continued pouring into Tudor’s mailbox through dinner. Tudor focused on the messages with Graham’s analysis of the beta software Patra had nicked.
He remembered Patra as a silly teenager more interested in boys than news, but he was impressed that she’d scored the sacred program half the PC world drooled over in anticipation.
He backed up the program’s files into an external drive before he systematically deconstructed the code.
Tudor was deep into C++ when Ana arrived bearing a foamy green drink he supposed was meant to be good for him. He snatched one of the brownies that accompanied it.
“Any way of detecting who wrote what part of the code?” she asked.
“Not without comparisons. So many people work on these things that it wouldn’t be easy even then.” Tudor tested the drink. There was enough ginger ale to make it potable.
“Wouldn’t it have to pass a lot of tests before release? Someone in the company had to have seen the spyhole if they’re any kind of techies at all, and we’re talking the Taj Mahal of Geekdom.” She nibbled one of the peanut butter brownies.
&n
bsp; Ana had a way of drilling down to the core.
“The hole could have been planned,” he reluctantly admitted. “This is test software. They might have been using it to test usage by particular types of consumers.”
Ana grimaced. “Introduce a test hole, then kill everyone who knows about it? This does not compute. Any way we can use it to reverse spy on MacroWare?”
Tudor scarfed another brownie and thought about it. “Graham has access to MacroWare’s servers. We can search their files without using the new software. What are you looking for?”
“Bad people.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I need to meet people to know who to spy on. Any luck yet on learning who was in charge of distributing the test software?”
Interesting. He’d always thought of Ana as a nerd like him. She actually liked going out and nattering with the gormless? Wicked strange.
“Got that one.” He scrolled through his files and hit print. Underneath Graham’s massive console, a printer quietly whirred.
Ana retrieved the paper and turned on a recessed light to study it. She whistled. “Wyatt Bates is one of the honchos of the local operation? Why did I not remember that?”
“Why should you?” Tudor countered. “He’s just a cog, but he’s the cog who cranks the beta programs to end users.”
“He’s Henry Bates’ brother. The Henry Bates, the genius who could have fixed—or written—the hole and would certainly have been in charge of the program’s development. Henry was not a cog. Wyatt Bates was at the memorial, right next to Mrs. Stiles, cozying up to her. He was in the safe room when Hilda got killed.”
“So were we and Mrs. Stiles and a lot of other wankers,” Tudor pointed out, “including the twit chefs.”
She shrugged. “See if you can find any more fun connections like this one. Then go to bed. Sleep is necessary.”
Ana left, presumably to stay up all night going through the mail in her box.
Later, Tudor took another break to munch the last brownie. He’d discovered Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook account when he’d researched Maggie. From the messages shooting back and forth between Ana, Nick, and the reporter Tudor hadn’t met, he gathered that O’Herlihy had somehow persuaded Maggie to pack suitcases and hide in Nick’s house. It might be good to check the page and see how the kid was doing.
Glancing at the posts, Tudor wanted to reach through the computer and shake the prat complaining that their Mafia safe house was yellow. Someone needed to take Mikey’s’s keyboard away and slam it on his braincase until he had some sense knocked into him.
Tudor direct-messaged Michael’s account—practice taking care of your mother the way she’s taking care of you, twit. start by sending me images of anyone near your house now that you’ve told the world where you are. He added a secure email address.
The response was almost instantaneous. “Like this?” The email contained an image of a black sedan with tinted windows parked in the shadow of a row of multi-colored Victorian town houses.
Oh, bollocks. That was Nick’s neighborhood all right. Black sedans were never good in Tudor’s world. Was parking even allowed on a street that narrow? He didn’t see any other cars.
Tudor IM’d Ana and Graham, because he could tell by the file exchanges that they were still working, then added Nick, just because. For good measure, he called the cops and reported suspicious drug activity.
Someone had to protect the prat.
***
Ana takes a ride
I was just heading for bed when Tudor’s message popped into my box. I didn’t quite catch the significance of a plain black sedan until I recognized Nick’s neighborhood in the shadows. Black sedans regularly cruised our area, but they did not park in that Adams-Morgan alley where Nick lived. No one did. It was too narrow and littered with No Parking signs. Someone thought they were above the law and common sense—not a good sign.
I uttered a few foul words and ran for the stairs. I was closer to Maggie’s location than Graham and more responsive than the cops. I pounded Nick’s door and kept on running to mine. I wasn’t going out again without warm clothes.
Nick emerged yawning sleepily and holding his phone. He held up the latest image from Tudor—a man standing by a tall bush. I couldn’t recognize anything more. Nick pointed at a wrought iron mailbox hidden in the greenery. “Neighbor.” He wrapped a cashmere scarf over his camel overcoat.
I texted Tudor as we crept down the stairs, trying not to wake EG. You’re in charge of eg. We’re on our way.
He texted back symbols representing obscenities.
“Charm is his genius, right?” I murmured as I held up the phone for Nick to see.
He just snorted. “Which bolt hole do we take?”
“New one. You’ll like this one. I’ll show you.” I led him down to the coal cellar, through the tunnel, and into the warehouse/garage on the next street.
He whistled as my flashlight swept over the Phaeton. “Let’s take this.”
I was about to ask if he’d like to steal a train, too, when my mischief gene kicked in. I really was getting too old for these jokes, but I can’t think straight when exhausted, and riding sounded so much easier than hunting a Metro at this hour. “Keys?”
I couldn’t see him grin in the darkness, but I could hear it in his reply. “What? You never took a keyless antique for a spin?”
He opened the unlocked door and almost whistled in disappointment. “There are keys in the ignition. Who puts a keyed ignition in a magneto classic like this?”
Having no interest in what he was talking about, I checked the garage doors. They looked like old-fashioned carriage doors, but what appeared to be an automatic opener produced a low glow to one side. I hit the button and the doors silently slid open on well-oiled springs.
“If we dent the Phaeton, do we get to keep it?” I asked through a yawn as I slumped into the ginormous front seat. No seat belts to hold me upright.
“I’m thinking the car is part of Max’s estate and ought to be ours anyway.” Nick checked the manual transmission, then smoothly backed the monstrous machine into the narrow side street.
“The underground tunnel is a good indicator,” I agreed.
I still hadn’t had time to do more than exchange a few emails about the Swiss bank account, so I didn’t waste time speculating on our chances of being filthy rich and buying back the property. I wanted the house. The ancient car—not so much.
Nick studied the weird stainless steel dashboard while twelve cylinders growled at a stoplight. “If our grandfather was freaky paranoid enough to build a tunnel to his garage, he probably built a bomb shelter under the kitchen.”
“Or the entire cellar covers a cemetery of dead bodies. All that concrete would be convenient for burying our enemies.” I could almost fall asleep on the soft leather seat.
“The bodies would go under the carriage house.” Nick actually chortled. “No wonder Magda is a piece of work.”
As were we, but we were driving into the Adams-Morgan neighborhood now, and I was more intent on studying the streets than speculating on our many family idiosyncrasies.
tell michael we’re in a limo, I texted Tudor.
“Just pull right into the drive,” I told Nick. “I’m tired of sneaking around. That’s your house. Let’s own it. It’s not as if anyone in the sedan can trace this antique or connect it to Maggie.”
“The drive is an alley in back. If you want storm trooper tactics, let’s do full frontal exposure. It will be good for my cachet.” He parked under the No Parking sign in front of his yellow apartment house. Honest, it was one of the most sedate houses in the neighborhood. Yellow is a good color, I thought, warm and inviting.
The black sedan was just down the street on the other side, where a streetlamp had burned out and sidewalk construction obstructed the corner. Probably as illegal as our blocking the street with the Phaeton, but that’s the criminal mind for you.
“Do I look butch enough to enter with you?” I ask
ed sarcastically when Nick flung open the car door and sashayed out as if this were Kensington Palace.
“In that knit cap, you look like a Russian spy. I’ll tell everyone you’re my driver but you were too drunk to drive.”
The house looked quiet and dark, but we couldn’t see the back windows from here. Nick let himself in with a key. He reached for the alarm system but it apparently wasn’t activated. He muttered and swung his gaze disapprovingly to the stacks of boxes and suitcases on his pretty parlor floor.
Michael rolled down the wide hall from the back of the house. One good thing about these old Victorians, they had lots of wide open space for maneuvering a chair in. Behind him, Maggie wiped sleepily at her face. She was wearing a ratty chenille bathrobe, but the kid was still dressed.
“That’s probably the FBI out there, trying to catch drug dealers,” Michael said with disgust. “Aren’t you supposed to carry automatics and drive them off?”
I rolled my eyes and glanced over his head to Maggie. “Take the TV away from him.”
“He has a point,” she said warily. “We have no idea what you are.”
I pointed at Nick in his spiffy coat and scarf, looking all cosmopolitan. “Nicholas Maximillian, attaché to the British ambassador and renter of this little house of horrors. I’m just an assistant, and probably an enabler, to the man attempting to find a killer.”
I pinned a glare on Michael. “The whole purpose of moving you here was to remove your mother from sight. Telling the entire world where you moved has rendered the arrangement pointless.”
“I have to go to work anyway,” Maggie said wearily. “It’s not as if I’m invisible. I can’t imagine I know anything anyone needs, so why am I a target?”
I pointed at the front window. “Someone thinks you’re a person of interest. That sedan out there isn’t from the local neighborhood watch.”
Michael wheeled over to peer out from behind Nick’s heavily draped front window. He whistled—badly. “Isn’t that an antique Rolls? Is that yours?”
“Phaeton,” Nick growled. He jerked the expensive draperies out of the kid’s grubby hands and checked on our vehicle. I focused on Maggie.
Cyber Genius Page 17
