Cyber Genius

by Patricia Rice

  Graham growled unhappily at my disarmament—he would have liked me to hold a gun on Stark, but I’d seen too much blood in my lifetime to consider spilling more.

  Reluctantly, my personal bodyguard played nice and dropped our patient back to the bed. Graham’s Hulk performance was almost as erotic as his James Bond diamond-cufflink routine. He needed to go back to hiding behind the rack so I could keep my head focused.

  Stark yanked the covers around him and glared at the towering, broad-shouldered “kitchen worker” who’d so easily manhandled him. Graham wore a cute paper hat over his distinctive thick black hair. He had it pulled half way down his forehead to hide the burn scars. His blue smock couldn’t conceal the muscular build he worked hard to maintain.

  “Don’t mind Tommy,” I said cheerfully, warmed by Graham’s scowl. “He’s just here to make certain I don’t hurt anyone.”

  I thought I heard Graham snort, but maybe I imagined it. “Now, back to the subject—why don’t you just tell us what you know and let us take it from there?”

  Graham crossed his bare arms over his massive chest and glowered more fiercely. Stark shrank back against his pillows. Amazing how cowardly the Wizard of Oz was once he was exposed.

  “I’m only the numbers guy,” Stark protested weakly.

  “Who sold all his MacroWare stock right after the hole in the beta program was reported,” I added, so he knew we weren’t bluffing. Much. “Insider trading.”

  My knowledge deflated his arrogance, and he sighed in defeat. “They were supposed to patch the breach at the first hint of discovery, but no one expected Stiles to find out first! In just one day, he’d dug out a list of people involved and wanted canned. The stupid ass didn’t care that mass firings almost guarantees the media would pounce. Stiles wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  Looking overwhelmed and gray—my guess was that Stark really hadn’t recovered his health—he glanced longingly at the phone Graham had shoved in his smock pocket. Graham faded back behind the tray rack again, out of reach.

  If I knew him at all, he was performing magic with the phone’s insides. I hoped he didn’t mess with the recording. Just in case, I set Tudor’s to record. I held it up and said “Record” aloud so I could say he’d been warned. I didn’t think Stark was really connecting to reality, but that was his problem.

  At my steely glare, Stark sighed. “After Stephen learned about the leak in the beta program, Henry admitted that he’d had it created to measure how the program was being used,” Stark said. “The company was anxious to get the new release right. The government was threatening to take bids on Peanut machines instead of ours if we screwed up the new system. We’d lose half our customers and most of our profit if they switched to Peanut instead of MacroWare. We couldn’t afford to take the hit.”

  “Right,” I said, wanting to get past the obvious. “And since the government that you love to hate started getting cranky about mortgage and banking fraud as well, your personal stress levels had already skyrocketed and you couldn’t take more, right? So you thought you’d use that handy hole for more than market analysis.” Brick by brick, I built my cynical case. I hope the cops appreciated this when we handed the phones over.

  He shrugged and looked unrepentant. “My family’s mortgage firm hasn’t done anything illegal. The financial committee’s legislation is simply government harassment. We just wanted to know which way the wind blew so we could act accordingly. If Henry was helping Wyatt make government contacts, why shouldn’t my family get a little benefit?”

  Ha, he’d just admitted what I’d suspected. This was no criminal mastermind, just a greedy man who protected his own—even if it meant screwing everyone else. Had to love that attitude.

  “To clarify—” I said with only a touch of sarcasm. “You needed to know when to sell off all your underwater loans to government entities before they went bad, got that. The spyhole into the banking committee was just a security measure.”

  “My family doesn’t make bad loans,” he said stiffly. “It would be bad business.”

  “No, you just offer loans as favors to good buddies; I totally understand. So instead of just sending the holy software—” Sarcasm laced my tone. “—to beta testers, you arranged for the beta program to go to banking committees, the NSA, and who knows who else.”

  “I did not authorize giving the program to anyone in the NSA,” he said stiffly.

  Interesting. More fingers in the pie, but I’d already known that. Rose’s cabal wouldn’t miss a lucrative opportunity like a spyhole. “How did Wyatt Bates fit into the picture? He’s little more than a software distributor, but the mortgage your family gave him is seriously underwater.”

  Stark put on his stubborn face. “He’s a good company man with a good salary who needed a mortgage, and he was Henry’s brother. Henry simply suggested that Wyatt use Goldrich like everyone else in the company. My family gives favorable terms to MacroWare employees because they know we pay well.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “I’ve seen the numbers. You loaned more than they could possibly pay, collecting interest in the form of favors. Again, I understand, so let’s not be coy. Spell it out for me in simple words. Did Stiles know that you asked Wyatt to give government entities beta programs containing a spyhole?”

  “It wasn’t a spyhole!” Stark insisted heatedly. “They were test programs. Everyone knows that.”

  “Sure they were. And if even the NSA couldn’t detect the flaw, you and your buddies could have installed those corrupted programs anywhere and everywhere. Oh what fun that would be, reading and uploading private data from the entire internet! I can just imagine the applications and profits,” I said, patting his feet sympathetically through the covers. “I bet you found lots of nice people who were interested. What a lucrative sideline!”

  I was thinking of Senator Paul Rose’s rich and powerful friends, but I didn’t want to lead the witness.

  “Government regulations are destroying the free market,” Stark agreed, without seeing the irony. “We were performing a patriotic service. But then some idiot hacker, probably a pimple-faced Russian troll with nothing better to do—” I winced at this description of Tudor. “—hacked a government website through the hole and all hell broke loose.”

  “And Stiles went ballistic,” I simplified pleasantly, as if we were all in this together.

  Of course, the minute his dead boss’s name came up, so did Stark’s defenses. “We could have fixed the problem internally,” he insisted. “But Stiles got all huffy about ethics and called outside security, which was when Wyatt panicked. He said he needed time to change out the programs. I figured there wasn’t time to exchange or repair all those systems before the press got hold of the news. That’s when I bailed. So, I sold out. Sue me.”

  “You didn’t know Wyatt was stupid enough to delay or try to stop the program exchange entirely with fish poison?” I asked, not hiding my incredulity. It made total, rational sense that Bob Starks and Henry Bates would hate to give up their lovely little spyhole—and so would Top Hat and Goldrich. And he was telling me he didn’t know about Wyatt’s plan to stop Stiles?

  “Did you think I’d have eaten the damned soup if I’d known?” Stark asked in genuine umbrage. “Wyatt was a fruitcake. If I’d known that, I would never have involved him.”

  “So you had him eliminated, nice.” I sat back and tried that version on for size.

  “I didn’t have anyone eliminated,” Stark said in disgust. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”

  “But your family does,” Graham said, emerging from his hiding place to hold up the phone. “I just sent your phone records to the police. Want to place any wagers on which of the people you called will spill first?”

  I watched an aghast expression cross our patient’s face, then fear. Gotcha. He’d warned his family that Wyatt was in panic mode, shutting down MacroWare while trying to glom up emergency services until he’d saved his nasty little hide. I could see where pe
ople who knew assassins might cut off their losses by snuffing a wild card who’d lost his usefulness.

  “I want a lawyer,” Stark replied intelligently, leaning into his pillow and crossing his arms in defiance.

  Predictable. People quit talking when attacked. I shot Graham a scowl for his interference, then returned to my interrogation. “Will we find Adolph and Wilhelm alive when the police arrive to pick them up?” I asked, just because I wanted the chain of command spelled out.

  He raised his graying eyebrows. “Why would anyone kill Wilhelm? He’s a special snowflake who did whatever Hilda told him. I have no idea what he was told.”

  “I’m pretty sure Hilda didn’t tell Wilhelm to poison you. She was outraged, she knew about the spyhole, and she suspected someone in the company—probably one of your friends,” I explained cheerfully, although I had no evidence other than opportunity and the feeling Goatee Boy had been lying. “Asking for puffer fish soup was probably the inspiration for Wyatt’s murderous plot to cover his rear. Who asked for the soup?”

  “Stiles was bored easily. He had exotic tastes,” Stark said with a shrug. “Tray had a pet cook who fixed the soup and who needed a job. Adolph needed a restaurant. We worked it all out to make Stephen happy. People think we’re nerds, but we can brag that we get high on poison fish. We’ve done it before. It’s never made us sick. What does this have to do with anything?”

  He really didn’t get it, did he? I tried not to sigh too loudly at the testosterone-driven stupidity. “Except Stiles’ gourmet requests and your need to get high gave Wyatt ideas. He or one of his compadres took the poisoned fish guts and had Adolph dry them, then called them an aphrodisiac. Do you remember the salt shaker?”

  Stark actually seemed to be considering. “The salt shaker Henry passed around telling us he had babes lined up in the hotel, and we’d all get lucky? The shaker was poisoned? That makes no sense.”

  But I could see that he was mulling over the possibility and accepting it. He looked ready to murder, if he hadn’t already.

  “Henry trusted his little brother, didn’t he? If Wyatt told him the shaker contained an aphrodisiacal drug, he’d take him at his word,” I suggested.

  Stark shrugged. “Henry had a few problems in the bedroom. We just played along. It’s not as if the soup really helps much, and it certainly needed salt.”

  “Dried and in enough quantity, the fish guts might have put you out of commission for a day or two,” I explained. “Wyatt needed time to keep Stiles from following up on the spyware problem and canning everyone concerned.”

  Stark grimaced. “Wyatt demanded time before we patched all the holes. Stiles was refusing.”

  Or Top Hat had demanded time. I had no proof. “Stiles would have had entire departments producing patches and updating software immediately,” I suggested, “but Wyatt wouldn’t want them all patched. He was probably paid well to keep his more vital spyware open. That was a little tricky.”

  “So Wyatt got Henry to poison us?” he asked, obviously confused.

  From his expression, it looked like Stark hadn’t done any actual poisoning. He’d just helped create the situation that ended in murder—especially if he’d had a hand in telling fruitcake Wyatt to stall. He didn’t seem ready to admit that to me. I’d leave it for the judge. All I wanted was to get Graham and Tudor off the hook.

  “Adolph probably dried the fish guts,” I told him. “He thought that’s all Wyatt wanted, a harmless drug that would at most kill your taste buds, and if he was lucky, make all of you a little ill. He’s not fond of any of you.”

  “So the soup wasn’t poison but Henry’s damned drug was?” Stark asked, finally catching on.

  “Just as poor Kita told the cops, the soup was fine,” I said shrugging. “And as I said, the dried fish guts would have done little more than numb your mouths so you couldn’t taste the pièce de résistance. That’s where the real poison comes in. And why someone killed Kita. He knew too much and wasn’t loyal to the cause.”

  Stark looked bleak. “We were drinking that night. Stiles was furious and taking it out on us and we feared for our jobs. We wouldn’t have noticed if they’d served cactus needles.”

  “Exactly. But it was adulterated tomatoes in the risotto and salsa, not cactus needles. You might have all shoved the veggies aside if they tasted off, but you weren’t tasting anything.”

  “Wyatt gave us spoiled tomatoes? That’s where the botulism comes in? I’m glad the bastard’s dead,” he muttered viciously. “He could have killed us all!”

  “Probably not a bad idea in his wasted head, but Wyatt wasn’t in the kitchen,” I reminded him. “Wilhelm, your aunt’s stooge, was. Someone gave Wilhelm spoiled tomatoes to make good and certain the program problem was covered up—which means someone really wanted you dead. Maybe Wilhelm didn’t know what was in the tomatoes, maybe he did, but he used them in his vegetable dish and lied about it. With Wyatt’s fish toxin weakening your systems and concealing the botulism, the tomatoes could have killed all of you. Kita knew his soup was good, so he may have guessed about the tomatoes and threatened to tell the cops to prove his innocence.”

  “You have no proof of any of this,” Stark argued, frowning in puzzlement. “It makes no sense. We were all helping Wilhelm.”

  “By telling stupid Wilhelm to listen to crazy Wyatt. Very helpful, indeed,” I agreed with sarcasm. “Whose idea was that?”

  “Hilda wanted us to find him a job,” he said with a shrug, still frowning. “Adolph was eager to do anything to get his restaurant, so he took him on, even without papers. Wyatt was supposed to know people in D.C. who could help him become legal.”

  “And there it is,” I said with disgust, seeing most of my Top Hat conspiracy theories go up in flame. “Wilhelm did whatever Wyatt said so he could be legal. Wilhelm had no way of knowing that Wyatt wasn’t your friend. He was brought in at the last minute, not given what he needed for the recipe, and took anything anyone offered. Wonder how Wyatt delivered those tomatoes?”

  “But why?” he asked. “Why would he want to kill us?”

  Since it was obvious Stark couldn’t provide answers, I spun my ideas further. I didn’t want to totally give up on the banking conspiracy.

  “Wyatt didn’t need you anymore. You and Hilda had thoughtfully provided his big house, and he’d met some influential new friends who really liked the spyholes and didn’t want them closed and were willing to pay well to keep them open. Have you no understanding of human nature at all?” I shook my head in despair. “Some men prefer to skip out rather than pay back what they owe.”

  Stark was a finance man. He got the reference, if not the analogy. “Someone else offered to pay off Wyatt’s loan,” he suggested wearily. “Someone else bought Wyatt, and he didn’t need MacroWare anymore.”

  “Probably. Kill two birds with one stone,” I added cruelly. “Wyatt could get rid of all the high muckety-mucks to whom he owed favors, the brother who got all the accolades, dump his debt, and gain the favor of some rather nasty folks who shoot fish chefs—although he was too dim to figure that out.”

  “Who?” Stark demanded. “Who helped Wyatt?”

  Pity I didn’t have the evidence to convict Paul Rose and Friends so Stark could send his loan sharks after them. I had to confess my ignorance. “Besides you? I assume the same people who wanted the beta spyhole installed in the first place. Have any good ideas?”

  His eyes widened ever so slightly. He had a good idea. He shook his head negatively, but I could tell he was making mental notes.

  He wouldn’t tell me. Okay, we’d let that one play out. Judgment day was coming. One of these days, I hoped to be on the jury.

  “Make a list of suspects to hand to the police,” I suggested. “Maybe they’ll give you a commendation for your helpfulness.” Probably not. The police wouldn’t touch any execs in the Top Hat cabal with whips, chains, and Uzis. They’d call Wyatt a serial killer, Wilhelm an accomplice, and end it there. Poor Kita’s assassin
would never be found.

  Graham tapped his earbud and shoved the rack out of way of the door. “Time to go.”

  I trusted his early warning system and got up off the bed.

  “Have a nice day,” I told Stark, who appeared as if he would weep. “I’m sure you can afford a good lawyer. After all, all you did was have your family kill a killer. Convenient that shooting Wyatt wiped out the evidence of the rest of the conspiracy, but what the heck. After that, a little insider trading is nothing.”

  I knew in my heart and soul that the buck didn’t stop at Stark. But Wyatt had been the key to the plot, and he was gone. I’d read the police files later, but I was pretty certain they didn’t have the manpower to find hired assassins.

  Unless I called in Magda, I simply didn’t have the resources to go after whoever had paid Wyatt—without endangering everyone in my family. I could hope someone got stupid and spilled. In the meantime, I kept copious files and held grudges.

  I skedaddled after Graham, hiding behind the huge cart as best as I could so anyone approaching wouldn’t see me. We used the racks at the elevator as a wall between us and the corridor.

  The elevator doors opened, and the police captain who had come to our door looking for Graham stepped out. I nearly had a heart attack. The cop looked grim and had a few rather determined men in blue with him.

  Why did I think they were hoping to catch Graham and not our guilty patient?

  The cops brushed right past us without looking our way.

  With more nerve than sense, we rolled the cart past them and closed the elevator doors.

  Once the door was shut, I held out my hand and pretended my heart wasn’t jumping out of my chest. “You can have the SIM card, but I want that pretty phone.”

  “Buy your own,” he said grimly. “You’re worth millions.”

  I glared at him in incredulity. “I just got you out of a murder rap, and this is how you treat me?” I couldn’t smack him. He’d got me into the hospital so I could interrogate my best witness. Without his aid, I’d not have been able to confirm my suspicions. He was still an arrogant ass.