by Chris Knopf
"Who is RadioLink International?" he asked, answering the phone.
"It's me. Sam. Long story I'll make as short as I can."
Which I did while Burton listened to silently.
"What would you like me to do?" he asked, when I wrapped up.
"Lean on whoever could lean on the state police to get a cop on a coast guard boat headed for Fishers as soon as possible."
"I'll do what I can. Do you still want intel on Subversive Technologies?"
I'd almost forgotten about them.
"Yeah. What have you got?"
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"I have a report in front of me from one of our analysts. Eighty percent of their revenue flows from the high-volume analytical software N-Spock 4.0, which has a large installed base in industrial, government and academic research labs," he said, reading from the report. "Though dominant, they're feeling intense pressure from competitors who are using more modern platforms to leapfrog over N-Spock's speed and volume limitations. It's the classic software dilemma— keep upgrading your program based on the operating system and hardware you've always used, or scrap the whole thing and jump to the cutting edge. The first option can work if the users are satisfied with the product, and it's a hell of a lot cheaper. On the other hand, investing in a whole new technological approach may be the only way to preserve their base, maintain their brand image and prepare for future competition."
"So what're they going to do?"
"They're working on the next version, N-Spock 5.0, which is said to be based on the absolute latest development principles, which take advantage of the most current processors, web-based applications, cloud computing, fourth- and even fifth-generation programming language, which gets frighteningly close to artificial intelligence."
"They made the investment."
"They're making it. N-Spock 5.0 is over a year late and the rumor is they're stuck. It's only a rumor, since Subversive has done an excellent job keeping a security lid on the project, but if this version fails to launch they're in huge trouble. They become a legacy application, which will take years to dwindle away, providing continued revenue, but their stock price will tank and private equity will flee, meaning the end of the big money flow, and that's what everyone ultimately cares about. It hasn't helped that Christian Fey, the head of development since the founding of the company, has opted
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out. It's not much of a stretch to interpret that as jumping off a sinking ship."
"Wait till they hear the CFO was found hanging in the shower."
I heard a beep on the line, followed by Mr. Berman.
"Terribly sorry to interrupt, but I've lost power. There's quite a storm going on out there. I only have an hour of reserve power, and have to do an orderly shut-down of all the systems. You understand."
Burton and I talked over each other thanking Mr. Berman for the time we had. He replied with a few equally gracious comments, then unceremoniously cut the line.
Since our entire conversation played on the radio, I didn't have to brief Amanda.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, in the light, seemingly unconcerned tone she often used when she was the most concerned.
"I need another drink."
"The ice won't last forever."
"We'll run the engine and make more."
"Do you think Sanderfreud's death has anything to do with Poole's beating?"
"The word 'death' implies there's a possibility it was an accident or he committed suicide. It was murder."
"Okay, murder," she said. "Is there a connection?"
"I don't know."
"So there could be."
"Yes," I said.
"What kind?"
"We could guess all day, but that's a waste of time. Not enough data to go beyond conjecture."
Amanda didn't challenge that assertion, having heard once too often about the importance of achieving a critical mass of data points in order to reduce the number of thesis-killing
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variables. She liked that I'd been a technical trouble-shooter at the company before taking over R&D, but her interest in the particulars of the trouble-shooting process wasn't limitless.
"So what are you going to do?" she asked.
"Get more data. After I have this drink."
chapter
10
T he clock read 7:30 pm, but it looked like the middle of the night. I brought a little pocket flashlight to guide my way down the center dock and around the side of the Black Swan to the front door. It was open, so I walked in.
There was a glow coming from the bar, along with the burble of voices. I announced myself before entering the room.
"Hey, Sam," said Anika. "What's up?"
The bar was well-lit by dozens of candles. It looked like the whole crowd was there, sitting around the tall bar tables which were covered in drinks and plates of food. Anika was wearing a little black dress and heels. Del Rey, on the other hand, now wore jeans and an oversized men's sweater. Her hair was in a ponytail, which would have revealed her whole face if she hadn't left a tuft of bangs to hang over her forehead and right eye.
't Hooft and Hammon wore short sleeved shirts, Hammon's a supple silk and 't Hooft's a polo with the logo of a Connecticut casino on the chest. Both had muscular arms, attached to contrasting body types. Hammon was all veiny sinew and 't Hooft resembled a long-legged sumo. They sat
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away from the others at a table with Christian Fey, with whom they were locked in deep conversation when I entered the room.
"Just checking on everyone," I said to Anika. "Heading for the disco?" I added, looking at her outfit.
"I can only get away with this when the lights are low," she said.
I was glad the lights weren't all that low, and would have said so if I hadn't wanted to discourage what that comment might elicit.
"We'd planned on installing a generator," she said. "Just hadn't gotten around to it. How're you on the boat?"
"Fine. Plenty of battery power, and there's the engine. As long as we have fuel, we're good to go."
Axel, who'd been sitting with Del Rey, walked over.
"The worst of the storm is over," he said. "The wind's now dead east, and slipping toward the north. That'll pull in more high pressure air as the storm front moves off the coast."
"And that's your weather report from WAXL, Fishers Island, New York," said Anika.
"She thinks I'm a dork," he said.
"You are a dork. Dorks rule the world."
He smiled. They'd had this exchange before.
"They do," he said, convincingly.
"Sam's a dork himself," said Anika, "he just doesn't want you to know it."
"Hardly ruling the world. Quite the contrary."
"Okay, former dork," she said.
"I could never memorize pi beyond a few dozen digits," I said.
Axel looked at his sister.
"I could go on forever if I wanted," he said.
"Good memory," I said.
"I don't memorize, I calculate."
"So why don't you want to, go on forever?" I asked.
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"I'm done with the freak show," he said. "It's no different than the boy with two heads, or the bearded lady. They stare at you in horror."
"Axel can do things like tell you which day of the week you were born on. Rain Man stuff," said Anika. "For which people call you an idiot."
"Must come in handy when you're writing software," I said.
"You don't 'write software,' " said Axel, disgusted. "You develop code. The words matter. All software is code. It's not a fucking story that you write, like Alice in Wonderland."
"Watch the language," said Anika, frowning at Axel.
"You're not a freak, Axel," said Del Rey, joining the conversation. "You're a genius. I heard the whole thing," she said to me. "Got ears like a cocker spaniel."
Axel looked ple
ased by her defense.
"Chris had him working at Subversive when he was just a little boy," she said. "Ultra-illegal of course, though it's not like child slavery. Axel loved being there. So did Annie," she added, using the long 'a' as in Anika. "We all babysat for them, at work and home. Made it feel like a family business. We were like family," she said, in the insistent way you do when someone had once disputed your assertion.
"A family like in Addams," said Axel.
"Del Rey still works in the shop," said Anika. "She does quality assurance for the boneheads in development. Catches all their screw-ups."
"Not all," she said. "I can be pretty boneheaded myself. Good thing the boss's sleeping with me."
She looked at Anika and Axel as if expecting to be refuted, but they were silent.
"This is the longest I've ever spent in conversation without a drink. Do you still have ice?" I asked Anika.
She smiled at me and strolled over to the bar, narrowly avoiding multiple collisions between her hips and the bar
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furniture. I got the feeling that little black dress had seen its share of underlit rooms.
"She's so cute," said Del Rey. "And Axel, stop looking. She's your sister."
Axel spun 180 degrees on his bar-stool and folded his arms like a rebellious child. Del Rey shook her head and whispered in my ear, "A mother would've helped."
Anika brought me a vodka on the rocks in a half-gallon cocktail glass. Then we all toasted the Black Swan and its steadfast defiance of inclement weather.
"It got moved off its foundation in '38, so they just dug a new one where she sat," said Anika. "Better than the old. Since then the water-line's risen, so we might be moving her again."
"You call her 'she'—like a ship," said Del Rey. "I like that."
"She might be a ship if the water keeps rising," said Anika.
The conversation from there wandered a bit, as did my attention, which was drawn to the three men in the corner. Even in the candlelight it was clear a serious topic was at hand. Fey and Hammon both leaned out over the table till they were barely a foot from each other's face. 't Hooft sat back a bit, but listened intently.
According to the commentary we read at Gwyneth Jones' place, Derrick Hammon had contributed to the original N-Spock application. But soon after the company was established, he'd moved to the business side, leaving Fey to focus on technology. Sanderfreud had always been the financial guy, which included liaison with public and private investors. Watching the two men bend into their conversation, I wondered how big a hole the oversized Sanderfreud had left in the structure of their relationship.
This thought was interrupted by Anika handing me a stack of plates.
"I know you didn't get any of the food," she said, "but since you're standing there . . ."
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I followed her with a large load of used dinnerware down a hall guided only by the penlight I held in my mouth. In the kitchen, lit by dozens of candles and a few electric lanterns, she showed me where to unload.
"There's plenty of tenderloin in the big 'fridge," she said. "We'll only have to throw it out if the power doesn't come on by tomorrow."
"I'm all set."
She handed me another vodka, mysteriously transported in with the dirty dishes. She had a full glass of red wine.
"Tricks of the waitress trade," she said, toasting me.
"Do you know what's going on?" I asked her.
"There's a storm outside?"
"Why Hammon's here. Why Sanderfreud was sent for after Hammon arrived. What he's talking to your father about."
"Now there's a new level of nosiness. No, I don't know any of those things, but I have a guess or two, which are none of your business."
"It's about N-Spock 5.0," I said. "They're not ready to launch in January and they need your father's help. Or advice. Or something."
"How would you know that?" she asked.
"I'm not a professional interpreter of body language, but Hammon looked like he was trying to press a point and your father looked like he was resisting. He shook his head ten times to every one of Hammon's."
"Were you really innocent, or did you kill that guy in Southampton?"
"Googling are we?" I asked. "Nice try, but I'm impervious to distractions."
"Oh yeah?" she asked, taking one of the shoulder straps of the little black dress and slipping it over her shoulder, causing most of the supported breast to come into view.
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"I didn't kill him," I said. "The real killer confessed. That's a settled matter. Did Axel work on N-Spock 5.0?"
She frowned and pulled the strap back over her shoulder.
"My brother's off-limits."
"Jennifer Poole, the state police trooper who was investigating Myron's hanging was beaten nearly to death today. The coast guard had to evacuate her off the island, leaving us without a local police presence. In a storm. Poole was convinced Sanderfreud was murdered. Don't pretend you aren't sophisticated enough to grasp all the implications."
She cleared a space to sit on the counter where we'd dumped the dirty dishes. It took a couple hops, restrained by the tight dress, but eventually she made it. I leaned against the opposite wall and nursed the vat of vodka.
Anika used her fingers to brush back her shiny black hair.
"My father created N-Spock and knew everything there was to know about the application. But as you well know, the people who create things are rarely the ones who benefit financially from their creativity. That goes to the people who buy and sell their work. The business people, the money people. Still, my father is a rich man, richer than he needs to be to live the way he wants. So what's the point in being some asshole's workhorse for the rest of your life? Why not get out while you can still enjoy the fruits of your labor? That's what he did."
"Obviously not out far enough," I said.
"You'd have to ask him about that. He's still my father. Only tells me what he wants to tell me."
I downed most of the heroic glass of vodka, and put the glass on the counter.
"I need to get back to the boat. If you need me for anything, don't hesitate."
"You realize the irony in that statement."
I crossed the distance between us and kissed her on the cheek, then left the hotel by the French doors in the back.
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It was still tempestuous, but true to Axel's prediction, the corner was turned. The part of me on edge because of the storm let go, filling me with a soothing calm. Looking back on the Swan, it was still dark and uneasy. Ahead, the portholes of the Carpe Mañana were aglow, and I caught just the hint of movement aboard, probably Amanda fussing around the cabin, fixing up plates of unannounced delectables, scrunching around Eddie's sensitive jowls and otherwise enjoying an existence that was far from predestined and the source of constant revelation.
I headed in that direction.
The next morning was sharp and brilliant as the edge of a razor. At 7:00 am the sky was a deep blue, cloudless and unperturbed. For some reason, the wind had missed the memo, and was still blowing with unabated wrath. I'd seen this before with autumn storms, beautiful deceptive killers.
I pulled myself out of the quarter berth and checked the instrument panel. Shore power was still out, but the batteries were barely tapped. I flicked on the gas valve and fired up the stove for coffee. When I poured the boiling water into the plastic French press, over a mound of Costa Rican select, Amanda stirred.
"Could you pour some of that down my throat?" she asked.
For Eddie, the smell of coffee portended a different experience. He waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the companionway while I put on whatever clothes were within reach. Now familiar with his surroundings, he made a beeline to a cluster of hydrangea at the back of the Swan, into which he disappeared just long enough to take care of things, then ran back down the center dock.
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