by Meryl Sawyer
Phillips smiled blandly. “So?”
“I don’t want to go back there. My father’s not well. He’s all the family I have. I need to stay close to him.”
Phillips nodded. “I didn’t realize. I certainly understand.”
“I’ll be working on stopping botnets.”
“Say what?”
Sometimes Ryan forgot three-quarters of the people he met used computers but didn’t know squat about how they operated. “Botnets. Masses of computers like yours or your kid’s that are secretly hijacked. Hackers send messages through those computers without the owners ever realizing it. Those messages can send spam or denial of service attacks that overwhelm Web sites.”
“Ya mean like what happened to Twitter a while back?”
Ryan nodded and swigged the last of his coffee. “Exactly. So much traffic is sent to a site that it shuts down. Denies service. Not a major problem if you’re Twitter, but if you’re a bank or brokerage or business, it can be a disaster.”
“Jeez-a-ree. Terrorists or spies could also use it.”
Ryan put down his empty cup. “That’s what I want to stop. I’ll be willing to consult with the Bureau and just charge a base fee, but I’m not moving back east right now.”
“Think you can solve the problem?”
“Not really. The true problem is the Internet was developed as an experiment by the military. It wasn’t perfected, but it was so good that business latched on to it. And it took off big-time. The infrastructure supporting the system hasn’t had an upgrade since the mid-eighties. That’s a recipe for disaster.”
“Russia and a buncha’ those ‘stan’ countries have packs of hackers sitting all day trying to tap into the Pentagon’s system.”
“I know. It’s a huge problem for the government, for business. And getting bigger every day.” Ryan grinned at Ed. “Of course, you’ve never forwarded a chain letter e-mail. Have you?”
“Naw. Hate those things.”
“Even if it’s a good joke or supports cancer awareness or recognizes the importance of God and it comes from someone you know?”
“Well, I mighta,” Ed admitted. “Some jokes are just too good.”
“That’s another part of the problem. Chain messages often have hidden tracking cookies. It gives the original sender a whole new list of e-mail addresses for spam or a botnet.”
“Yow-zer. That’s butt-ugly. Guess I’m not forwarding anything.” He finished his coffee. “Are the Bureau’s computers safe? I’m told they are.”
“Yes. They’re encrypted. That means they’re harder to hack into—but not impossible. I’m looking forward to working on this exclusively.”
Phillips smiled. “And here I thought you were quittin’ because you’d fallen for Hayley Fordham.”
It was all Ryan could do not to flinch as if he’d been slapped. “You’re good. I’ll give you that. How did you know?”
Phillips shrugged and ran a hand through his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. “Your father, her aunt. You askin’ about the plane crash that killed Hayley’s parents. Her turning up, saying she’d been alone in some guy’s place before she came to the police. I figured she contacted her aunt, met you and somethin’ else went on before she came to the police.”
“You’re close. Real close. I did know she was alive.” Ryan decided to leave it like that. He trusted Phillips, but thought it best if no one knew the facts. “But she’s not the reason I’m resigning. I’ve been thinking about it. Now’s the time—while my father is still alive.”
“Okay by me.” Phillips stood up. “I contacted the Bureau. They’re looking at several pieces of the wreckage from the crash that killed the Fordhams. The whole shebang was in a warehouse in Riverside. When I get a report, I’ll call you.”
Ryan rose, glancing at his watch. What was keeping Hayley? “I owe you.”
“Don’t worry. When I need a computer guy, I’ll call you.”
Phillips started to walk toward his car, but Ryan stopped him, saying, “I know why you haven’t gotten rid of your accent.”
“Get out!”
“Jist so’z ya’ know,” he mimicked Ed. “You didn’t want to be promoted. You like living in L.A. You don’t want to go back east any more than I do.”
Phillips aimed a finger pistol at his head and fired. “You got me!”
FARAH WAITED AT A SMALL table on the sidewalk outside Café Panini for Trent. He’d called her and insisted she meet him as soon as possible. He’d said not to come to the store because of all the reporters. She watched him drive up in his sleek Porsche and let the valet take the car.
“What’s happening?” she asked the second he sat down.
“Hayley came to see me.”
A wave of apprehension swept through Farah, heightened by the troubled expression on her brother’s face. “She’s not in hiding?”
“Nope.” Trent signaled the waitress for coffee and Farah nodded that she would have the same. “She thinks it was a mistake. She assumes she’s safe.”
For a moment, she was too surprised to do more than nod. “Hayley was never the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
“No. That was you.” Trent’s words were laced with sarcasm. “You were always the smart one.”
“So you couldn’t tell me this over the phone? You had to drag me all the way here?”
“I don’t trust phones. They’re too easy to bug.”
The waiter appeared and they both ordered turkey paninis. Farah waited until the girl had left before speaking. “There are parabolic microphones that can pick up conversations from waaay off.”
Trent leaned closer, whispering, “That’s why I wanted to come here. I checked on the Internet. Heavy background noise like waves and—” he gestured toward the cars streaming by on the Coast Highway “—traffic sounds make it impossible to hear if people are speaking in low voices.”
Farah though her brother was becoming increasingly paranoid, but then he’d never been really brave. Oh, he thought he was so macho for his high-flying skateboard tricks and riding monster waves, but when it came to real courage, he was a zero.
“Hayley hasn’t a clue,” Trent told her, his voice still pitched low. “She’s going to ask her aunt for the money to save Surf’s Up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No way. She doesn’t want Laird McMasters to get a piece of dear ole Dad’s business.”
Farah’s body vibrated with silent laughter and she put a hand over her mouth. It was a moment before she could ask, “How did you manage that?”
Her brother flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “I don’t know. I guess I’m a better actor than I ever imagined. Son of a bitch! I was so surprised to see her that I didn’t know what to do.
“I hugged her to buy time, then thought what would I do and say if this had been you back from the dead. I went with it. All tenderness and astonishment. It worked. I even managed—hell knows how—to tear up. She bought it and I took it from there.”
Farah decided she should have given her brother more credit. She might have it over him in the brains department but he had the same intuitive way of reading people that their mother had. And fooling them.
“Great. You’re the best.” She toasted him with her water glass. “I guess you’re thrilled to dodge Laird—again.”
“You got that right. He’s gonna be pissed. He’s always wanted to get his hands on Surf’s Up.”
“What if Hayley can’t talk her aunt into loaning the money? That old bat didn’t make millions because she’s dumb.”
“True, but she has a soft spot for Hayley.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“YOU WHAT?” MEG AMBOY cried. She simply couldn’t believe her niece was standing there telling her that she’d waltzed into Surf’s Up this morning. “Didn’t Garver Browne say not to go anywhere? You were supposed to hide. Even I don’t know where you’re staying or what your new cell phone number is.”
“That was last night. I spoke with him this morn
ing. The whole thing is a case of mistaken identity.” Hayley sounded confident, but Meg wasn’t buying it. “The ATF proved the bomb had been made by the Sinaloa cartel. I’ve never had anything to do with drugs. Obviously, the car bomb was intended for someone else.”
Meg gulped. “You can’t be serious. You asked me who I thought was behind the bombing. I said the Fordhams and you agreed.”
“That’s true, but in light of the discovery of the origin of the bomb, I think it rules them out.”
“Think again! You may not be involved with drugs but Trent or his sister could be.”
“Trent gave me his word that he hasn’t.”
“His word.” Could this be her Hayley? What was she thinking? Meg drew in a breath and attempted to relax. She reminded herself that when she rose from bed yesterday, she would have given everything she had to have Hayley back.
They were standing on the balcony of Meg’s suite. She gazed out at the magnificent stretch of coastline visible from her balcony. When it came to nature’s marvels, people were insignificant.
Hayley lightly touched Meg’s arm. “Let’s sit down.”
Meg lowered herself into one of the two wicker chairs where she often sat drinking her morning coffee or enjoying the sunset with Conrad. No doubt this car bombing had been a life-altering experience for Hayley. It came less than a year after her parents had been killed, which had been followed by Chad’s betrayal. No wonder Hayley wasn’t thinking clearly.
Hayley turned to Meg; her niece’s eyes were more hazel than green under the awning that shaded the balcony, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in them. “Trent had nothing to do with this. I’m positive. When he saw me this morning, he hugged me and there were tears in his eyes. He acted just the way he did after Daddy died.”
Meg was sure he did. Splitting the estate in thirds rather than in half was enough to make a grown man cry. She tried to think of how to respond, since her niece obviously didn’t perceive the situation the way she did.
“I know you’re concerned, but I don’t want you to worry. We’re taking precautions.”
We? Surely she hadn’t forgiven Chad Bennett. That cheater was never good enough for Hayley, but befriending her now could persuade soft-hearted Hayley to forgive him. She kept her face neutral—she hoped—asking, “We?”
“Ryan Hollister. You and Conrad asked him to help me. He’s been great.” Her words were infused with a slight tinge of excitement.
Something’s going on between them, Meg thought, pleased. She knew they’d be a perfect couple. All they needed was time to discover it for themselves. “What precautions are you taking?”
“I’m still not telling anyone where I’m staying or giving out my new cell number.”
“Why not, if you’re positive the bombing was a mistake?” Meg challenged, but took care not to sound too critical.
“Ryan says…just in case the police are wrong, I shouldn’t be an easy target.”
This was straitjacket territory, Meg decided. Either that or she was truly succumbing to senility. Why half hide? It was like being half pregnant. Either you were or you weren’t. Something else was going on here. She’d had this feeling since Hayley had first returned from the dead.
Hayley stood up, took two steps forward, and clutched the balcony railing with both hands. Facing the sea, Hayley said, “We’re going to lose Surf’s Up if I don’t do something.”
A jumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed Meg. What was really going on here? How could Surf’s Up be lost? Hayley seemed stronger now, yet different. Had Ryan caused the change or was it escaping death while losing a close friend?
Meg concealed her inner turmoil with a deceptively calm voice. “What do you mean? Is the company in trouble?”
Hayley turned to face her. “Yes.” Her voice echoed her concerned expression. “We need money so much that we may have to accept Laird McMasters as part owner.”
“Really?” Meg was astonished. Surf’s Up had been a cash cow. It had supported Russell Fordham’s whole family. Some of its products were sold in sport shops around the country. True, Alison had been the brains behind the business, but it had been less than a year since they died. “What happened?”
Hayley sat down again and gazed steadily at Meg. “It’s my fault.”
Strange and disquieting thoughts began to race through Meg’s mind. This had to be financial and she’d bet her life it was Trent’s problem. “It can’t be your fault. You’ve just been filling in for your mother—designing.”
“I should have been watching the books the way my mother did.” There was no mistaking the self-deprecation in Hayley’s voice.
“I thought Trent had a handle on things. It seemed to me he was more interested in the business than his father. Without your mother’s encouragement Russell would have spent the last twenty-five years in a garage making boards, not building a famous company.” Meg had never spoken disparagingly of Russell. After all, the man had been Hayley’s father.
“My father and mother contributed a lot. Not just to their shop but to the whole culture. When they started, no one knew much about surfing. Now you can go to any town in the Midwest and find Surf’s Up merchandise.”
Meg had to admit that surfing had certainly taken off since her sister married Russell Fordham, but she wasn’t sure she would give them much credit. They rode a wave that had already formed—thanks to others.
Hayley must have detected the skepticism in Meg’s expression. She continued, “It’s not just the clothes or the boards. It’s a style of life that’s caught on even where there’s no ocean to surf.”
“The big breakthrough was Nagano,” Meg added, recalling those winter Olympics clearly because she’d been lucky enough to attend them. “Skateboarding was featured for the first time. After the games, your father couldn’t produce and ship boards fast enough. As I recall, Nagano also caused a revolution in surfing. Surfers saw the fancy tricks skateboarders were doing and began trying them, which called for new surfboards.”
Happiness shone in Hayley’s eyes for the first time since her return. “My parents were part of a cultural revolution. Outlines of three waves, the last one being three times bigger and the words Surf’s Up became a brand magnet. We’re about to blow everything they worked so hard to make happen.”
Meg had never thought about it in quite these terms, but Hayley was right. Alison—her little sister—had been part of something larger, more important. Of course, it would have happened without them, but they had been prime movers.
“When I was in Costa Rica painting the mural, I took a break one afternoon because it was unbelievably hot. The hotel isn’t open yet so the air-conditioning wasn’t running. At the beach, I saw a teenage girl wearing board shorts. I recognized the pattern,” Hayley said, the threat of tears in her voice. “My mother and I designed it together at least fifteen years ago. The fabric had faded but the logo with the three waves and the words Surf’s Up in brilliant blue were still as bright as the day someone purchased those board shorts.”
“I know. I’ve seen your mother’s designs all over the world.” Meg was grateful that she’d taken the time to travel when she’d been younger. Now she was just an armchair tourist.
“I don’t want Surf’s Up to be ruined because Trent made a simple mistake, then the economy tanked. This is like a rogue wave. We can ride it out and reinvent the business.”
“Reinvent? I think the wave has—how do you say it?—clamshelled. There will always be surfing and a certain number of boards and clothes will sell, but I think it has run its course.”
“Maybe,” Hayley conceded, “but I have some ideas. Mixed Martial Arts is just taking off and Southern California is the epicenter just as it was for surfing. My designs for The Wrath are booming despite the weak economy.”
Meg frowned; she hadn’t known much about MMA until she’d met The Wrath, then watched a fight on a cable channel. Three rounds with barefoot fighters wearing lightly padded fingerles
s gloves and trying every move imaginable from boxing punches to jujitsu moves disgusted Meg. There was no escape for the fighter. The ring was octagonal and enclosed completely in chain link. A human cockfight, the announcer had called it. The description fit to her way of thinking.
“I find it barbaric.” Meg knew she sounded old-fashioned, but she couldn’t help it. Suddenly, the world seemed to be moving faster than ever—and beyond her understanding.
“Violence has always sold,” Hayley commented. “Right back to the Romans watching the Christians battle lions for entertainment. It’s a testosterone thing. Male bonding.”
Meg couldn’t stifle a laugh. “You may be onto something. I watched one MMA fight and the announcer said it’s a billion-dollar-a-year business, which I found hard to believe. But I checked it on the Internet and discovered he was correct.”
“I want to put MMA products in our store and market them with the surf/skate products that we sell to other companies. This Friday is the annual surf competition. We have a booth. I want The Wrath to be there along with some of his buddies to meet the kids.”
“Will you be selling MMA T-shirts and stuff?” Meg asked.
“Yes. We’re expecting huge crowds.”
It sounded hot and boring to Meg, but then, she’d never been one to stand around and watch surfers compete. Obviously, she was in the minority. She’d been to enough competitions with her sister to appreciate the huge crowds they drew. “Where does Laird McMasters fit in?”
Hayley rolled her eyes, then sat down beside Meg again. “I haven’t spoken with him. I honestly don’t want to have another partner. It’s hard enough for Trent and I to agree.”
Meg nodded; she understood completely. Early on in her career in commercial real estate, she’d taken in a partner. It had been a dreadful mistake. After she extricated herself, Meg didn’t purchase any property she couldn’t finance alone. “Don’t do it then.”
