by K. A. Tracy
Ellen gazed at the yearbook, her eyes a sea of deep blue regret. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know where or how to begin.”
Sam brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “Just take your time.”
“What is going on here?” Lena demanded to know, standing in the doorway.
Sam and Ellen both jumped and sat back from each other, startled at the intrusion. When neither answered, Lena repeated the question. Sam looked at Ellen, whose eyes now filled with silent apology, and knew the moment had been lost. She didn’t want her pit bull assistant and long-time best friend to know what she was going to reveal.
Sam stood and faced Lena. “Not that it’s really any of your business but I needed to ask Ellen a couple of questions.”
“At this hour?”
“I have an early deadline tomorrow,” Sam lied. She picked up the yearbook and tucked it under her arm so Lena didn’t have a clear view of it. She glanced down at Ellen. “Thank you for taking the time.” She nodded at Lena as she walked past. “Good night.”
Ellen got up and followed her to the front door. “Can we please talk tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Sam saw Lena still watching them from down the hall. “Call me; maybe we can go for a drive.”
They exchanged silent goodbyes, but before Sam could walk away the door opened back up. Ellen came out and hugged her tightly, “Please don’t give up on me,” she whispered and impulsively gave Sam a lingering, emotion-fueled kiss on the mouth before running back into the house.
• • •
Disjointed and unsettled, Sam sat in her car, trying to get her mental bearings. She could still feel the touch of Ellen’s lips, the press of her body. She wanted to just stay there in her car and relive the sensations. But there’d be plenty of time to obsess later; right now she needed to concentrate on the work at hand and tried to decipher Ellen’s cryptic comments. What was Ellen trying to tell her? Maybe Lena had blackmailed Ellen all these years. But what did any of this have to do with the Crazy Horse and the black sedan? And why would any of these people be out running around in the middle of a desert?
Sam knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she went through the rest of Rydell’s bag and made an impromptu decision to go to the office. She drove with the top down, the tropical night air still warm. But dark clouds blotted out the stars, and a steamy breeze had begun to blow.
Even though Marlene gave her keys the first week she was hired, Sam had never been to the office after hours, much less late at night. The parking lot of the business center where the Weekender was located looked desolate and foreboding at this hour, with its limited lighting and the long shadows cast by palm trees bunched along the perimeter. Inexplicably edgy, Sam scanned the doorways as she walked to the building, the sound of the wheelie bag rolling over the asphalt obnoxiously loud.
She opened the outer door, which automatically relocked during non-business hours. Sam usually used the stairs, but the thought of the stairwell at night was not remotely appealing. She took the elevator to the second floor, acutely aware of each creak and groan.
“I am so creeping myself out,” Sam said, unsure where this self-torture was coming from.
Her unease dissipated once she was in the office with the door securely bolted behind her. She got a cup of ice and a Diet Coke from the refrigerator before sitting down at her desk. She put the yearbook and the birth certificate in her bottom drawer for safe keeping then opened Rydell’s bag to sort through the rest of his belongings. There were numerous newspaper articles, a half dozen computer software programs in packaging that had been opened, another flyer from Argo, an envelope with snapshots, a manila folder filled with some papers, a few mini DVDs, and a laptop.
Sam stretched her legs, knees and ankles cracking in protest, and reached for the newspaper articles. All dealt with the same subject, giving Sam a crash course on the growing problem of grand scale software counterfeiting. One Department of Justice official observed to The Washington Post, “Organized crime is now involved because the profit margins are as great as they are for drugs but with few penalties even if caught.”
The head of security for the world’s largest computer software enterprise summed up the problem for the Los Angeles Times.
“Theft and leakage out of the supply chain are our greatest threats. Our current efforts to reduce piracy is focusing on areas such as replication plants, where stampers have gone missing, and recyclers, who sometimes resell ‘scrap’ products—overruns and other surplus product—which are then in turn sold on the black market. Also of great concern to the entire software industry is the theft of Certificates of Authenticity. Those are just like currency.”
After she finished reading, Sam reached for the stack of software, all copies of the same expensive business productivity program. She spread them out on her desk.
“You kept these for a reason. What was it?”
She examined the disks. At first glance, they appeared legitimate, until she turned the discs over and realized each disc had the identical identification number stamped on them. They were also missing hologram characteristics found on all modern disks.
“You’re all counterfeit,” she concluded triumphantly then sighed, “but so what?”
Jeff was certainly not the first person to buy illegal software. In looking at Argo’s flyer, which offered too-good-to-be-true prices on expensive brand name programs, it seemed obvious where he had gotten the fraudulent discs.
“But why buy so many copies of the same program?”
One obvious answer was that Rydell was turning around and reselling them for a fat profit. Nobility-schmobility, as Marlene would say. Sam repackaged the discs and set them aside along with the flyer, making a mental note to call Argo again tomorrow since he hadn’t returned her call from earlier today.
Next, she opened the packet of snapshots, digitals printed off a home computer. Sam spread them out and stared at pictures of parked cars. All were expensive sedans and all were parked in the same location with the license plates clearly visible. As she studied the pictures more carefully, one photo gave Sam a jolt—it was a black Lincoln Town Car.
She was reminded of being a kid and trying to work out the logic problems that came in crossword puzzle books. Cryptic statements of fact were given and you were supposed to figure out the problem based on pure deductive reasoning. Sam always found them frustrating because she inevitably missed one last leap of logic necessary to solve the problem completely. She felt a similar frustration now.
She rolled her head in a wide circle, beginning to feel very tired. But she wanted to finish before leaving. She got another soda from the coffee room and sat forward in her chair, afraid she’d doze off if she got too comfortable.
Inside the folder were letters from several top software manufacturers giving general instructions on how to file a claim of suspected piracy. On one of the letterheads was a green logo of interconnected letters, no doubt what Kylie saw him reading.
In a separate envelope was correspondence with the mega-brand whose counterfeited products Jeff had in his bag. The first was a glorified form letter.
Mr. Rydell –
Thank you for your inquiry. Yes, our company’s reward incentive remains in effect for anyone who supplies information leading to the arrest and conviction of those engaging in software counterfeiting and piracy. Naturally, the amount of the award depends on a number of factors. Please contact our security department for further details and information on how to file a report.
The next letter was more personal.
Dear Mr. Rydell –
This is to follow up on your phone call earlier today. After reviewing the matter with my supervisor, we would like to arrange for a representative from our security department to meet with you at your earliest possible convenience to review the documentation in your possession.
The last letter, sent from the Los Angeles regional office for the Department of Justice, was urgent in tone.
Mr. Ry
dell
This is to confirm our meeting on this coming Sunday. I need to reiterate that for your personal safety, we strongly advise that you cease any further information gathering at this time and let the proper authorities take it from here. Please contact me as soon as possible.
K. A. Mallory
Special Agent Digital Investigations
Sam noted the letter was dated just two days before Jeff’s murder and was confident the why of his death was answered in its three, short sentences. The discs in the bag were Rydell’s proof. So were the photos. He planned to turn in the people who sold him the counterfeit software and collect a large reward but something had gone horribly wrong. It seemed likely his adoption had nothing to do with his murder after all.
Sam’s first instinct was to tell Ellen, but it was well after midnight, too late to call. Plus, she didn’t want to take a chance of Lena eavesdropping. Needing to share the revelation with someone, she called her condo. Sam muttered a quiet curse when her voicemail answered, mentally kicking herself for neglecting to input Joe’s new cell phone number yet. She hung up and stared out the window into a wall of black, thinking. She needed to turn over the bag and its contents to Larson tomorrow, so she gathered up everything from her desk and made copies, which she added to Rydell’s file and put it back in her desk.
The last items from the bag were the laptop and two mini DVDs in jewel cases, labeled June and July. Sam turned on the computer and inserted the June DVD. There was no audio but the video feed said plenty.
On the screen was a wide-angle view of a warehouse, the camera moving towards the entrance. It took Sam a moment to make the connection; the video was taken with the spy pen camera Jeff had bought.
For the next hour she watched the inner workings of a major counterfeiting operation. Some segments showed rooms filled with cases of brand name software, movies, and music stacked to the ceiling, others showed disks being separated out from the original packaging by people she did not recognize. There were also shots of duplicating machinery.
In most of the video, it was apparent Jeff was walking next to somebody. Once or twice the person came into frame but only from the neck down, revealing little except his shirt and a gold pendant. She wondered if he had been working with an inside informant whose identity he wanted to protect, or if Jeff just didn’t want the person getting too close a look at the pen. Another thought nagged her. Who had she just seen wearing a chain? But her tired brain was drawing a blank.
Sam yawned again. “I really need sleep.”
She repacked the laptop in the wheelie bag and stashed it under her desk. She went to the supply room for an extra-large envelope and put the articles, pictures, program disks, letters, and DVDs in it, wondering why there wasn’t an August DVD. She stared at the software flyer for several moments before adding it to the other items and locking the envelope in her bottom desk drawer.
Sam leaned back in her chair and swiveled to the right so she could fully stretch out her legs. She gazed at the Olympic poster and its overlapping rings. It occurred to her that the shadowy Argo was similarly interconnected—to the Crazy Girl, to Jeff, to Money, and to illicit software.
Argo. Sam had to give him credit for picking such a catchy nickname. As a kid she dreamed of owning a golden retriever and naming it Argo in homage to Jason and the Argonauts. To this day she’d sit enraptured anytime she watched the DVD, especially the skeleton scene that took special effects guru Ray Harryhausen four months to film for just three minutes of screen time. Although Sam also loved Harryhausen’s other films, particularly the campy Clash of the Titans, in her opinion Jason was the best of his special effects extravaganzas—
“Fucking hell.” Sam stood up so abruptly that her chair tipped over backwards. She quickly did a mental double-take, standing with one hand propped against the desk and the other pressed against the side of her head as the pieces fell into place. “Holy shit.”
She picked up the phone and called home.
Hi, I’m not in right now…
“Dammit!” She looked at the clock. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Apparently Joe was making a full night of it. She waited for the beep. “Joe, it’s Sam. I’m still at the office, but I’m getting ready to leave. I think I know who killed Rydell.”
Just needing to hear it out loud, she gave Joe a quick rundown of her conclusions and was convinced she was right. “Anyway, we can talk about it when I get home.”
When she opened the building’s front door, droplets of rain splashed onto her face. The wind had kicked up considerably, and the back of Sam’s shirt whipped out like a flapping cape. As she stepped off the curb Sam spotted Joe’s rental turning into the driveway. Surprised, she stopped and watched him pull to a screeching stop behind her Eclipse.
“What are you doing here?” she called out when the car door opened.
But the gusting wind rustling through the palm trees was so loud she couldn’t hear if he answered her or not. She started walking toward the car but froze mid-step when Joe got out, brought his arms up, and pointed a gun directly at her.
Chapter Seventeen
“Stop where you are!” Joe yelled out.
Sam didn’t feel fear, just sheer bewilderment. Her thoughts were sparking in random, incongruous flashes. Where would Joe have gotten a gun? He hates the whole idea of hunting. More to the point, he knows how much I hate guns. When did Joe change into a black shirt? That’s got to be a toy gun. Maybe he had one drink too many, and this is his inebriated idea of a joke. But he sure doesn’t look drunk…
She held her hands out, palms up, in a display of incredulity. “Joe, what the hell are you doing?”
“Sam, move!”
Stop. Move. For God’s sake. Sam was losing her temper. “What the fuck is going on?”
At that instant, she realized Joe was actually looking past her. Before she could turn and follow his line of vision, a forearm grabbed her around the neck from behind. Her head’s lateral movement was stopped by the muzzle of a gun pressing into her temple. Sam felt an icy calm and the sense she was having an out-of-body experience. A loud roar whooshed in her ears. She initially mistook the sound for the swirling wind, but it was just blood rushing to her head.
Sam’s senses were on heightened overdrive, and she was keenly aware of everything around her. The cold metal against her skin, the smell of cologne coming off the arm gripping her, the apprehension in Joe’s eyes, the dryness in her mouth, the rain dotting the windshield of her car, the weight of the keys in her hand, the assailant’s hyper breathing. Time took on a dreamlike relativity. Her brain processed each sensation in methodical, slow-motion detail that in reality took only a fraction of a second. Einstein’s theory in living proof.
“Put the gun down,” Joe called out, holding his weapon steady.
“You’ve got that backwards. You put the gun down unless you want to see her brains all over the pavement.”
In Los Angeles, Sam had been on constant guard, ever mindful of her surroundings. But Palm Springs, with its resort quaintness and small town atmosphere, had lulled her into misguided complacency.
So fucking stupid.
She naively and carelessly underestimated her exposure by leaving her name on the message to Argo.
The second he heard me calling, he knew I was getting close even, if I didn’t.
She wondered how he had known she was at her office. “Have you been following me, Argo? Or do you prefer I call you George?”
George Manuel flexed his arm tighter around her neck. “You can be too smart for your own good, you know that?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been told that,” Sam responded, finding that talking provided a welcome distraction from the gun digging into her head.
“Well, it’s going to be the last.”
“Let her go,” Joe moved slowly to his left. “We can work something out for you.”
George yanked on Sam’s neck so hard he almost lifted her off the ground. “If you come any closer
I swear I will blow her head off. Put the gun down.”
Sam’s brain went momentarily AWOL, zoning out while the men with guns exchanged ultimatums. She couldn’t grasp why Joe was acting with such an aura of authority. Who was this we that was going to work something out? Sam considered her meager options. She was a brown belt in Ashihara karate, but the muzzle gouging her scalp was strong incentive to do nothing rash.
Apparently, Joe came to the same conclusion. “Okay, I’m putting it down.” Holding the gun out to the side, he leaned over and set it carefully on the ground.
“Slide it over to me,” George ordered. Sam wondered if a gun could go off skidding across the asphalt. “Now your car keys.”
Joe complied, and George steered Sam forward to where the gun and keys had come to rest. He abruptly pushed her away, the unexpected motion causing her to stumble painfully onto her knees. Joe rushed over to her while George picked up the second gun.
“Are you okay?”
She could feel blood sliding down the front of her leg. Rather than instill fear, the pain made her angry. And anger was an emotion she could function efficiently within. “I’m fine,” she said, rolling to her feet. She refrained from interrogating Joe, but her furious glare drilled the questions home.
“I’ll explain everything later,” he promised, sounding contrite.
“That’s assuming there is a later.”
George circled so they were between him and the front of Sam’s office building. He turned his head to watch a car drive past on Palm Canyon, the driver oblivious to the drama unfolding. He motioned towards Sam’s hand. “Throw those keys over here.” She reluctantly obeyed, tossing them at Manuel’s feet. He put them in his pocket then pointed to the side of the building. “Start walking.”
“Where we going?”
“Don’t you ever stop asking questions? Shut the fuck up and move.”
The rain was now coming down in a steady mist, turning the dark night into a murky haze. He herded them around the building and parked in back was the black Lincoln Town Car. George popped the trunk using his key remote. “Okay big guy, get in.”
