"No, idiot! You didn’t miss a section of the form, you filed a possible homicide when you should have filed a false alarm report!"
"Well, sir, the witness…"
"Was obviously some drunk college kid. Dead bodies don’t get up and walk away leaving no trace of blood behind!"
"Well, I figured she just made a mistake about whether he was dead or still kicking…"
"More likely she made a mistake about whether there was a body at all. Fix this screw up, Franken. Change this report to a false alarm."
He knew better than to argue. He stood up, promised to make the change, and headed for his desk.
***
Wind scratched at the windows of his fifth floor office, wanting to get in. D.W. Tilman was not a man given to staring out windows, but as Wednesday evening became Wednesday night, it seemed appropriate.
He didn't like to be in this late if he didn't have to. Many executives allowed their position of power to capture them, but Tilman didn't count himself among that number. Leaving his office at five or even before was one of the perks he felt entitled to, given that he owned the company.
But today was different. Very much so.
One of his employees died today; a computer programmer. The man went up to the roof of the building to smoke a cigarette. He did that four times every working day. This time, though, he made a wrong step and fell more than fifty feet to his death. Tilman sighed.
The man's name had been Ivan Krupotnik, a Russian programmer. Tilman spotted the man's talent in a few programs he'd written and distributed for free over the Internet. He'd offered Krupotnik a very generous salary and an expedited employment visa, bringing him to the United States.
Krupotnik never made many friends in the company or in the country. His few social contacts had been Internet relationships, people he chatted with over thousands of miles. The fact that he'd been a Russian national severely complicated his death.
Naturally, the entire company had been in a state of shock all day. Between that and the necessity of dealing with the bureaucratic machinery with which modern society handled untimely death, he'd gotten nothing done on several projects that merited his attention. And staring out the window wasn't helping.
With one more sigh, he turned around and stared at his computer screen. Thursday – tomorrow – he'd testify before the House Judiciary Committee about the product he was selling to the NSA. This hearing was key to the program’s success. If he could put to rest some of the privacy concerns tomorrow, then next Monday’s breakfast meeting with the same members would go like clockwork.
It didn't help that Krupotnik had been the heart of the GigaStar program. Had he lived, he and Tilman would have spent the afternoon going over questions he might be asked by the Congressmen, and possible responses. Instead, Tilman had spent the afternoon dealing with his death, and now he had to prepare for the questions without the guidance of the man who knew the project best.
And there weren't others he could turn to, either. The problem with being a government contractor was that much of the work done by his company was classified. The government – and especially the NSA – took classification very seriously. In most cases, one employee wouldn't even know what another was working on. None of the other employees knew the GigaStar program like the guy who made it work.
Oh, Krupotnik had a supervisor, of course. She knew what he'd been doing. But only in the supervisory way, not like the guy who'd actually done the work. So she wouldn't be any help.
Tilman uttered a mild oath and got to work.
***
"I saw someone die last night, Michael."
The Congressman leaned forward in his chair and laid his hand over Kathy’s. "Oh, Kathy, that’s horrible! What happened?"
"I was coming home from here and he got shot right in front of me. I ran up to see if I could help, and he gave me a flash drive and then died. It was so awful! There was blood everywhere, all over him and the sidewalk… I nearly puked. Somehow I ran home to call an ambulance. When I came back, the cops and EMTs were there, but no body. He was totally gone – no blood on the sidewalk or anything. It was like he’d never been there. The cops practically accused me of calling a false alarm, and my roommate was half way to thinking I was crazy."
Michael patted her hand. "That’s terrible. I’ve never seen someone die right in front of me before."
Kathy nodded, and took a sip of coffee. He’d had another vodka waiting for her when she came back, but she didn’t feel like drinking. It was hard to even hear Mike over the thumping bass of the music, and idly she turned her eyes to the dance floor. She sighed and turned back to Michael.
"To make matters worse, today our dorm room was broken into. It was so awful! They totally ransacked everything, and all our junk was all over the floor, and my roommate’s computer was smashed up… it was just the worst."
"Why would they smash up the computer?" Michael asked. "Normally thieves would take something like that. Did you guys have a lot of money in the room that they stole instead?"
She shook her head. "As far as I can tell, nothing at all is missing. Though Colleen might have found something after I came down here"
"I’m surprised you even came in to work after a night and day like that. But what I can’t get over is that no one commits breaking and entering for fun. Something must have been taken."
"I don’t know what it was, though, Michael. Seriously, I don’t have much that’s valuable, but what there is was still there when I left."
He eased back in his chair and closed his eyes. Kathy leaned forward, peering at him. She tilted her head a bit. "What are you thinking?"
"I’ve probably been in politics too long, is what I’m thinking,"
"What do you mean? I thought you said this was your first term in office."
Michael smiled at her. "Yeah, but I worked on other people’s campaigns before I ran my own. Anyway, what I mean is that I’ve got this crazy, paranoid thought forming up in my head that sounds like Watergate, but not like the real world."
"Well, tell me." Kathy clutched his hand in hers and stared at him, waiting.
"Let’s start with you telling me more about that flash drive you got from the dead guy."
A blonde girl walked up behind Kathy and leaned over her shoulder. "Lunch is over in five minutes Kathy, and I need you to cover me."
Kathy grumbled. "I’ll tell you when I get off shift tonight, Mike," she said, then stood up to follow her coworker back to the back room.
***
The night had been murder. Great tips, but she was feeling run off her feet when she got to the bar to pick up another tray of drinks. When the bartender gave her a note, her first instinct was to get mad at Michael. She’d told him she would talk to him after work…
But unfolding the piece of paper revealed a $100 bill and a question in unfamiliar handwriting.
"About that flash drive…" read the note. Kathy worked for tips, and as such she took a C-note seriously.
With a point from the bartender, she spied the customer at table eight, alone. He was of medium height and build, with dark brown hair. He wore a ratty three-day growth of beard. His dark eyes bored in on Kathy. Working as a waitress, she'd had creepy guys stare at her before, but this one felt different. Internally, she cringed just a little bit. Might be a pervert, she thought. It’s always so embarrassing when I have to call John.
"Hi, what’s up?" Kathy asked as she sat down.
"You’re Katherine Kelver, and you have something I want."
Kathy lifted an eyebrow. "What?"
"That flash drive you picked up last night. I’d like to have it. I’ll pay you a lot of money for it."
Kathy simply stared with her jaw hanging down. "I… I don’t know what you’re talking about."
His hand clasped around her wrist in a deceptively gentle grip. Normally Kathy would have signaled for the bouncer instantly at something like that, but she was too stunned to even notice. "Of course you do. S
omebody gave you a flash drive last night. I want it. There’s no real need for you to know why, but I’m very willing to pay for it. Let’s say… a hundred thousand bucks. I think that’d take care of all your expenses for the next two years of college, plus a bit extra, wouldn’t it? You could quit your job."
"What’s on it?"
"Why do you need to know? It’s not yours to begin with, but since you have it you can collect a large fee for returning it to its proper owners. Isn’t that enough?"
His expression changed, a smiling mask sliding into place over his stare. "What do you say, Kathy? It’s a lot of money, and I know college is expensive. Why not bring me the flash drive?"
She stammered, her mind racing. It was a lot of money, and she could really, really use it, and the fact of the mysterious flash drive’s existence made it seem like the money might actually be real. But… "I don’t have it with me."
"Where is it?"
Kathy made stammering noises. She wasn’t sure what to say. After the break-in earlier today… "What business is it of yours?"
The smiling mask slipped out of place for just a moment, and the grip on her wrist tightened. "Trust me. It’s my business."
Kathy’s heart quickened. "Yeah, I…"
Another waitress picked that moment to interrupt. She leaned over Kathy’s shoulder. "You’ve got customers waiting for you," she said.
Kathy took advantage of the distraction to jump to her feet and run off toward the dressing room, whispering prayers. As she ran, she heard the man behind her call out, "There’s an easy way and a hard way!"
She caught her breath for a few minutes before heading out to deliver a backlog of drinks that had accumulated while she’d been listening to rat-face. As soon as she hit a place where she could take a few minutes, she hurried over to Mike’s table. She’d promised him a talk after work – that was apparently enough incentive to keep him here and buying drinks all night.
She plopped down in the seat next to him, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, "Did you see that guy I sat down to talk to?"
A shade of pink started at his neck and rose up to his cheeks. His eyes fell down to his lap. "Yeah, I saw. Hard not to feel a little… I know, I know, I shouldn’t. But…"
She shook her head, waving that issue aside. "He offered me a hundred thousand bucks for that flash drive you were asking me about!"
Michael stared at her.
"And that’s not all! He threatened me too, if I didn’t take the money. What should I do, Michael?"
He shook his head. "I can’t even believe I might have been right. This is too weird. But listen, Kathy, don’t do anything final with him until you and I have had a chance to talk about it at more length. Will you let me buy you a late night cup of coffee when you get off tonight?"
She smiled and patted him on the hand. "OK, OK, you win. You’ve got an unfair advantage tonight. Yes, I’ll have a cup of coffee with you."
The bartender had had another note for her, but Kathy wasn’t going to take that risk again. She beckoned the bouncer over with a crooked finger. "I don’t want to see the guy at eight anymore," she said. "Tell him to get out."
John Lincoln nodded with a frown and set out for table eight. A former college football player who’d tried and failed to make it into the NFL, he’d taken this job just to keep the bills paid until he could find something better to do. But after three years he was still here, mostly because he hadn’t always been the kind of man who helped maintain order, and this job was helping him become better.
Intimidation described John’s job to a T, and he looked the part.
When they walk, some people pull in on themselves, keep their limbs close to their body, and take up less space. Not John. His hands constantly balled into fists and then relaxed – a subconscious tic. With every step he claimed territory. He shaved his head completely bald, and he still had the biceps that come from playing football. His whole T-shirt filled up and stretched out with various muscle groups, and he worked all of them every day at the gym.
His career before the Neon included those NFL tryouts and strip joint bouncing. Along the way he'd also gone through some tough years that he didn't like to talk about; the evidence showed in scars on his cheek and his forearm.
Arms crossed over his chest, he walked up to table eight wearing a big scowl. "You’ve had enough."
The man stared back at him. John looked him over and decided he outweighed this jerk by maybe fifty pounds. He was also at least six inches taller. Easy fight. He met the man’s eyes.
The eyes changed his mind. There was something cold there. The customer stared back at John without a hint of fear. Something dark flickered across his face. "If that’s the way she wants it," he said. Then he stood up and walked out.
John shrugged and walked back away from the table.
The evening passed. Trying to keep up with partiers and their desire for booze made it possible for Kathy not to think about the events of the past day until two in the morning. John the bouncer poked his head into the lounge and waved for her to come out. "That politician guy at table 15 is hanging around, says he’s waiting for you. That true? Or should I kick him out?"
She smiled. "He’s waiting for me, John, don’t worry. What’d table eight say when you told him to get out?"
John shrugged. "Just, ‘If that’s the way she wants it.’"
Kathy suppressed a shiver. She knew what that meant. It was "the hard way" he had mentioned earlier. Well, she’d get it all sorted out with Michael.
She smiled at the bouncer. "Thanks John. Tell Michael I’ll be out in just a bit."
Later, clad more comfortably in jeans and a T-shirt with a bulldog on the front, she eased herself into the chair across from Mike at his table. "So. Where are we going?"
"Oh, I don’t know, we’ll just pick a little all night coffee shop, unless you have a preference."
"Nah. But listen, there’s a problem. I don’t want to sleep at home – at first because of the break-in, but after that guy tonight I’m doubly not wanting to. So I need to be back here in an hour before they finish closing, so I can sleep in the employee lounge."
Michael snorted. "You can’t sleep here! Let me get you a hotel room."
"Oh come on, Michael! Coffee is one thing but I never said…"
"No, no, I didn’t mean that. I’m not planning to sleep there myself. But I just don’t want you to have to sleep on some ratty old couch."
Kathy said, "I won’t lie, a hotel bed sounds a lot nicer." They walked out of the Neon.
They had gone about ten paces down the sidewalk when two men moved into formation on either side of them. Kathy felt a cold, metallic touch pressed into her side. For a girl who had never held one, she was surprised how easy it was to figure out what the barrel of a gun felt like.
CHAPTER 3
"You both need to just keep walking quietly." The man on Kathy’s right spoke, and her head flicked over to him. He wore black clothing, baggy fatigue pants and a similar shirt. Over it was a thick, intimidating bulk that had to be a bulletproof vest. His face was the same bearded face she’d seen in the club.
"What is this?" Michael asked. The amazing thing was, the guy on Kathy's right looked familiar somehow.
Another man pressed a gun into his side, derailing that train of thought.
The bearded man on Kathy’s right spoke softly to her. "I want that flash drive, young lady. It’s a shame you had to have the bouncer throw me out."
Cold beads of sweat popped out on Kathy’s forehead. In her chest, she felt her heart pick up speed. The events of the last night and today rushed through her mind, all of them culminating in the short man with the unshaven jaw who said, "There’s an easy way, and a hard way." Oh, there was a hard way, all right, and it involved anonymous men pointing guns at her. The same panic she’d felt when she’d first saw the shooting came back in full force.
A lump rose in Kathy’s throat as she felt the hot surge of adrenaline through her veins.
She stammered as she spoke.
"I don’t have it OK? I gave it to my roommate because she’s the one who knows about computers anyway."
"Oh that is truly unfortunate," said the man beside her.
Silently she fumed as she and Michael were marched forward. In front of her, she watched a nondescript van pull to the curb and open a side door.
But the real action was behind her, not in front. Kathy only saw it as a shadow racing through her peripheral vision, but in the next second something large and beefy slammed into the man next to her. He tumbled to the ground. Kathy looked down to see John the bouncer grappling with one of the gunmen.
Bedlam erupted in the same second, before Kathy could even wonder where John had come from. Michael pulled his arm free of the man on his side and threw himself at Kathy, trying to place his body between her and the gun he’d been facing. But Kathy was trying to parlay John’s attack into a full-fledged victory, and tried to lunge at the man who’d been guarding Mike. The result was that all three of them went down to the pavement in a heap.
In the tumble of arms and legs all of Kathy’s wildly flung fists either went wild or landed on the wrong target. The best thing that could be said of the situation was that their attackers played under the same handicap she did. In the midst of trying to land a good punch to the black-clad-man’s head, though, her hand instead came to rest on the barrel of his gun. With a jerk she yanked it free, and that changed everything.
Recognizing his danger, the attacker made a frantic effort to throw Mike and Kathy off himself. When Michael rolled aside with a thump, though, it gave Kathy a much easier line of sight to his head. Since she still had the gun by the barrel rather than the handle, she hit his face with the butt end as hard as she could. His head slammed back against the pavement, and she struggled to her feet.
She rose just in time to see the reinforcements pouring out of the van. There were three of them, all dressed the same as their original attackers. The situation, the fear, the adrenaline – these guided her mind to places it would never have gone. It took her a second to get the gun straightened out in her hand, but when she did she pulled the trigger three times, waving the pistol in their general direction. She screamed after the third one, when she realized what she'd done.
Death of Secrets Page 3
