Authors: Stephanie Bond
applications that management wanted to risk moving to a
more efficient, but untried, system.
“As you know firsthand,” McCormick said, “hackers are
becoming more and more sophisticated. We can’t expect
to secure the databases one hundred percent.”
“But you should at least encrypt the data,” Wesley replied.
“I can see we’re on the same page. It’s something we’ve
needed to do for a while, but we never seem to have the
time or the funding. Since you were able to breach our
security, you’re an ideal candidate to help us out in this
area.” The man cleared his throat. “But since we haven’t
been able to determine exactly what data you changed, I
was hoping that first you’d, um, share that with me.”
Wesley swallowed a smile. The man was asking him to
confess to things they hadn’t been able to detect? Right.
No one needed to know that he’d removed all references
to three speeding tickets for Chance—at five hundred
bucks a pop. And he’d left himself a nice easy trail back
into the file, kind of like dropping breadcrumbs, so he
could sell his services again sometime. That asshole cop
Jack Terry had arrested him and confiscated his
equipment, but the man didn’t know that Wesley had
stored his best computer stuff at Chance’s condo and was
just laying low until he was off probation.
“I didn’t change anything,” he said solemnly. “I just
wanted to prove that I could get in. I was hanging out with
a few other hackers and we got points for breaking into
different systems. It wasn’t about messing with the data.”
McCormick looked relieved. “That’s very good news.” He
passed a manual across the desk. “Okay, this should get
you up to speed on encryption techniques and two
different encoders that we have access to. Take a couple
of days to read it, then we’l sit down and come up with
some general guidelines on how to proceed.”
“Okay,” Wesley said, a little perplexed that the man would
be putting such an important job in his hands. It made him
feel oddly…responsible.
“See you in the morning, Wes.”
Wesley stood there for a few seconds, then attributed the
giddy feeling to the OxyContin. “See you in the morning.”
He left the building and noticed what a nice day it was—
everything seemed better on the little white pil s. He was
more in tune to his surroundings; his senses were more
keen. He rode his bike to the courthouse and forked over
the last of his cash as a payment on his fine—the other
part of his sentence. Then he pedaled to Chance’s condo.
His friend was high as a kite, in a great mood. “Come on in,
man.”
The room was smoggy with pot smoke. A half-naked
woman lay curled up asleep on the living room rug.
“You want something to eat? I just had a pizza delivered.”
Wesley scooped up a slice. “I was hoping to practice a few
hands of poker.”
“Yeah, sure, just step over her.”
Wesley peered at the woman as he maneuvered around
her. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, she’s just stoned.”
“Who is she?”
“My economics teacher. I’m not going to need for you to
take that exam for me, after all.”
“Dude, at least cover her up.”
“She doesn’t know the difference. Hey, you stil banging
your attorney?”
“Occasionally.”
“Sweet. How’s your arm?”
“Better.”
“Need some more OC?”
Wesley hesitated. “I’d better not. My probation officer
sometimes takes a urine sample for drug testing.”
Chance laughed. “So what? Man, I can fix you up with a
blocker. You just pour it in your sample and it’s clean, like
that.” He tried to snap his fingers but missed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, man, I’m sure. I sel to lots of truck drivers, and
those guys have to get their whiz tested all the time.”
“I don’t have any cash.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Chance pul ed out a key ring and
unlocked a cabinet drawer, then pul ed out a smal bag of
white pil s. “Are you chewing?”
“Yeah. You were right—it’s good.”
Chance handed him the bag. “Don’t chew with alcohol, got
it?”
“Thanks.”
“Where did you disappear to all weekend?”
“I had a body run to Boca Raton.”
“Why Boca?”
“It was to pick up that celebrity chick, Kiki Deerling.”
Chance’s jaw dropped. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Did you get a look at her body?”
“Briefly.”
“Were her tits real?”
“I don’t know, man. All I saw was her face, and it was bad.”
“Bummer. She looked like a nice piece of ass. Speaking of
nice, why don’t you put in a good word for me with that
chain-gang woman your sister hangs out with?”
“Hannah?”
“Yeah, I really dig her.”
“She’ll dig you, too—a grave. Steer clear, man.”
“Get me a date with her and you can have another bag of
OC.”
Wesley hesitated, but the inducement of having yet
another bag of white pil s at his disposal was disturbingly
appealing. “I’l see what I can do.”
21
“Hannah, this is Carlotta. Did I ever tel you that when
Detective Jack Terry was here, he told me that he gets a
manicure regularly? I know your hands are always dry
from washing them so often with your catering job, so I
got the name of the cuticle cream he uses. Call me on my
cel if you want to chat.”
Carlotta put the cordless phone back into its cradle and
chuckled, wondering how long it would take for the bits of
made-up personal info to trickle down to Jack. Maybe it
was petty, but it was the only diversion she had at the
moment.
“Breaking news in the death of celebrity Kiki Deerling,” the
television announcer said.
Carlotta moved closer and turned up the volume.
“The medical examiner in the Boca Raton district has
issued his findings. Dr. Shore’s statement read that, quote,
‘After consulting with the attending physician at the
hospital where Ms. Deerling was treated, and after
performing a visual examination of the body, my
conclusion is that the cause of death is due to
complications from an asthmatic incident,’ unquote. There
was no mention of il egal substances. From the M.E.’s
report, we are left to believe that Kiki’s Deerling’s death
was simply an unforeseeable tragedy.”
“I guess that’s that,” Carlotta murmured, chiding herself
for wanting there to be more drama associated with the
starlet’s demise. The ex-boyfriend was official y off the
hook, although she suspected that rumors would always
connect him to the scandal, that some people would
accuse the family of a cover-up to hide Kiki’s drug use and
say that Matt Pearson had benefited from the conspiracy.
Footage rol ed of the squeaky-clean decoy van leaving the
morgue entrance, the pink bow on the antenna fluttering
in the wind. The caption read “Deerling’s body leaves Boca
Raton morgue.”
She smiled. At least most of the people had been fooled.
“Meanwhile, we’ve learned that a memorial service for
Kiki wil take place in Atlanta Wednesday afternoon at the
Motherwel Funeral Home in Buckhead. The service is
private—only for the family and close friends of Kiki—but
the public is welcome to gather outside in a parking lot.
There’s a rumor that Kiki Deerling’s ex-boyfriend Matt
Pearson wil sing a song at the service, but his publicist,
who was also Kiki’s publicist, has not yet confirmed it.
Afterward, the body wil be interred at the Deerling family
cemetery plot in Atlanta.”
Carlotta wondered what Kiki’s sister thought of Matt
Pearson performing at her sister’s funeral. Maybe Kiki’s
publicist had convinced the sister it was in everyone’s best
interests to play nice.
And what a blow to the publicist, to lose a cash cow like
Kiki Deerling. Hol ywood movers and shakers were
probably already convening all over town to establish the
next “it” girl who would assume Kiki’s role as partyer
extraordinaire and arm candy to the rich and dangerous.
Chances were good that the spoils would go to Kiki’s on-
again, off-again BFF, Naomi Kane. Naomi didn’t have
sparkle, but maybe it just looked that way because she
was always in Kiki’s shadow. Carlotta remembered that
the girl had gotten good reviews for her performance in an
independent film, but her acting career had never taken
off. She and Kiki were supposedly always squabbling about
something trivial, but Carlotta suspected most of it was
simply fodder for the publicity mil . And for that matter,
their friendship itself might have been one of those
choreographed partnerships dreamed up on an agent’s
dry-eraser board.
Carlotta clicked off the TV. “You have enough drama of
your own,” she reminded herself aloud.
She showered and dressed careful y, dreading her errand
and allowing her mind to wander. She hoped Wesley did
wel at his community service job—deep down she wished
it would make him start thinking about a career. He was so
damn smart. It was a shame he had so little ambition.
She sighed. Of course, in his mind, he had all kinds of
ambition—to win the World Series of Poker, for example.
She surveyed her outfit of swingy white skirt and royal-
blue Kay Unger long-sleeved tunic to help mask her arm
cast. The pair of Tory Burch silver ballerina flats that she
coveted would be a perfect complement, but she had
resisted the urge to splurge.
Not that she’d had much of a choice, with her Neiman’s
card maxed out. And after Wesley had dared her to cut up
al of her credit cards a couple of weeks ago, she was left
with one paltry Visa and one measly Mastercard, neither
of which could withstand the force of a shopping trip to
Target, much less the mall.
The Fendi patent leather rainbow flats would have to
suffice.
She left her hair loose, then chose a beige Valentino straw-
and-leather bag to add polish to her summery outfit. It
was last year’s bag, but Peter probably wouldn’t notice—
although the women he worked with would.
She walked to the Lindbergh MARTA station and rode the
train one stop north to the financial district in Buckhead.
From there it was a short walk to Mashburn & Tul y
Investments, formerly Mashburn, Tul y & Wren. Their
offices were housed in the Pinnacle Building, an iconic
structure with an awning of curved glass sloping over the
topmost floors, two of which housed Mashburn & Tul y.
As she rode up the elevator, Carlotta questioned once
again whether she should’ve called Peter first. But she’d
been afraid that when she said she needed to talk to him,
he would ask her out for a romantic dinner, or worse,
invite her to come to his house. And she wasn’t ready for
that yet, not with the engagement ring he’d had
customized for her hanging over her head.
She wished for the thousandth time that she could
separate her relationship with Peter from her father’s
impossible situation. But the two threads kept crossing
and doubling back on each other.
She stepped off the elevator and noted the subtle changes
since she’d last been here. When she was a teenager and
her father had serviced accounts of celebrity athletes and
other prominent people, he would sometimes allow
Carlotta to bring her autograph book and politely ask for
signatures. Her father had been an important man in his
own right, successful and gifted when it came to making
investments, wel -liked and respected. Everyone the media
had interviewed—coworkers and clients—had seemed
incredulous when he was accused of fraud.
Aside from her father’s name having been removed from
the glass doors, the corporate color scheme had changed
from browns to blues. A receptionist just inside pressed an
intercom button and asked if he could help her.
“Carlotta Wren to see Peter Ashford.”
“Is Mr. Ashford expecting you?”
“No.”
“Just a moment, please.” The man picked up the phone,
and after a few seconds a clicking noise sounded. “Come
in, Ms. Wren.”
She pushed open the heavy glass door and walked inside.
The place reeked of money, giving the impression that a
machine in the back room churned out hundred-dol ar
bil s.
“Mr. Ashford is coming out to get you himself.” The
receptionist’s tone was part curious, part impressed. “Nice
bag,” he added.
“Thank you,” she said self-consciously, until she realized
he was being sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
He smiled, revealing teeth so perfect that they made her
aware of the gap between her own front teeth. “I’m
Quentin Gallagher. And I couldn’t help noticing that your
last name is Wren. Are you related to Randolph Wren?”
“He was—is—my father,” she said, steeling herself for a
rebuke.
Quentin leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “I knew
you looked familiar—you’re the woman who fel from the
balcony of the Fox, aren’t you?”
She tapped her cast. “The one and only. But for the record,