Cyber Genius (10 page)

I dashed back-upstairs to the second-story study I’d turned
into my bedroom. When we’d first moved in, I feared we’d be heaved out in a
week. So I’d chosen the room that seemed closest to my grandfather—his study. I
slept on a futon and used a filing cabinet for drawers. I wasn’t ready to get
permanent, yet.

EG had dropped my shopping bags on the carpet of my room.
The doorbell rang downstairs as I rummaged through them. Mallard would stall
visitors at the front door intercom for a while. The intercom annoyed the hell
out of me, but mechanical interfaces had their uses.

I checked out the window overlooking the street. Sure
enough, I saw an unmarked cop car out front and boys in bad suits admiring our
Gothic façade, while looking grim.

I stripped off my usual dowdy duds, left various personal
defense items secured to the chain around my neck, and dragged on the leggings
and skimpy attire still laying out from last night’s dinner. I’d watched my
mother perform this routine since I was a toddler. I knew how it was done. I
despised the necessity, but when my family was at stake, I performed my mother
duck act to divert danger.

When had Graham become family?

When he agreed to house mine, I assumed. Maybe I should
rethink living here, but not right now. I dashed into the bathroom and rummaged
through a drawer full of make-up that Nick had insisted I buy.

I grabbed a tube of what I’d dubbed Magda-red lipstick and
smeared it across my mouth. Since I spend most of my time in windowless
offices, I’m so white as to be almost transparent. The red slash of color on my
lips drew attention to my sharp cheekbones and long-lashed green eyes. I preferred
anonymity. Attracting attention was Magda’s routine, not mine.

But I could do it. As a pale, pathetic virtual assistant, I’d
never be able to distract the cops. But I’d learned at my mother’s knee how to
be what I’m not.

I pinned my long braid into loops at the back of my neck and
yanked on the Russian hat. It nearly reached my inky eyebrows and covered every
bit of hair except the exotic braided chignon. I looked pretty close to
Slavic—which is probably my grandfather’s ancestry. Most excellent. Even I
didn’t recognize me.

The three-quarter length camel-colored wool coat came to the
hem of my short skirt. I tugged on the fuzzy leopard boots with the modest
three-inch heels. I found a perfume sampler and doused myself. Heavy musk and
roses. Yuck. I’d have to take a shower later.

Purse.
Crap
. I
carried canvas totes. This outfit required designer leather. As long as I was
going to this much trouble, I might as well make the act work double time and
use it for my next stop—after I’d steered the cops away.

I crossed to Nick’s old room and rummaged through his
closet. He’d left a ton of stuff, apparently claiming this room in case the new
job and apartment didn’t work out. I found a slim leather portfolio case I
could tuck under my arm. The gold corners and fastener were a nice touch.

I added my keys, wallet, and larger defense items, and
snapped it shut. It couldn’t match the weaponry I carried in my army coat, but
I was hoping I wouldn’t need hand grenades today.

From the hall, I heard male voices carrying up. Mallard must
have finally opened the door.

EG was peering out from her doorway. I smiled and waved. She
frowned back. Smart kid. I held my finger to my lips in the universal sign for
Keep Quiet, adjusted my skirt, and donned pure poisonous Magda. EG knew enough
to back off when my inner vamp emerged.

I practiced placing one foot precisely in front of the
other, giving my hips maximum swayage, as I sauntered down the enormous
staircase.

Mallard had limited our visitors to the foyer, so they got
full view of the performance. They kept their expressions professionally blank.
Nice—Graham apparently rated cops experienced enough to be unimpressed by
swaying hips.

Which meant I had to scowl, check my nonexistent watch, and
pick up speed a bit. I became busy, important Magda, not sex-kitten temptress.
My heels clicked authoritatively as I descended.

“Gentlemen,” I nodded coolly. “How may we help you?”

“Mrs. Graham?” the older, larger cop asked. Iron-gray hair,
gray eyes, fancy tie and the white shirt of an officer.

I frowned again. “Anastasia Devlin. And you are?”

“Captain Theodore Donovan. We would like to speak with
Amadeus Graham.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” I asked in boredom. “You might wish to contact
our lawyer, Mr. Oppenheimer, since Mr. Graham’s name is of necessity on our lawsuit.
Ask Mallard for the number. Is that all?”

The captain didn’t intend to be dismissed so easily. I
hadn’t thought he would, poor man.

“This is Mr. Graham’s residence, right?” he asked with a
little more thunder.

I gestured vaguely. “As I understand it, that is the name on
the deed, but this house has always belonged to my family. If you’ll dig around
in your files a little, you’ll see that—among other things—we’re
suing
the law firm that allowed their
coke-head shyster to steal our grandfather’s estate. You will note—the same
shyster you allowed to die in your jail cells after we went to all the trouble
of locating him for you. If anyone knows Mr. Graham, it would have been the
late Reginald Brashton. So sorry that I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll let me
by, I’m already late for an appointment.”

“I’ve told the car to wait around the corner, Miss Devlin,”
Mallard said deferentially. “Shall I call the driver to bring it around?”

Oops, yeah, a rich bitch wouldn’t walk to the Metro.

“By the pub?” I asked with just a hint of condescension.
“I’ll walk over. It will be faster.”

I raised my eyebrows expectantly at the good men in bad
suits. What were they going to do? Had I been my usual self, they would have
blustered and demanded a search and otherwise been obnoxious. They might still
do that.

But for right now, they saw a fabulously wealthy pain in the
ass who liked to sue people and held a reasonable grudge against officialdom.
For all they knew, I’d have Oppenheimer down here chewing their butts if they
got in the way. And they had utterly no good reason to be here. Yet.

They strategically retreated, holding the door so I could
sway away.

I’d better warn Oppenheimer that they’d be calling him next.
We really were suing Graham. I hadn’t lied at all, except by the omission of
one crucial fact.

***

Tudor’s take:

On one of Graham’s wall monitors, Tudor watched Ana strut
down the front walk in a barmy hat with two cops glaring after her. Tudor
grunted. “If she was six inches taller, I’d say that was my mother.”

“Not to demean your mother,” Graham muttered, switching
screen views to show a hectic restaurant kitchen, “but that’s Ana’s collie dog
act. She just herded the big bad wolves from her flock. Text and tell her the
car really is around the corner, ready to take her to the hotel’s restaurant.”

Tudor did as told while thinking their host had lost his
very expensive marbles. No one told Ana what to do. “Do collies bite the noses
off bullies?” he asked, trying to warn his host, because, like a nutter, Ana
had done just that to a bully when Tudor had been four. Watching the massive tosser’s
blood spurt after contact with tiny Ana’s teeth had been a defining moment in
his childhood.

“Yup,” the madman said with satisfaction.

Oh well, he’d tried. “Isn’t she better off digging into MacroWare
with us? She’s a devil behind the computer, and that stupid worm needs to be
stomped before it mutates or goes any further.”

“Why waste that outfit on a basement?” Graham’s tone almost
sounded appreciative and certainly not worried about Tudor’s problem.

Tudor shot him a suspicious look, but the swot was flipping
channels like a game pro. “I don’t think she’ll eat in a pricey restaurant by
herself. She’s pinching pennies.”

“Did she answer your text?”

Tudor glanced down at the el cheapo phone Ana had given him
so he didn’t have to use his international call plan. “She wants to know the
chef’s name.”

“Adolph. Adolph Nasser.” Sounding chuffed, Graham settled
back with his keyboard and began typing. “Go back to digging into those names I
gave you.”

Not understanding how a chef would save him from being
arrested by half the governments in the world, Tudor slumped in his seat and
did as told.

***

Ana takes a limo

I wasn’t about to question how Graham had pulled off the
limo when he’d commandeered helicopters in the past. Exiting the hired Lincoln
in front of the downtown hotel where Stiles had been poisoned, I handed the
hotel valet a ten and asked to be directed to the catering director. I
preferred working from the bottom up, but if I was dressed like a ridiculously
wealthy socialite—even I recognized the designer name inside my new clothes—I
might as well behave as one and go straight to the top.

I’d talked to Sean on the way down here and knew he’d
harassed the kitchen staff without result. He was now parked in a bar across
the street, writing up the story I’d given him about Kito and waiting to see
what I’d turn up. He’d earn his pay eventually.

I didn’t have a business card saying
Patty Pasko, nouveau-riche,
so I merely introduced myself as
Patricia Pasko and smiled coolly at the catering director. “I need to hold a
reception for two-hundred-fifty people. Tray assures me that your kitchen staff
was in no manner responsible for the unfortunate incident earlier this week,
but I expect to interview them before I make a final decision.”

Roger Tulane, according to his name tag, appeared to pale
beneath his stylishly-gelled blond hair. “Tray?” he asked with careful
curiosity.

Huh, so he knew MacroWare’s private chef, interesting. “Yes,
of course. The function will be a memorial in honor of Mr. Stiles for local MacroWare
employees, coordinated with the west coast service. Low key, just chairs and a
light buffet. We expect a substantial discount, naturally. Before we discuss
details, may I see the kitchens? We don’t mind helping you with public
relations, but we have to consider the concerns of our employees first.”

I think I stunned him into submission, then roller-coastered
him into action when I got up and walked out the door. Never give the enemy time
to think.

My childhood wandering embassies, hotels, castles, tents,
and hovels across half the world had given me access to any number of kitchens.
I’d never been inclined to examine them, except to avoid men with big knives.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend to know what I was doing, sort of.

Tulane hurried to open the staff elevator for me and punched
the buttons to the lower levels. We walked out into a dim corridor in the
bowels of the hotel where cacophony reined. Shouts, slamming pans, and the rumble
of big machines gave a nice impression of hell.

My escort looked nervous as he murmured apologies and tried
to keep me from marching onward. Given the level of discord I was hearing, I
guessed that he wanted to calm his employees and talk to the chef first. So did
I, except chaos was my friend. I had arrived at a convenient time—probably
right after news of Kita’s death had broken.

My smile was cold as I kept walking. Magda had been known to
bring grown men to their knees with that look. I was too short to pull off
intimidation but that didn’t hold me back. “If Adolph is available, I would
like a word with him while I’m here,” I told him, upping his anxiety another
notch. Name-dropping came in many grades.

“It’s early yet. I’ll be happy to give him your number...”
His voice trailed off as we reached the overheated, noisy underworld that was
the hotel kitchen.

A small woman of Asian descent shouted in what sounded like
Korean—and hurled a pot of liquid at a tall, skinny young man with a really bad
goatee.

White-coated staff scattered. Goatee Man dodged the pot, but
the liquid apparently scalded. He screamed in pain and grabbed one of those
huge knives I preferred to avoid.

I sighed, pulled my police whistle from beneath my clothes,
and blasted the room with a shrill shriek.

Ana makes a new friend

The catering director and most of the kitchen staff covered
their ringing ears after my whistle blast. One of the larger male chefs had the
sense to use the distraction and grab knife-wielding Goatee Man.

I separated the hysterical soup-flinger from the crowd. I
admired her style. If I couldn’t talk to Adolph, I wanted someone furious
enough to spill everything she knew.

“You’re a friend of Kita’s?” I asked curtly, steering her
toward what appeared to be a back exit.

Behind us, Tulane shouted at his kitchen staff. I left them
to it.

My hostage stiffened and muttered in Korean. Over the years,
I’d learned a few curses and basic pleasantries in numerous languages. “Please
shut the shit up” in proper Korean was the first one that came to mind and was
probably not an appropriate response. I stuck with “Please,” opened the exit,
and practically shoved her out of the kitchen into a dim basement corridor.

She was willing to go, so willing that she kept on moving,
leaving me to hurry after her. Fortunately, her legs were as short as mine.

“Look, I’m on your side,” I told her in English as she
slammed open a locker.

Flinging her white hat on the floor and stomping on it, she
uncovered her short, ragged black hair. Silently, she retrieved her purse and
coat.

“You’ll need a new job after that diva performance. I might
be able to help. Let’s get a cup of tea and talk.”

She rattled in more furious dialect that I recognized as
curses. Since they seemed directed at the hotel and men in general, I followed
her to a different elevator that took us to a staff exit. Outside, she crossed
a graveled alley, turned left on the street, and entered a Starbucks. So much
for tea. At least my new boots and hat were keeping me warm.