Cyber Genius (16 page)

If Graham had actually bought the company and hadn’t changed
the name, that was hardly a big deal. People bought established businesses and
continued under the original name all the time. Of course, they didn’t usually
assume that owner’s identity as Graham apparently had.

Right now, the police report was pretty thin and didn’t
include Graham’s name or who had bought the firm after Alexander died. Sloppy,
sloppy, sloppy. They just noted that the credit card used to book Alexander’s
hotel room was in the name of a dead man’s company.

The third highlighted document was the real eye-opener. An
email from “Thomas Alexander” had been sent to the police
today
with the possible motivation for murder:
He’d told the cops about the operating system defect.

I stared at that email in awe. Graham had guts, I’d give him
that. He did what had to be done, provided the cops with motive for murder—even
if it got his ass fired by MacroWare for exposing their cover-up. Because by
golly gee, MacroWare certainly hadn’t announced any flaw in the system yet. My
guess was that they were discreetly updating the beta programs—destroying all
evidence of the breach.

Except neither Tudor nor Graham had found any evidence of
the operating system being patched, despite the warnings Stiles had received
and passed on to his now incapacitated staff.

Graham was taking a huge risk by passing the information to
the police. If the media learned about a spyhole in MacroWare’s operating
system—the scandal could affect national security
and
cause a global economic melt-down.

Graham had just e-mailed the information equivalent of an
atomic bomb.

Seeing the need for speed, I dug back into Graham’s files. Using
Thomas Alexander’s email, he had sent the cops the name of three computer firms
that could be trusted to verify the operating system defect and recommended
that Kita’s laptop be checked for the flaw.

Wow, just wow. Graham had actually exposed himself to the
world—albeit under an alibi. He’d had some pretty bad crap dumped on his head
nearly a decade ago when he’d tried to disclose political irregularities and
got publicly kicked out of his influential office. The potential to blame him
again instead of the real culprits was huge. No wonder he was feeling a little
wound up.

How long would it take the cops to track down the “Thomas
Alexander” who was handing them this loaded bomb? Those computer firms Graham
had recommended could probably trace his email—eventually.

I had a thousand questions, like: if Kita’s computer was affected,
had Kita possibly sent an email or document that might have scared the real bad
guys into fearing he was a danger to them? There were so many “ifs” attached to
that my head threatened to explode, so I didn’t try to come up with more.

Despite the explosive potential, I didn’t see anything in
these files that I could work on now. Sundays were useless for getting anything
done. I sent my queries to Graham and shut down.

I toddled upstairs, and after checking that both Tudor and
EG were in their beds, I went to mine. Not to sleep, mind you—Graham had done a
real number on my libido. Sleep was out of the question.

***

Monday morning, I was interrogating EG over breakfast
about her Sunday visit when Tudor tore into the dining room looking paler than
his usual ghost-white. Even the freckles across his nose looked pale pink
instead of brown.

“He’s gone!” he cried. “Vanished! He’s left us all to hang!”

Well, yeah, that’s what spies did. “Graham?” I inquired,
just to verify before I gave in to frantic heart palpitations.

Tudor nodded and looked as if he’d knock the cup from my
hand if I didn’t get up and run. “
Everything
is gone.”

Oh, filthy bad word. That couldn’t be good. I practiced a
meditative technique I’d learned in India. It didn’t work. I would go ballistic
if I didn’t act on my explosive energies. That was the reason I so admired
Graham’s gym. When I needed to kick something, I could. This wasn’t the time, I
accepted, as I dragged out of my chair.

The spider in the attic—gone? Did I change the locks and
take possession of my grandfather’s house? Or worry that he’d left us to take
the blame for whatever he’d done now? Most likely both, plus all the other
scenarios I could conjure.

“Can I see?” EG asked eagerly. She’d never been inside the
lair.

“Let me first,” I said with relative calm. I’d learned at an
early age to hide panic and my fear of dead bodies lurking in dark corners.
“Tudor, sit, eat, keep EG company.”

Mallard was normally in the kitchen at this hour. I didn’t
want to run down there first without seeing the evidence with my own eyes.

I took the stairs two at a time—not easy given my short legs
but fear gave me wings. Graham had given the cops leads that could potentially
lead to proving his existence—and his proximity to the murder victims. Had he
decided to move on and start over?

I refused to think—
leaving
us in the lurch
—but it was there, buried in my psyche. I should have
realized it the instant I’d read those files. Or figured something suspicious
was happening when Graham had grabbed me in the garage. None of this was normal
Graham behavior.

Upstairs, all the doors were open. The third floor had been
a mysterious place of closed doors that we’d been ordered to stay out of. I,
being the nosy and impertinent one, had poked around, but once reassured
nothing lethal had been concealed up here, I’d obliged and mostly left Graham
alone.

Putting off the scary emptiness of computer central that
Tudor had reported, I glanced in the bedrooms, looking for evidence of hasty retreat.
I opened doors on old narrow beds, stripped to the ancient mattresses, probably
once used by children or servants. I knew about the gym and passed it by with
only a cursory glance inside. Near the far corner room overlooking the back
yard and carriage house I started sneezing, evidence that Graham’s cat had been
here recently. Would he have taken it with him? This room had a king-sized bed
with no linen. The closet was empty as if no one had ever lived here.

My heart had reached my throat by the time I entered the largest
room on this floor. The one at the center, at the top of the stairs, had been
Graham’s computer lair. Had last night been Graham’s warped way of saying
farewell? Had he been waiting for a ride when I’d strolled through?

With leaden feet, I entered the windowless cave where Graham
normally resided. The lights were on for the first time since I’d moved in. As
Tudor had said, the room was essentially empty, with none of the blaring
screens, beeping alarms, and staticky voice connections to make it the
heartbeat of the house.

My heart did a nose dive, and I couldn’t stop sneezing. So
far, I hadn’t found the cat.

Where once there had been an entire bank of monitors there
was now a beige wall with vividly colored, impressionistic sports paintings.
Even I recognized the artist from the sixties—my grandfather’s time. They were
probably worth a fortune or two.

A row of circular glass lamps vaguely resembling flying
saucers hung over a long, curved console. The console had a higher counter on
the painting side and a lower one on this side, like some kind of Star Trek
prop except made of polished teak. It was empty of keyboards or anything that
indicated it had been used any time this century—although not a speck of dust
marred it. That was a good indicator that Mallard had been in on the move.

I yanked open a drawer and found the antihistamine box.
Oddly reassured, I popped one and continued studying the bizarre situation.
Just yesterday this room had been the beating heart and brains of the mansion.
It was as if all the life had been sucked out overnight.

The cheap computer desk Tudor had been using sat in one
corner, out of place in this expensively masculine—den?

Den
. All it needed
was a round poker table. I narrowed my eyes and tried to picture the dark lair
that I remembered. Graham had had monitors pretty much along the width of the
space now covered by art. The low counter was about the right height for his
keyboards and accessories. He usually sat on this side of the desk, facing the
wall of artwork. His desk chair was now abandoned in the corner with Tudor’s
computer, but I suspected it would fit neatly under the low counter.

I tried to recall the windows from outside of the
house—they’d all been shuttered—probably to hide the fact that they’d been
walled over.

I crossed the room and examined the art work, then the
console.

It took me a while. The latch was part of the wood, not
visible, and hidden in a reasonably inaccessible underpart of the console. I
pushed, and the entire panel opened up to reveal his network of wiring,
keyboards, and computers.

He hadn’t intended to have his secrets easily discovered. A
cursory police search would reveal nothing. The FBI—well, that would depend on
how badly they wanted him. By the time I closed the console, EG and Tudor were
in the doorway, watching.

Figuring it was probably better not to give Tudor unfettered
access to the satellite feeds probably wired behind the wall, concealed by art,
I didn’t hunt for the switch that would lift the art work. I gauged there was
just enough room around each painting for a sliding panel. Revealing how the
console opened to expose Graham’s equipment was dangerous enough.

“Don’t touch his stuff,” I warned. “He may have gone on walk
about, but he’ll have access and will know if you’ve tampered with anything.”

They both eyed the artwork with interest. But
we
knew what had been in here. Others
wouldn’t. Anyone unfamiliar with the layout would just see my grandfather’s
archaic man cave. Now that I looked at it, I could see the high side of the
console would pass for a bar. It just needed liquor. The shelves were
empty—because everything was hidden behind them.

I frowned at Tudor’s desk. “I don’t like you working up here
alone.”

He sat down and opened his browsers. “My stuff is all here.
The connections he lets me use are still operating. I’m still inside MacroWare.
I’m getting closer to the engineer who could have designed that hole, and I’ve
almost got a patch worked out.”

“OK, granted, that’s big,” I admitted. “If the cops or feds
arrive with a search warrant, how quickly can you disappear?”

“The hidden stairs are right over there.” He nodded at an
empty wall of glass-cased bookshelves beside his desk. “I can hear anyone at
the door through the intercom. All the important information is on the external
drive, so I can just shut down, unplug the external, and hide inside the wall.
The main drive is just games.” He opened his screen to reveal the contents of
his C drive—everything a kid could love.

“Pink Pony?” I asked dubiously, scanning the list.

“He stole that from me,” EG said, her eyes wide with awe as
she contemplated the bookshelf. She hadn’t known about the hidden stairs. I’d
have to buy a lock to keep her out.

“Right. Let’s get some of your toys and books up here, make
this look like a play room—just in case,” I advised.

Fireworks were going off in my head, but now wasn’t the time
to reveal the level of my confusion. The kids needed me to be confident and
assured.

How many times had Magda been in a state of total panic but
still ushered us calmly out of a country on the brink of explosion? I didn’t
want to count the number. Mostly, I didn’t want to sympathize with my mother.

“You think he’s coming back?” Tudor asked uncertainly.

His own father hadn’t. Damn, but my siblings made my hard
heart bleed.

“Graham will be back, and we’ll live to regret it,” I
assured him. “He’s protecting us right now.”

I liked that idea. I’d practice believing it, right up to
the time I killed him for leaving me to cover his ass.

Since Tudor and I were supposed to be visiting MIT, I
needed to lie low. If we had feds in the bushes, I didn’t want to leave EG open
for questioning. That meant I needed to find backup for her trips to and from
school. I hunted down Mallard in his kitchen.

Speakers under the cabinets were blaring opera, and our
hefty butler smiled with the serenity of a monk as he obliterated a chicken
breast with a mallet. I did not underestimate Mallard’s killer instincts.

“I don’t suppose our lord and master has left any instructions
with you, has he?” I asked.

“Only that I recommend that you and your family take a long
vacation until he has matters in hand,” he replied respectfully.

“And you know that we have no intention of obeying orders,
right?” I knew Mallard’s loyalties were with Graham, but he’d worked for my
grandfather first and worshipped my mother. We tested his allegiances
regularly.

“I would not consider questioning your choices,” he said
with dignity, producing another raw piece of meat and smashing it.

“Right.” I eyed the flattened bird with respect. “Would it
be too much to ask if you’d walk EG to the Metro? Or I could hire a taxi.”

“Miss Elizabeth Georgiana ought to have a car and driver.
The Metro is too dangerous in the current situation. I have made arrangements.”

I opened my mouth, but for a change, no words spilled out.
I’d seen the ancient Phaeton. I prayed that wasn’t what he intended. I still
managed a grateful “thank you” and beat a strategic retreat.

I could be vociferous, bold, and outright deranged in the face
of danger, but kindness knocked me for a loop—shows what my experience has
been.

I shivered at realizing that even Mallard thought we had a
problem. I had a notion that Graham wasn’t feeding me all I needed to know.

I watched at the door with EG until the sedate black sedan
that had carried me downtown arrived. I recognized the driver. EG was suspicious,
but I promised she was safe.