Cyber Genius (24 page)

Puffer fish toxins were claimed to produce an artificial
high
and
enhance sexual potency.

They’d poisoned themselves?

Nick and I exchanged glances. Given what I’d read about
voodoo rituals and blowfish, I was pretty certain the fish toxin could be powdered
and added to a salt shaker. That would explain the presence of tetrodotoxin,
and exonerate Kita’s soup.

The real poison had been botulism. Could that be powdered?

Nick shrugged. He didn’t know either.

I pressed Maggie harder. “Which man? And did anyone else
know this?”

“One man in a suit is just like another,” she said angrily.
“I thought they were being juvenile. Here they were, filthy rich men with the
world at their feet, and they needed drugs to get through a gourmet meal. The
cost of their dinners alone would have bought a chair for Michael.”

“Preaching to the choir,” I retorted. “But Stiles was known
for feeding the poor in Africa and looking for cures for cancer. For all I
know, the others contributed to those funds, too. None of them deserved to be
poisoned. If one of those rich men killed the others, we need to stop him from
killing again. Think! What did he look like?”

Maggie rubbed her forehead. “He was the one wearing nerdy
glasses, I think. When the health department arrived after the food poisoning
report, I warned Adolph about the shaker. He said he’d handle it, and I
shouldn’t tell anyone else or the cops might start questioning our illegals.
That was before anyone knew about Kita and Wilhelm. He thanked me for my help.
Since the salt shaker should prove they’d poisoned themselves, I figured it
would get his kitchen off the hook. I assumed he would pass on the information.
I was hoping that would mean another bonus next year, or at least a raise.” She
glared at her son. “I do not deal drugs. I just don’t tell secrets out of
school—until now, and I expect you to keep them too. I want to keep my job.”

The kid looked embarrassed enough to retaliate by saying
something he shouldn’t. I stepped in before he could. “As far as I’m aware,
that information has
not
been given
to the police. Do you have any idea what happened to the salt shaker?”

Maggie grimaced. “It was still on the table when I carried
off their soup bowls and entrée dishes. I didn’t do the final clean-up.”

Which meant someone had confiscated the shaker before the
men went to the hospital, or it would have still been in their pockets or in
their rooms for the cops to find. Adolph might be playing nicey-nice, but he
was hip deep in shit. Just knowing about that shaker—even if all it had done
was get them high or numb their taste buds—put Maggie’s job and her life in
jeopardy. She was smart enough to figure that out on her own.

Now I really had to worry about the men we’d seen lurking
outside. They could be reporting to whom Maggie talked. Still, so far, all Adolph
and company had done was pay Maggie for her cooperation. And maybe watch to see
that she didn’t talk to cops.

If Kita had called the cops—that had probably been the
trigger that got him killed. It was beginning to look like that in MacroWare
World, one got rewarded for loyalty, and eliminated for being a snitch.

“We appreciate your help,” I said, as if I wasn’t jittery
over Adolph’s role. “Detective Azzini says you’ve chosen a chair, and I’ve
ordered it. It should be here by next week. I think you ought to tell the
detective about the salt shaker, but that’s your decision. I won’t tell him.”

I gestured at the house alarm. “Nick, show them how to set
the system, so we can all get some sleep tonight.”

Nick showed both of them how to use his guest codes. I
assured Maggie that Adolph couldn’t take back her bonus or take away the
apartment if she told the cops what she’d told me. Then we left mother and son
to have a good long discussion about ethics and morals—a discussion Nick and I
honestly couldn’t participate in.

At least we hadn’t done anything illegal in front of an
impressionable kid, other than steal a Phaeton that probably belonged to us.

Nick steered the ancient limo down empty streets, but quiet
was not his natural state, no matter how much I longed for it.

“Why would Henry Bates poison himself?” he asked.

So, he’d figured out who the nerd with glasses was. “He
wouldn’t,” I concluded. “Bates was an unmarried, aging, techie geek who
probably liked getting high or had hopes for the end of the evening. Someone he
trusted gave him that shaker.”

There were half a dozen strong contenders for who had given
him the poison, if poison it was. I only had motive and opportunity to work
with. Unfortunately, real evidence was elusive. Without the shaker, I couldn’t
even prove that was the way either of the poisons was administered, much less
which one.

“I was thinking it was the salsa that was poisoned,” Nick
continued. “Didn’t the one guy scrape it off and come out alive?”

“Yeah, but he may have just not liked salsa. I’m still
thinking the canned tomatoes in the risotto or salsa were where the botulism
was, but Wilhelm says Adolph prepared the salsa and swears he knows bad
tomatoes when he sees them. Unless Adolph provided the salt shaker, too, that
would have to mean two killers and no motive for Adolph that I can see. That’s
just not adding up.”

If I could draw a circle of evidence around Adolph, I could
go in with all guns blazing and maybe pry the answers I needed out of him. But
he was a man with a lot of powerful contacts on his side. He couldn’t be
intimidated like illegal Wilhelm. I needed proof and officialdom on my side so
he couldn’t swat me like a fly.

Crimes worked out so much easier in one of Tudor’s computer
video games.

“Are you checking on who the cops arrested in my bushes?”
Nick asked, moving on. “Maybe that will tell you who is interested in Maggie.”

“Half the world is interested,” I said in disgruntlement,
texting Graham to look into it. As expected, his reply was nasty.
Get Your Ass Back to Bed
didn’t sound romantic anyway.
“For all I know, that was Patra in the bushes. Or Sean. I’m pretty sure Adolph
doesn’t command goons in sedans.”

I rummaged in the Phaeton’s stainless steel dash for the garage
door opener as we cruised down the street behind the house. We circled the
block, just to be certain all our own thugs had gone home. That they were gone
proved they were underpaid, overworked cops and not the bad guys.

“They’re after me, Graham, and Tudor,” I reminded Nick.
“They think you’re harmless, and they can’t connect a limo with any of us.”

“
They
being half
the world again, right?” He slid the massive car through the carriage doors and
into the darkness of our private Bat-garage.

“FBI, cops, and the mafia for all I know. Nothing like
having both sides gunning for us.” I pointed at the stout figure stepping out
of the shadows at the back of the garage. “And Mallard. I’ll hide in here. You
go talk him down.”

I curled up on the lovely leather bench seat and conked out.

***

Ana’s Tuesday Musings

The phone ringing jarred me awake. I bounced my head off
the steering wheel, groaned at a crick in my neck, and fumbled about for
whatever in heck I’d been hauling around last night that might contain my
phone. I found it in the pocket of my army jacket and tried to read the caller
information, but my eyes were too blurry, and the car was too dark.

But it was warm. Miraculously, the car was still warm. The garage
had heat.

I finally swiped on the phone and grumpily answered, “Yeah.”

“Cops at the door with a search warrant,” Tudor whispered. “They
have Graham’s name and know he saw Stiles last. I’m in the stairwell. What
now?”

“Join me in the garage, I guess. It’s cozy. Don’t suppose
you have any breakfast bars you can bring me?” I rubbed my eyes but I was
accustomed to coming alert at a moment’s notice. Cops at the front door meant
lots of bad news. I wanted to be fortified before I heard it.

“I should have time to snag something from the kitchen on
the way to the cellar,” he whispered. “Mallard is stalling. He had to find his
reading glasses to read the warrant, and he left them on the porch.”

I could hear his breath as he hurried down the narrow
circular stairs. The kid needed more gym time. “Where’s Nick?” I asked.

“Performing his best barmy drag queen and embarrassing
Mallard.”

Nick dresses well, not flashy. He’s not a drag queen by any
stretch of the imagination. But like me, he knows how to put on a good act.

“What about EG?” I asked.

“I think she’s already at school.”

I uncrossed my eyes and glanced at my lighted phone screen.
It was after eight. EG was good.

“I hope Nick borrowed the robe Patra left behind. That
should have their eyes glowing in the dark.” The robe was pink and sheer and
floated on feathers. I don’t know where she got it or why but I was relieved
she’d left it behind.

Tudor snickered. I could hear him open a cabinet door,
presumably in the kitchen. I was trying to stay calm but I was about to crush
my phone into toy parts. I needed Graham’s monitors to know if the garage was
surrounded.

I bet he had some means of checking. I dragged my weary body
out of the Phaeton, found my LED light in another pocket, and began exploring
while Tudor whispered his progress. That’s our training—keep everyone aware of
where you are at all times if there’s trouble. At least then we know where to
find the bodies in the ashes.

By the time Tudor stepped through the tunnel exit into the
garage, I’d located the security panel in the back wall. It looked a bit like a
basic electric panel with small screens above the switches. I studied the controls
and decided they wouldn’t blow up anything before I started flipping them on.

As expected, Graham had hidden cameras focused on every
angle of the broken pavement surrounding the garage and a few more on the
street. No wonder my grandfather had loved him. They were a paranoid match made
in heaven.

“They’re making cops smarter these days,” I muttered, zooming
up a monitor to reveal a nondescript sedan on the corner and men crouching in
the weeds.

Tudor slumped in despair. “I was getting so close to finding
a patch for that spyhole! How can I finish without a computer?” He indicated a
leather bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got my hard drive if I can find someplace
else to work. What about you?”

Good question. I really hated giving up our protective
fortress. This introvert preferred doing her work from an isolated basement,
and my grandfather’s mansion was the safe nest I’d never had.

I was getting soft.

With a sigh, I checked the attaché I’d grabbed last night on
my way out of the office. Good habits paid off, I noted, discovering the
external drive in my cache. “I’m good, but I’d rather not hook these up in
public. And we can’t hook them up
anywhere
until we get past those clowns out there.”

I took the apple and breakfast bar he handed me and munched
while I read through the news on my phone. “Any notion what brought them back?”

“They’re running out of suspects, and the FBI really wants
to know more about us?” Tudor suggested. “Or they figured out we’re not at
MIT.”

“If I could drive, we could take the Phaeton to MIT,” I
muttered, wishing the phone worked as fast as my computer. “Or we could send
Patra with Michael O’Ryan in our place. Wouldn’t MIT love that?”

I glowered at the phone screen.

“Ugh, no!” he protested, before he realized the real
direction of my sarcasm. “What did Patra do?” he asked in resignation, noting
the direction of my glare. He’s smart like that. “Let the cat out of the bag,
did she?”

“She or Sean got several competent nerds to verify there was
a spyhole in the software. Both their names are on the article. Never tell a
journalist actual facts,” I said with a sigh. “I didn’t think they’d find
anyone to corroborate the story. So much for national security. The glory
hallelujah politicians are screaming their heads off already. No wonder the
cops are at the door. They have to blame someone soon or Congress will have to
actually work over the holidays. IT departments around the world are now
officially on overtime. I kinda want to be in the White House while they panic
and check their computers.”

Tudor snorted and watched the non-action on the street
monitors. “If they’d just leave me alone, I could fix it, daft twits.”

“Wouldn’t solve the murder and get Graham off the hook,
though. I’m betting we’ve got one day before the Russians and Chinese happily
burrow their way into whatever’s left of NSA files and the world market
crashes. Your cookie monster problem will be irrelevant. Can you tell if anyone
at MacroWare is working on a patch?”

“Mostly, I’m seeing a lot of hash from the top about PR
nightmares. Not a lot of action on the program front. I haven’t looked this morning
now that the news is out.”

This was Tuesday. We were running out of time and options.

Swallowing hard at the thought of our hard-earned mutual
funds reduced to rubble as the internet and the world economy collapsed, I
thumbed through my email and found an urgent message from Patra.

Goldrich finances houses for all MW
execs, plus Tray, Adolph, and relations. stark’s loan company owns controlling
shares

Ding, ding ding—bells and whistles rang, light bulbs flashed,
and connections started popping together in my devious brain. I wasn’t exactly
sure what I had, but now that I had some evidence of financial shenanigans, I
had direction. Maybe I wouldn’t kill my sister after all. She and Sean were
proving amazingly resourceful. Since I was spending so much time away from my
desk, it was handy to have research back-up.

I called Graham’s cell phone and got voice mail, damn him.
“The cops are searching the house,” I told him. “We need a place so Tudor can fix
what no one seems to be in a hurry to fix. I need to head down to Goldrich
headquarters. If you can’t think of a safe place to stash Tudor so he can work,
I’ll send him to you.”