Mr. CEO (23 page)

I stand up, and Darcy follows. We hug at the door, and I give Darcy a bit of a smile. “Don't sweat it, Darce. Give my regards to Jeff and Henry. Someday I'd like to meet them in person.”

“I'd like that, too. Good night, Kat.”

“Goodnight, Darcy.”

I
find
Nathan in his workshop, where he's patiently cleaning each spring and screw of his Colt. While the military may have shifted to the Beretta 9mm, Nathan's old school, and shoots American, using the Colt 1911 as his preferred carry piece. Until today, I was able to lie enough to myself that the chromed cannon was used only for practice and defense. Dangling from the coat rack next to his workbench is a single hanger that has both his suit jacket and dress shirt. There's not a single wrinkle or crease in the whole works, and I can also make out that his tie has been draped around the hanger with equal care. He's sitting on a barstool in front of a drafting table in just his suit pants and a wife beater undershirt, intensely focused on his weaponry.

“Hello, Nathan.” His workshop is an odd comparison in contrasts. Along one wall is his gun cabinet—containing not only pistols, but larger guns and weapons. No surprise there, since you'd expect that from someone who works in private security. But across the room is a wooden rack that's devoted entirely to tea. The rack is five feet wide by two feet tall, and the entire thing is filled with canisters of loose leaf teas plus an electric hot water dispenser. I didn't even know they made that many different types of tea, and he's got them all organized by type, flavor, and country of origin. In the corner next to the tea area is his fish tank, which contains a dozen different tropical fish all swimming peacefully. I guess it's great he has hobbies beyond being a scary motherfucker, but it's just... weird, I guess.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson. Is there something I can do for you?” Nathan takes a small toothbrush from a cleaning kit and begins scrubbing the trigger area of the pistol. Periodically he pauses to dip the brush into a small bowl with some nastyass smelling solvent before resuming brushing away.

“I came to talk with you about the errand Pops is sending you on. I trust we can keep this conversation between us?”

It's a risk, but one I have to take. Nathan's always been loyal to Pops, and I know that even approaching the man I could be risking a lot of anger. But this is Katrina... I can't sit back this time.

Nathan, however, scrubs at his trigger assembly a little bit longer, saying nothing before setting the whole thing down. “What did you hear?” he says coolly.

“That he wants Katrina Grammercy... dealt with. And something about ten years ago. What the hell does that mean?”

Nathan shakes his head, refusing to answer. Instead, he picks up the barrel of his pistol and something that looks like a round, giant Q-tip. I think it's called a bore swab? Anyway, he starts using it to wipe out the barrel a few times before he responds. “He did ask me to deal with Katrina. Do you have an issue with that?”

I blink in surprise. I wasn't expecting him to answer me, let alone admit to anything. “You're goddamned right I have an issue with it, Nathan! I mean, I've assumed for a while you had... skills, but to use them just because someone made me look like an ass?”

“Actually, she made you look like a dick,” Nathan jokes softly, and I stop. I've known Nathan for most of my life, and I think this is the first time I've ever heard him make a joke. I didn't know the man even had a sense of humor. I just assumed it had been shot off in the same war where he'd gotten that wicked-looking scar.

“I... Damn, Nathan, I didn't know you could make jokes. Not a bad one at that,” I say with a small laugh. “But seriously, though, it's just some pictures on the Internet. That's no reason to have a young woman... oh fuck it, let's talk like men. It's no reason to have someone killed!”

Nathan goes still for a moment, and I worry that I've crossed a line or something. He pulls the bore swab out of the barrel of the gun, setting everything aside before turning to face me. “And what would you know about good reasons to kill someone, hmm? Before I started working for Peter DeLaCoeur, I was in the Special Forces. I've killed people for a lot less,” he says softly.

“That was in the military. It's different.”

“Is it? Jackson, when I was at Campbell, we were sent to Somalia right after the end of the first Gulf War. This would have been right around the time you were getting your first teeth. It's not on the official list of deployments, but we were sent up to try and pacify a country that was embroiled in a civil war that's still going on today. The 75th Rangers might get the glory and the blame for that Charlie Foxtrot, but we were there, too.” He pauses, and shakes his head before continuing.

“The problem was that we couldn't find anyone worth turning the country over to. Each warlord was just as depraved and morally bankrupt as the next. It wasn't even a matter of having to choose between the lesser of two evils, it was more like deciding by randomly tossing a dart at a list of names. I saw things... I
did
things that made human life very, very cheap. I saw plenty of people killed, and for a lot less than some embarrassing photos.”

“It still isn't right, Nathan. Whatever happened twenty years ago... that was then, this is now. And what the hell's this about Katrina's parents?”

Nathan starts reassembling his pistol, slowly making sure each piece is perfectly aligned before he makes tiny adjustments with a miniature screwdriver set. “Samuel and Theresa Grammercy were killed when their car exploded in a parking garage near the Fair Grounds ten years ago. Katrina survived because she was fifty feet away, partially shielded by a concrete pillar that protected her from the worst of the bomb blast.”

“A bomb ordered by my father,” I say bluntly. “You can say it; I want the truth.”

“It may have been ordered by Peter, yes,” Nathan says quietly. “It may very well have been.”

“And is it possible that maybe you were involved in planting that bomb?” I ask. Nathan slides the barrel of his Colt back into the sliding upper part and checks the action.

“If you're asking me if I have experience with explosives, the answer is yes. Special Forces trained me in those and a lot more. But I didn't kill Samuel and Theresa. I didn't really like Samuel, but he was a family man, and someone who was doing a little bit of good in this town. I certainly would not have blown them up in front of their daughter. Besides, weren't you two close back then?”

“We were good friends,” I admit. “I met her when I was six, I think? We were in the same class through most of elementary school.”

“Did you have feelings for her? She was blossoming into a young woman right about the time her parents died, and you were... well, if my memory is correct, that was about the time you started showing an interest in women.”

It's my turn to remain silent as I think back on the past. Had I been interested in Katrina? I remember thinking she was cool, and not yucky like I thought most girls were back then. And she was really cute, in a way that... oh, fuck this, I can't tell Nathan all this. I can't even be honest with myself. “She and I... she was a special friend, which makes what happened in the limo not just embarrassing, but painful, Nathan. Regardless, I don't want her killed over it. It's not right, dammit!”

Nathan finishes putting his Colt back together and jacks the slide, checking the action. It slides back with a deadly hiss. Everything is perfectly clean and steely efficient before it catches in the open position. “You keep saying that word, 'right'. Tell me again, Jackson. What do you know about right and wrong?”

I square my shoulders and look Nathan in the eye. I don't know where I'm getting the guts for this, but I suspect it has something to do with Katrina. “I know enough to say that's it's wrong to order a young woman to her death over some embarrassing pictures. Especially when she might have a valid reason to hate your guts.”

Nathan flicks his wrist, and the slide on his pistol snaps back. He checks the sights quickly before setting his Colt down on the table and giving me... a smile? “Come, have some tea with me. I just acquired some charcoal-roasted Taiwanese Li Shan oolong that was grown on the southern slopes of Mount Ali. We can discuss your sudden interest in ethics as the tea steeps.”

I'm not a huge fan of tea, not even sweet tea, despite living in the South. Whatever fancyass tea Nathan's talking about is sure to be wasted on me, but fuck it, if it helps, it helps. I cross the workshop with him and take a seat while he draws water from the expensive-looking water heater and pours it into a pot. “The key to making good tea is to make sure you don't burn it,” Nathan explains. “That's where most people mess it up. Making tea isn't like making soup; you don't need to boil it. The tannins and flavonoids in tea are much more fragile than the ones in coffee even. So they require a slightly lower temperature, and a lot more patience. Instead of using boiling water, the ideal water temperature is between 180 and 190 degrees. I always keep my water at 182, to allow for the slight cooling that occurs with transfer to the pot. But if you go over 200 degrees, you might as well be dropping in some of those cheap Lipton teabags,” Nathan says disdainfully.

Nathan selects a canister from his rack and unscrews the top. I can see that the inside is lined with plastic, or maybe it's glass. Nathan notices me looking at the canister. “The glass prevents any oxidation that would result if the tea came in direct contact with the metal, and the metal keeps all light out. I could go with plastic, but I've noticed a decrease in flavor when the tea comes packaged in plastic.”

“Jesus man, how much does all this cost?” I ask, amazed. Seriously, this is some over-the-top-shit.

“The tea you'll be trying with me cost me a thousand dollars for the pound I was able to get my hands on. I have more expensive ones. This one though was a very good find for me, as it's been years since I was able to find this particular blend. I do hope it's as good as the last time.”

Nathan carefully scoops out some tea using a wooden spoon before placing the leaves into a ball-like thing with holes in it for water to flow through before he seals the thing and drops it into the pot. “Let's wait four minutes for the tea to steep, and then we can pour. Despite how particular I am when it comes to brewing tea, I just drink it from plain old coffee mugs. Give me a moment to grab some.”

“Really Nathan, you don't have to. I appreciate the gesture, though. I just never knew there was so much... complexity to tea.”

“Teas are like people in the sense that they're often very complex, and never quite what you expect until you try them. Now tell me, Jackson, why should I ignore your father's orders and spare Katrina Grammercy? Do you even have a reason beyond saying it isn't right?”

“Because it's like you said... haven't we done enough to this girl?” I ask, attempting to make him see reason. Why won't this guy listen to me? “Please Nathan, I'm asking you directly. Spare her.”

“And what will you do if I agree to spare her?” he asks, retrieving two mugs from a cupboard next to a small sink I hadn't noticed earlier. “Extract your own measure of revenge?”

“No... yes... fuck, I don't know. I want to start by talking to her. Nathan, I never knew why she disappeared from my life. I just went to school one day and the teacher said that Katrina had transferred schools. I wasn't into reading the news back then, I just rolled with it. But it hurt, and what she did last night hurt, too. I need to know. I need to look her in the eyes when I ask her why she did it.”

Nathan considers me for a long moment, then nods. “All right. Perhaps I've grown weary of death myself in my old age. When a man reaches fifty, the Reaper's a lot closer of a friend than you like to admit when you're twenty-two. Or hell, maybe I'm just trying to balance some old debts. I'll find Katrina, but I won't eliminate her. I'll report her whereabouts to you instead. If Peter asks... well, I doubt any woman who was able to put together the PSYOP that was done on you last night is going to be easy to find. It wouldn't be the first time someone's twisted Peter DeLaCoeur's tail and ran like a jackrabbit afterward.”

“Thank you, Nathan,” I say quietly. Nathan nods and sets a mug in front of me. He picks up his teapot and swirls it three times, then gives me a small half-smile.

“You're welcome. Care for some tea?”

“
Y
ou know
, the Ghetto Goth look kinda went out fifteen years ago,” Darcy says as we exchange hugs outside Cafe Du Monde. They've got great beignets, which Darcy only got used to eating after she got married. I sometimes tease that marrying a cop has changed her in more ways than one, but it's all good. I love her for who she is. “You know, right about when Aaliyah passed?” she says.

“She's more from your time, not mine, even if you and Virginia gave me an appreciation for Baby Girl. Besides, if I went with just a sports bra, people'd stare, even here in New Orleans,” I reply, looking down at my outfit. I'm wearing a pair of lightweight black BDU pants, a slate gray sports bra, and a navy blue shirt I've left unbuttoned and untucked so my skin can breathe in this humidity. Black sunglasses and a pair of black lightweight mid top boots round out my look, although I'm not wearing a hat today. It's a little cloudy, so I don't need it. “You know how it is,” I say.

“Yeah, I know,” Darcy says, looking for all the world like any other average thirty-two-year-old mother in jeans and a tank top. “I mean, I think this little bit of color on my shirt here might be peas, but it might be pee. I'm not too sure.”

I laugh softly and sit back, sipping my coffee. Darcy insists on covering the costs for our little trips out into the world, what she calls my “social training,” since it's the only way she can convince me to leave the loft except for my mission or work. “You always did have a good sense of color. So, what's up?”

Darcy, who is also one of only five people in the world with my permanent phone number, reaches into her purse and pulls out a thumb drive. “Thought you might like this. My friends finished the translations for you.”

“No shit?” I say with a grin, sitting forward and taking the drive from her outstretched hand. “Took them long enough.”

“Hey, the Osaka police are behind on digitizing their files, and this literally took some... clandestine activities that you're probably more trained for than I am,” Darcy replies. “Some of the people involved... well, let's just say that finding anti-government anarchists in Japan is a lot harder than finding them here in the States or in Europe.”

“At least ones who have the skills I need,” I reply with a chuckle, thinking about some of the Japanese hackers I know online. They're definitely a... unique group. “So did you take a look?”

Darcy nods, watching as our waitress brings her a plate with two beignets dusted with powdered sugar. “You know Kat, you can indulge in these every once in a while. You don't need to live on health food all the time.”

“Performance food,” I correct her, looking wistfully at the fried and glistening puffs of dough. “Maybe when this is over, I'll take you up on that offer for the second one. Till then, give it to Jeff with my compliments.”

Darcy rolls her eyes and takes a big bite of the treat. Some of the powdered sugar puffs up as she lifts it to her face and settles on her chocolate-colored skin. But a bit goes up her nose, and it makes Darcy sneeze. She sets the beignet down and wipes at her face with a napkin, getting most of it. “There's a reason us black folk don't usually eat this way,” she grumbles. “You white girls got it lucky.”

“Right... meanwhile, black don't crack,” I return, falling into some of the old racial jokes that I learned in Virginia's house. She never let the difference in our races be a factor between us, but she also didn't let us ignore them either. “So what's it say?”

“Aiko Mori was born in 1972 in a small village in Nagano Prefecture, Japan,” Darcy says. Her memory for this kind of thing is nearly flawless, and I'm one hundred percent sure all the details she's reciting are correct, despite the fact she isn't reading them off a file or anything. “In 1992, once she was legally considered an adult in Japan, she moved to the United States to pursue a career as a pastry chef, apparently a very popular career choice for Japanese girls.” She pauses to take a bite from her beignet before continuing.

“Her parents had a little bit of money since her father was the president of a construction company that had some government contracts in the village, so they granted her wish to study at the New Orleans School of Cooking. Aiko wanted to learn how to make French and Creole desserts in particular. Soon after coming here, she met Peter DeLaCoeur and started having an affair with him since he was already married to Margaret, as you know. No one's sure of the exact length of the affair, but it continued for a while, even after Jackson's birth, since his half-sister Andrea DeLaCoeur was born two years after Jackson.

“What happened to Aiko?” I ask quietly, but I suspect I already know the answer to the question.

“After Andrea's birth, she was registered as Peter's biological daughter, which is a rarity given his indiscretions. This fact will be relevant eventually in the story. Aiko returned to Japan and took Andrea with her. Her parents had moved to Osaka while Aiko had been away. Apparently her father's business had improved, and he was now working out of the larger city or something—my friends didn't dig too deep into that. But what they did find was evidence that Aiko was shamed by her parents for having a
haafu
daughter out of wedlock, and that the
gaijin
was obviously playing her.” Darcy pauses and finishes her beignet, but this time she manages to avoid getting powdered sugar up her nose.

“Aiko refuted those claims of course, saying they were in love, but when she called him and asked him to talk with her parents, he laughed at her and told her she was lucky he'd at least acknowledged Andrea as his own daughter. That's Mrs. Mori's words, by the way. So Aiko, distraught over the rejection from her lover...”

Darcy's voice fails, and I'm touched. She might be an anarchist, a hacktivist, and more than willing to try and take down the rich and powerful who she blames for her family's death in Hurricane Katrina, but she's also never lost that sense of optimism about the world that's been ripped out of me. Still, I need to know. “How'd she do it?”

“Jumped off her parents’ apartment building,” Darcy finally gets out. “She left a note behind saying that she apologized for being such a bad daughter and horrible mother.”

It's my turn to blink, the grief-stricken look on Darcy's face touching even my heart. “What happened next?”

“Her parents tried to keep Andrea, but Peter DeLaCoeur had her kidnapped and returned to the United States. Since he was legally on record as her biological father, the American courts sided with him. The Japanese courts sided with the Moris, but it didn't help them since Japan hadn't signed the Hague Abduction Convention yet. Andrea's been raised in her father's house ever since.”

I shake my head, shocked. “And why aren't we releasing this right away?”

“You know why,” Darcy says. She pulls a paper bag out from her purse and wraps the beignet inside before placing it all back in her purse for later. She always saves her second beignet for Jeff. “Come on, walk with me.”

We get up and make our way through the French Quarter. It's only mid-morning, so it's nowhere near as busy as it'll get tonight. The St. Louis Cathedral is relatively quiet at the moment, which feels out of place here in the portion of the city best known for sin. “Remember the first rules I taught you about tunneling into a system?” Darcy asks as we stroll through Jackson Square, keeping toward the trees that line the outer edges of the park. “Come, I know it's been a few years, but I know you haven't forgotten that.”

“Of course not. Once you have a crack, ease it open slowly.”

“Exactly. You hit a system with a big hit all at once, that's what gets noticed and tracked. You get caught, and you end up doing time in some women's prison in Kansas. But if you work the crack open slowly, carefully, you end up with a tunnel that can go unnoticed for years until you're ready to bring down the system totally, or you exploit for as long as you want.”

“I've already been waiting for ten years, Darcy. I don't have time for the whole Shawshank Redemption route.”

Darcy shakes her head. “You haven't had a crack for ten years, you had a target. It took you pulling one dumbass stunt to even start to get a crack, honeychile. Now is not the time to hit them with everything. You do that, and all the bad guys surrounding the DeLaCoeurs are going to condense around him, protecting them because they're going to be afraid you're coming after them next. You gotta poison the well slowly, isolate him, and then you'll have your chance to actually strike.”

I sigh and run my right hand through my hair. “This is such bullshit, Darcy. I was right there. Hell, he couldn't even move after I hit his trigger points. If I'd given him one more shot, Jackson would be dead. I didn't, and now you're telling me to wait some more?”

“Jackson ain't your target. Peter is. Don't become what you hate just to get your... vengeance.”

I stop since we're nearly at the cathedral, and I close my eyes. I'm not praying though. There's no redemption for me, and I seek no forgiveness for what I want to do. I'm just trying to gather my thoughts. “Okay, okay, we'll do it your way. Andrea first, then the other affairs, then the nastier stuff. I'll talk to Domino soon.”

“Good. By the way, check that flash drive, I've got something else for you.”

“Oh?” I ask, patting the little bulge in my pocket. “What?”

“Something that'll keep food in your belly, and maybe put some newer pants on your skinny ass,” Darcy says with a chuckle. “Totally legit, too. I built the system myself, and now the clients want to see if Coup De Grace can crack it.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You built it?”

“I built it. Hardware too, not that I'm telling you what I used. System's up right now with dummy data files. You get in there and leave behind your signature, you get ten grand.”

“And if I don't?” I ask. With Darcy's projects and offers, there's always a catch.

“I get twenty, and you get twenty percent, so I clear sixteen and you clear four. Difference of six grand for you.”

I chuckle and look up at the sky, then at the cathedral. The clouds are getting heavier, so I suspect by the time I get back to the loft, it'll be raining. Good, I need a reason to stay indoors now. “Fine. You know it's not going be that hard though, Darcy. You taught me everything you know.”

“Almost, Kat. Remember, you hack great, but I'm a great hacker.”

“We'll see. You giving me a deadline?”

Darcy nods. “One week. Just enough time for you to get the first bit out to Domino, then prep the next little needle for Peter. One last thing though... have you thought about the collateral damage? Andrea's even more innocent of this than Jackson. You could hurt the girl.”

I nod. “I've thought about it ever since we heard the rumors. But if she doesn't know, then she deserves to know. Besides, judging by everything I've researched on her... she's grown into one tough woman. I remember her as a little girl, she was tough then, too. You know she's the only one of us all that actually went to college? She's working on her MBA right now, and she's still only twenty.”

“Sounds like you admire her.”

I shrug. “I'm driven, not blinded. Not all the DeLaCoeurs are scum.”

“Yeah well, while you're being not blinded, keep your eyes especially open. Jeff heard that the Black Man is looking for you.”

I can't help it, but I shiver. Nathan Black is not someone I want on my tail, but I knew he and I might have to throw down at some point when I started this. “I figured. I know it must burn your ass that he's known as the Black Man.”

Darcy chuckles and shrugs. “Can't help it, it is his last name. Seriously, that's one badass son of a bitch, you keep yourself safe. He might even be able to take you in a fight.”

I nod and adjust my sunglasses. “He might. But
bushido
is realized in the presence of death.”

“Goddamn samurai.”