Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (49 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Franklin chewed on the cuticle around his left thumb without realizing it. The raw skin bled easily, and he looked down in surprise when he tasted blood.

Disgusting
, he thought. On top everything else, now he had a gross nervous habit thanks to the man.

The thought of the nameless man made Franklin’s heart pound with impotent anger. He’d promised that if Franklin tapped into the federal court’s docket system and make a stupid document disappear, he would return Franklin’s mother unharmed. If Franklin didn’t—or if he contacted the authorities—he said he would give Franklin directions as to where he could find her corpse.

And Franklin had done everything exactly as the man wanted. The man, whoever he was, clearly knew enough about Franklin’s work to realize that deleting an electronic record from the electronic docket would be child’s play for Franklin.

Although he’d never before done anything more illegal than fail to come to a full stop at a stop sign, he had access to an array of systems and networks that most hackers couldn’t imagine in their most power-hungry dreams.

He was SystemSource, Inc.’s lead programmer. That meant he was in charge of testing and debugging the company’s flagship off-the-shelf industrial control systems product, RemoteControl. SystemSource sold the RemoteControl system to office buildings, residential apartment buildings, government agencies, hospitals, colleges, private industry—anybody who wanted to control and monitor complex systems remotely. Which was just about everybody. Why pay a guard to sit in your building and watch your surveillance cameras, when you could outsource that task to some guy sitting in his living room monitoring your cameras, controlling the HVAC systems, making sure the elevators stopped on all the floors, and keeping pretty much every essential system running?

To enable the company to provide real-time support, updates, and monitoring to its customers, Franklin left a door open in the configuration data of each unit. He was the only person at SystemSource who knew how to get into the configuration data, but once he was inside, he could gain access to the administrator’s password and, from there, the username and password of any user. Logged in as an employee, he could control whatever systems that login identification managed.

So, when the man told him to delete the opposition to the motion
in
limine
, all he had to do was log in to the electronic court filing system as the system administrator and type in the docket number the man had given him. It took him all of eight seconds to wipe away any trace of the filing.

He’d been surprised to see that the caption named his very own company as a defendant,
The United States v. SystemSource, Inc., et al.
After he’d removed the opposition papers filed by the Department of Justice, he poked around the docketed documents long enough to learn that his employer had settled with the government months ago, paying a thirty-million-dollar fine but not admitting wrongdoing.

The only defendants still remaining were two former sales representatives, Craig Womback and Martin Sheely—men he’d never heard of, let alone met. The two had overseen the company’s fledgling Latin American Division and were charged with bribing Mexican government officials.

He thought that would be the end of it, but of course the man had reneged. And now he spent his working hours looking over his shoulder, worried that someone inside the company was involved in his mother’s abduction. Who else would know that he could access the docket?

This new worry made him even jumpier and more paranoid—a state he didn’t even know was possible.

As if to prove the point, the cell phone rang, and he leaped, nearly spilling his French roast on his wrinkled khakis.

“Jeez, buddy, switch to decaf,” one of the interns said as he strolled by Franklin’s cubicle.

Franklin ignored the guy and hissed into the phone, “Hello?”

“Your employer was awarded the contract to install a new security system at the Criminal Division’s F Street location. Are you aware of that, Franklin?”

“Yes,” Franklin said, his stomach sinking. The system had just come on-line a few hours earlier, and he’d spend the first part of morning testing it to ensure it was working properly.

“Of course you are,” the cold, foreign voice continued. “What you may not know is that your company won that contract over a year ago. The start date and installation were pushed back until SystemSource settled the FCPA lawsuit. It would have been very embarrassing if your American taxpayers learned that the Department of Justice was business partners with one of its criminal defendants, no?”

Franklin was distracted by the man’s use of “your” in front of “employer” and “American.” Was it a slip of the tongue or did he not care that Franklin knew he wasn’t connected with SystemSource and wasn’t a U.S. citizen? Or had he said it because he
was
a SystemSource employee and he was trying to throw Franklin off his track? God, the last thing he needed was for this terrible man to think he was on his track.

“No?” he prompted.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I thought that was a rhetorical question,” Franklin hurried to explain.

“Stop thinking. Answer the questions I ask and do what I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.” He tried hard to convey his contrition to the madman on the phone.

“Good. Now, before we get to your next assignment, I believe I said you could speak to your mother. You have thirty seconds.”

There was a crackle in his ear as the man must have activated his device’s speakerphone feature.

Franklin wet his lips, cupped his hand around the phone, and croaked, “Mom?”

“Franklin.” His mother’s voice echoed hollowly through the speakerphone.

“Is he feeding you? Has he hurt you?”

“He wants me to tell you he’s treating me appropriately.”

“Is he, though?”

She paused. “It’s not the Ritz, but I’m fine.”

He thought she sounded weaker and wearier than she had four nights ago, but she’d never cop to discomfort.

Tears stung Franklin’s eyes, and he gripped the phone so hard he was surprised it didn’t break in his hand. “I’m going to get you home, I promise.”

“He wants the phone back. I love you, honey.”

His mother’s voice faded, replaced by the harsh, ugly tones of her captor. “How touching.”

Anger flared in Franklin’s belly, but he choked it back and said nothing.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Franklin said neutrally.

“Good. You are to monitor the attorney who filed the opposition. The Higgins woman.”

“What do you mean by monitor?”

The man huffed. “I mean to keep an open channel. I want you to keep track of when she arrives at work. When she leaves. Her incoming and outgoing phone calls. How long they are, who she speaks to, and what she says. When she logs onto her computer and what she does. What databases does she access? What websites does she visit? What documents does she create? What does she save? Print? Delete?”

“You—you want me to spy on her all day?”

“Precisely.”

Franklin’s mind raced. How was he supposed to do that all day long without anyone else in the company noticing? It simply wasn’t possible.

“I don’t think I have access to all that information,” he lied.

“You disappoint me,” the man said quietly.

There was a rustling noise, then Franklin heard a distant shrieking.

The hated voice filled his ear again. “Shall I break your mother’s wrist then? To motivate you.”

Franklin’s stomach roiled, and acid rose in his throat. “No, I’m sorry! Don’t hurt her—I’ll do it.”

“Next time, there will be no negotiation, Franklin. Do not ever lie to me.”

“I won’t. I won’t … just, please, don’t hurt her,” Franklin panted.

“Very well. Do you understand your assignment?”

“Yes. Do you really want to know
everything
she does?”

“Everything,” the man confirmed. “I will call you for regular reports. If, however, you see or hear something that you think will be of great interest to me and will hasten your mother’s return, then you may call this number.”

“Wait! Wait—what’s of interest to you? I really don’t understand.”

“Be creative, Franklin. Anything that provides leverage over Aroostine Higgins.”

The line went dead.

Leverage
, Franklin repeated to himself silently.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Friday afternoon

Joe stroked the silky fur of the mournful golden retriever sitting at his feet.

“You miss her, too, don’t you, boy?”

Rufus cocked his head and gave Joe a look that said that was a stupid question.

He sighed. Of course Rufus missed her. After all, she was the one who had found him, caked with mud and shivering in a cardboard box by the side of the road. She was his mistress—the one who’d taken him in, cleaned him up, and took him for long walks in the woods. As far as Rufus was concerned, Joe was just some guy who was handy with a can opener.

Feeling increasingly stupid, he continued his one-sided conversation with the dog.

“She’ll be back. You’ll see. She just needs to get this big city lawyer thing out of her system.”

Rufus whimpered, and Joe scratched his long, soft ears.

“You’d hate it in D.C. Living in a cramped shoebox apartment. No backyard. No ducks to chase. No ponds to swim in. Dirty, crowded, noisy. Fast, impersonal, expensive.”

Rufus nosed his hand, turned in two circles, then immediately fell asleep.

Must be nice to be a dog
, Joe thought, jealous of the canine’s uncomplicated emotional life.

He stared sightlessly into the dying fire for a long time. She’d been gone for four months. Maybe it was time to face the fact that Aroostine wasn’t coming back.

You could go there
, he told himself. She’d asked him repeatedly to give it a try. He waffled, thinking of how much he’d like to see her liquid brown eyes and hear her throaty laugh. What harm could one visit do?

No.
He knew himself. He had no intention of uprooting his life and following her to D.C. Even if Rufus wouldn’t feel penned in by city life, he would. And she was working all the time, anyway. A visit would confuse things and send the wrong message.

What message is that? That you love her and miss her and you’re willing to support her dreams—the way you told her you would?

Joe shook his head to get rid of the nagging, judgmental voice that sounded in his ears. His eyes fell on the papers from the lawyer’s office. He knew he needed to stop delaying the inevitable and deal with them, but right now, he couldn’t bear the thought.

He picked up the phone from the nearby end table and punched in the area code for Washington, D.C. Then he jabbed his finger down to disconnect the call. He bounced the heavy, old cordless phone in the palm of his hand and thought.

It’s Frugal Friday, he realized. Ten-cent wings, fifty-cent drafts, and bad karaoke to country music at the Hole in the Wall bar would chase the ghosts away.