Undercover Genius (20 page)

Our stuffed penguin of a butler almost smiled.

When I reached my office, Patra was flipping through the
stacks of disks she’d rescued, organizing them in numerical order.

“Assuming Dr. Charles Smythe of the R&P is a sarcastic
bastard using the name CS1%, why would he need to analyze audio files of Broderick
and Rose discussing media manipulation?” I asked, pulling out our earlier files
stolen from Bill’s apartment and handing half to Nick. “Better yet, why would
he poison Reggie?”

Patra dropped a disk and stared. She hadn’t been around when
Nick and I had discussed this. “The religious leader of the Righteous & Proud
killed our grandfather’s thieving lawyer?” she asked.

“That’s our theory, and we have a witness. Story at ten,” I
said, flipping through files.

“Smythe worked for the VP’s office a
decade
ago,” Nick reminded us. “Is there any chance that he was the
undetected voice on the tape? Maybe he was testing Bill.”

“Number 1143 isn’t in here,” Patra said in disappointment,
restarting her search of the disks.

“You saved what, a few dozen CDs? And if he was already at
1143 years ago, he must have had thousands we didn’t save,” I said. “We really
need his computer.”

“There weren’t any more CDs on his desk,” Patra said. “He
had no filing system for his disks. I looked. Maybe he cleaned and reused them
when he was done?”

“Not if there was any liability attached to his work,” Nick
argued. “He’d either store them on external drives or keep a vault for the CDs
or both.”

“It was a crappy little one hole apartment. No vaults. And
any drives went with the thieves,” Patra said, sounding depressed. “I hate
this.”

My overactive brain cells were dancing with ideas. “We’re
pursuing too many balls at once,” I told them. “Nick, you follow up with our
lawyer and Lemuel on Reggie’s death. Patra, stick with Broderick and following
anything you can find out about your father. I’ll keep digging into Bill. But
we have Smitty connected to Reggie and Bill, so he’s fair game all the way
around. Make sense?”

“And Broderick, since Smitty requested analysis of that tape
with him on it,” Patra added. “I need to get into BM’s computer files.”

I was thinking that was a really bad, very Magda idea.

I stayed up all night decoding Patrick Llewellyn’s paranoid
notes. He must have known there were people like Graham around who could disentangle
his cryptograms. Even after I decoded his stupid laundry lists, he’d made his
notes meaningless to anyone but him.

I had what I assumed were times and dates and initials that
might represent people or places or both. I was leaning toward the latter. I
set up a spreadsheet to look for a pattern.

My expertise is research, not field work. I really hated
leaving my basement and the lovely puzzle for anything less than an emergency
or a family outing.

But I’d end up like Graham if I didn’t force myself to
interact with the rest of the world. I didn’t want to be the spider in the cellar,
so I spent equal time designing a task to get out of the house.

While the computer ran code programs over the weekend, I’d
had time to poke around more in Bill’s bank account. I’d only recently learned
how to perpetrate this illegal act through the internet money-laundering class
I’d taken.

So far, the college course on literature hadn’t taught me
anything as useful.

Sunday night, while the others were off on their own expeditions,
I dug into the information I’d gathered. Bill had an on-line bank account. I
figured out his email password from a list he’d kept in the files Patra had
retrieved. The girl had a good eye for damaging goods.

As a result of my research, I would have to make a foray
into the real world.

* * *

Monday morning, I showered and changed while Nick and
Patra slept. I left Nick a note reminding him to keep in touch with Lemuel’s
bail bondsman so he could escort our stool pigeon to his new abode. Then I walked
EG to the Metro where she caught the train to her private school. She was
worried her bat report wouldn’t be sufficiently detailed. In my opinion, it
would have passed for a PhD, but what did I know? I just had a GED.

I caught the next train down to the city neighborhood where
Bill had lived, and I was waiting at the door when his local tech store opened.
Really, if I hadn’t been so busy, I could have figured this out on my own
without plundering his bank account to see who he’d made the checks out to.

I asked for the store manager, flashed my fake ID, and
handed him my fake Linda business card. “I’m William Bloom’s attorney and
executor for his estate. I’ve come to clear out the disks he stored here.”

I was fishing and hoping that Bill liked hard back up as
well as cloud back up, which I hadn’t located yet. I played nonchalant while the
store manager looked at my card.

“He had an honest-to-God lawyer?” the tattooed manager
asked. “I didn’t think he owned his own socks.”

“Family lawyer,” I said with a shrug. “He made arrangements
for passing on his business assets, and that includes the CDs. I assume they’re
not just music.”

“He just kept a lock box here.” The manager couldn’t have
been more than college age. He sauntered down the aisle to the employee entrance.

Oh, hell, he could have kept old comic books in this place.
And here I thought I’d been so smart.

He led me into their storage area. Metal shelves with labels
filled the space. We had to go all the way to a dark back corner where the
manager dragged one of those heavy asbestos fire-proof security boxes from
beneath a bin. Big enough to hold a file drawer, it had to weigh over fifty
pounds.

“Bill used to work here. He asked if he could store this. He
paid the store fair and square, so the boss said it was fine. Can’t imagine why
he kept it here.” The guy looked expectant as he handed over the awkward box.

“Backup in case of fire,” I said with a straight face, not
accepting the burden. I didn’t know how I’d get the box out the door without a
forklift. “I’ll need a taxi. Would you carry that to the door for me while I
call one?”

Reminded he was big and strong and manly, he shrugged and
did as asked. I didn’t even have to resort to Magda-flapping eyelashes. Good
thing, because I was in my lawyerly khaki and not very vamp like.

I grimaced in annoyance when I checked out the plate glass
window for my taxi and noticed Leonard Riley hanging out on a street corner.
Now really, did I look like Patra? Patra should be dutifully reporting to
Broderick Media shortly. What was the point in his spying on me? Pure meanness
would be my supposition, but I wasn’t taking chances.

If I’d been in Marrakech, I would have simply walked out and
kicked his balls until he cried. But this side of the pond pretended to be more
civilized, and I’d be arrested for assault if I tried that. Redirecting a taxi
isn’t easy. So I just let the boy hand the vault into the taxi’s back seat,
waved at Riley, and climbed in. Lesson #2 in city living. It’s hard to follow a
cab unless you have a car of your own.

As a safety precaution, I had the cab let me out at Sean’s
newspaper office rather than endanger the family by taking it home. Besides, I
didn’t have enough manpower to handle a few thousand audio disks, if that’s
what was in here.

I lugged the fireproof vault — I do love irony — into
the lobby and dropped it on the floor. The building stunk of wet charred wood
and plastic. Anyone who has ever burned a Barbie would recognize the stench.

Maintenance men were all over, cleaning up the mess. Huge
fans were running to dry the place out. I hoped Sean got to keep his job. Maybe
the vault would work toward that end. I liked paying my debts.

I didn’t know if Sean would remember my fake persona, but I
gave the security guard my Linda Lane name, along with a request for an
appliance dolly. That got their attention. Two helpful gentlemen in rumpled
suits arrived in record time.

They eyed the vault with appreciation and interest. “Gold,
diamonds, or jewels?” one asked.

“Sean’s not getting around so hot right now,” the stouter of
the two said. “He said you’d understand.”

“I do understand, gentlemen, thank you. This is my gift of
gratitude for his quick thinking yesterday. He’s a hero, and once this story
breaks, the city will know it.” Yeah, I learned to lie in my cradle.

They lifted the vault to a dolly and rolled it into the
elevator, which was fortunately still operating. Upstairs, the cubicle farm had
been dismantled while the fire clean-up people did their thing. It looked like
the worst of the damage had been done to the conference room. Maybe Patra had
done them a favor and insurance would buy them new computers.

Work had apparently been moved to the unscathed executive
offices. Salvaged metal desks were crammed into carpeted offices beside
polished mahogany ones. It made for a claustrophobic anthill, but the
inhabitants seemed to be enjoying the heck out of it.

One of the exec desks was covered in coffee makers and
donuts.

People watched with curiosity — these were reporters,
after all — as the vault was wheeled to a tight corner where Sean sat, his
bandaged foot propped on a drawer pulled out from a nearby desk.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand,” he said without
sarcasm, for a change.

I don’t like spies, but he’d been on our side often enough
that I tolerated him. And he had prevented Patra from getting her head blown
off. That was worth something. “Got a screwdriver?”

Not even raising my voice, I had everyone in the room
hunting drawers for tools. Definitely not the time or place for trading
secrets. But I had a more evil idea in mind — provided, of course, there
was more than comic books in there.

“If those are Bill’s files,” I pointed at the box as a
screwdriver was passed across the room, “I need #1143. I give you free rein to
access all the rest. The name of the people who set the fire could be on one of
them.”

Sean’s eyes widened in appreciation. I’d just set some of
the world’s best investigative reporters into hunting through audio files for
revenge. I only knew that one of Bill’s clients was Smitty, and that was the CD
I wanted. I didn’t have time to listen to all the files to find other relevant
ones. But a roomful of reporters…

Popping the lock was a piece of cake with the screwdriver.
Once upon a time I’d amused myself by placing childish scribbling in one of
these and leaving it locked in a closet to see which of the servants couldn’t
be trusted. The answer — most of them. Vaults simply summon visions of
glimmering jewels and gold for some reason.

Bill’s stacks of CDs, USBs, and a few external drives brought
crestfallen expressions once I had the box open. Even experienced reporters fell
for the exciting prospect of Aladdin’s treasure. But they quickly returned to
business, understanding that I’d brought them information — the next best
thing to gold.

Sean passed out stacks of CDs while searching through the
neat labels. He produced #1143 and handed it over.

“Will you tell me what’s on it later?”

“If I can. It may be of national security importance, so I
make no promises. I’ll ask the same of you.” At his agreement, I left a room
full of slavering reporters happily dividing the stacks.

I didn’t see Leonard anywhere outside when I headed for the
Metro, but I made sure to check over my shoulder when I got off. He knew where
I lived, so the precaution was simply to determine how successful I’d been with
the taxi trick.

I didn’t see him anywhere, but I entered the house through
the back alley and the kitchen anyway. Of course, Graham knew the instant I
returned.

Patra’s perspective

Reporting to Broderick’s Human Resources office promptly
at nine, Patra wondered if any of the people watching her knew she’d been in
the competition’s office the day before. With Riley spying on her, she felt as
if her every move was observed. Wearing her highest heels, she gave them lots
of hip-swaying motion to follow. Her office attire today was a red pencil skirt
cut above her knees, a matching bolero jacket that barely skimmed her waist,
and a tank top that showed cleavage.

The dragon lady in HR scowled at Patra’s attire. The tall,
portly, gray-haired gentleman reading through a file showed far more approval.
“The new hire?” he asked, indicating Patra with a tilt of his head.

She hated being dismissed as an object. Donning a brilliant
smile, she held out her hand. “Patra Llewellyn, sir. May I have the pleasure?”

He barely gripped her fingers and gave a single handshake
hinting of disapproval at her brashness. “Archibald Broderick. You’ll be working
in entertainment?”

Oh, rats, she should have had her tape recorder turned on to
capture his voice for analysis.

“
Sir
Archibald
Broderick,” dragon lady inserted with an air of importance.

“Oh my, sir, a true pleasure.” Patra would have bobbed a
curtsy if her skirt allowed. His attitude seemed to demand it, but mostly, she
wanted more time to study this man her father had despised. He appeared
distinguished, impatient, and wealthy, like hundreds of men she’d met in her
mother’s company. “Yes, Mr. Smedbetter just hired me for entertainment news. I
have a few useful connections.”

“Excellent, excellent. Our company supports loyal,
hard-working employees. I look forward to seeing your work.” He walked out, a
busy man who should never have been in HR at all. Strange.

Dragon lady dismissed Patra with a packet of material. An
intern led Patra to her desk in the cubicle farm.

Apparently, access to the computer network wasn’t
immediately granted. Patra had to read the packet of material to determine what
it would take to enter BM’s precious archives —
seniority and a security pass
. Damn. She needed Ana’s hacking expertise.
Or maybe she could fly in their little brother, Tudor, the computer genius.