Cyber Genius (19 page)

Another round of “shots” fired, and my captives scrambled
for safety.

Rounding up my kitchen help wasn’t as easy. I couldn’t tell
if Maggie recognized me, but she followed when I signaled Adolph and shoved her
in his direction. Adolph had no reason to respond to my signal, except he’d
seen the VIPs go that direction. Human nature being what it is, he followed
them.

Tudor, blessedly, hurried into the fray. He caught Wilhelm
and urged him to follow his fellow workers.

Our departure raised the level of urgency, even though there
was still no visible gunman. The black-suited ushers were attempting to wrangle
the panicked crowd toward the main doors. A few intrepid independents broke
free and followed us. I couldn’t blame them. I just slammed the door closed
after Tudor and a few of his geek buddies entered.

I had hoped Tudor would steer hotel management in this
direction, but they knew the floor plan and had apparently found better exits.
Dang, I really wanted their reactions.

The lights were already on in the salon we entered. Tudor’s map
of the hotel had worked excellently. Apparently designed for the privacy of
important guests, the salon sported shiny chandeliers and gilt-edged plaster
molding, and no windows.

Most of our guests actually relaxed in the illusion of
safety. Wilhelm attempted to depart through a far door, but Tudor, tall and
officious in Nick’s pricey black blazer, blocked the exit with enough authority
to deter him.

“We’re safe here,” I announced to the crowd. Even in my
heels, I was shorter than everyone. But I stood against the white door and
looked enough of a grim authority figure in my black suit to command attention.
Heads swiveled my way. I set down my case and crossed my arms.

“Thomas was afraid of this and arranged for your comfort
until security can clear the main room,” I said solemnly, hiding my glee at stealing
Graham’s nom de plume.

“Thomas was afraid someone would
shoot
at us?” Bates asked incredulously. He was one of the taller
people in the room. Maybe that gave him confidence. Or maybe Louisa Stiles
clinging to his arm did. “Why didn’t he warn us?”

“Madmen are not reasonable or predictable,” I said in my
best placating tones. Of course, if the killer was in here, he knew I was lying
through my pretty white teeth. Guns were not his modus operandi. “If someone,
for whatever reason, has a grudge against MacroWare, what better place to carry
it out than a public occasion like this one? We can hope the police are closing
in on him now.”

“That is no madman,” Hilda Starks said indignantly. “My son,
he told me—”

Ah hah—so our execs
knew
what they were dealing with.

“Hilda,” Louisa Stiles said sharply, dropping Bates’ arm.
“We do not know all the people in this room.”

The attention of the expensively dressed crowd instantly
zeroed in on Maggie and Adolph, the conspicuous white-coated kitchen staff.
There were “others” in here that they didn’t know, but the kitchen staff, for
the most part, stood out. I wanted an Academy Award for improvisation.

“
They
are the
people who poisoned the soup!” Hilda cried in booming accusation. “What are they
doing here? Who invited them?”

Wilhelm ducked his head. I couldn’t tell if he was hiding or
embarrassed. He wasn’t wearing white, so no one noticed him but me.

Angry murmurs rippled through my sophisticated crowd. Poor
Maggie looked as if she wanted to run.

The intrepid outsiders who had sneaked in with us began to
look longingly at the doors Tudor and I blocked. But screaming alarms and
pandemonium could be heard on the other side of the wall, so they tried to make
themselves invisible while verbal gunfire burst over their heads.

“The gentleman who cooked the soup is dead, you’ll
remember,” I said with what I hoped was just the right note of regret.

In the back of the room, Maggie was now straightening her
shoulders and looking at me strangely. Well, I knew I’d be taking a chance
there.

“
He
hired the
killer,” good ol’ Hilda insisted, pointing at Adolph. “Why is he in here and
not out there with the shooter like everyone else? Did he know this would
happen?”

She might be a loan shark, but I adored the annoying old
lady for making my job easier. I left Adolph to defend himself.

“I hired Kita at Mr. Stiles’ request,” Adolph said stiffly.
“Kita is dead and is not out there shooting now. We are all still in danger as
long as the real murderer is free.”

Yay, Adolph
. I had
thought he’d be an ingratiating toady to these people. Never underestimate the
arrogance of an artiste, I reminded myself.

“It was Wilhelm who made the vegetables,” Maggie offered
with a clear gleam of malice in her eye. “Is that not where the botulism was?”

Presumably, only the kitchen staff and I knew who Wilhelm
was. Adolph had managed to keep his name away from the cops as well as HR, so
his name was new to the bigwigs. I hid my triumph at finally having his part
explained and waited for Hilda to go after him with a big stick. But for a
change, the tough old lady held her tongue and actually seemed to squirm.

Wilhelm edged for the door I was guarding, probably thinking
I was a pushover. I hid my smile and waited for his move with anticipation.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hilda finally said with a sniff,
constitutionally unable to hold her tongue or keep a secret. “Wilhelm is a good
boy. A little misguided, perhaps, but he would not use anything except the
freshest ingredients.”

Oh, ho, a connection! I didn’t know to what, exactly, but
Louisa Stiles asked for me.

“Who is Wilhelm?” Louisa questioned accusingly, eyeing
Hilda. “You know Stephen only allowed pre-screened personnel to prepare his
food.”

I
hadn’t known
that. I tried to maintain impassivity and keep an eye on the tall, skinny cook
with the pathetic goatee.

“
Your
Stephen
hired the Jap who nearly killed my Bob!” Hilda shrieked, revealing her
underlying ignorance, since there’s a substantial difference between Korea and
Japan. “Do not tell me of this pre-screening. My nephew had as much right to
cook as the soup killer.”

Wilhelm was her nephew? Cogs began to click.

Standing guardedly beside Tudor—she had us
sooo
tagged—Maggie spoke. “Wilhelm
plated both the vegetables and the soup, but he’s an
illegal
, just like Kita. Being illegal does not make them killers.”

Except Kita purportedly had obtained his papers. Wilhelm had
not.

Maggie shoved Tudor aside to walk out. Tudor let her go.

At the same time, Wilhelm dived for me. I’d been waiting for
this moment. I didn’t like being thought weak just because I’m small, so I took
down aggressors with great glee.

I kicked the much taller cook in the nuts with my pointed
pumps. Once he bent over with a groan, I karate-slammed the back of his neck.

And that was when the fire bomb fell through the ceiling.

Tudor’s Take:

Crikey
! The
whole bloody ceiling caved in a spark blast. Chandeliers fragged into flying
glass knives. Plaster dust spewed. Electric wires arced like a game gone 3D.
And of course, the blooming lights went out.

Coughing on smoke and dust, Tudor had no clue what was
happening, but he opened the hall door and began steering out the coughing,
screaming prats who’d just been bickering like first-termers. If he caught
their hands or coats, he yanked them toward the exit.

With a sickening twist in his gut, he heard what sounded
like real gunfire—and not his barmy fire crackers.

Ana!

Hadn’t she just taken down the bad guy with one of her
wicked kung-fu moves?

A big man almost knocked Tudor over, shouldering him aside
in his haste to escape. To avoid being trampled, Tudor had to retreat to the
hall with his back against the wall. The crowd spilled past him in panic,
nearly bowling over police and hotel security rushing this way. Heart pounding
in terror, he waited to see if Ana emerged. She had been on the far side of the
room, next to the ballroom. Maybe she’d escaped that way.

Mrs. Stiles finally stumbled out, coughing, her jacket
coated in dust and smoking with little holes from the sparks. Swallowing his
fear for Ana, Tudor peeled off the wall and offered a respectful arm in the smoky
darkness. If he couldn’t reach his sister, he could aid his hero’s widow. “There’s
a ladies room just ahead. I’ll tell the police you’re there after they’ve
cleared the area.”

She nodded shakily and actually clung to his arm to let him
escort her. Tudor felt six-feet tall and... terrified.

What the bloody hell had they done?

***

Ana’s perspective:

Before the ceiling collapsed, I had seen Tudor at the far
door. Once the lights blacked out, I couldn’t shove through pandemonium to
reach him. He was smart enough to get out on his own. I kicked around where I’d
last seen Wilhelm, but he’d apparently crawled out of reach of my feet. I
grabbed my attaché instead.

Without light, we were all stumbling around in the dust. I
heard what sounded like Mrs. Stiles properly castigating some poor peon. Others
of her wealthy cast and crew were cursing at each other and making a push for
both exits. I heard Hilda’s accent grow angrier and the toad who’d been sitting
beside me raised his voice. I ignored them in favor of escape before the
ceiling collapsed.

Whatever had scorched through the plaster had burned out
quickly. Maybe it had only been an electrical fire, but it had damned well kept
me from learning anything useful. I was furious enough to want to punch
someone, but I couldn’t tell who I’d be punching.

The lights in the ballroom had been doused as well, I
discovered when I finally located the door grip. Pure blackness greeted me, but
no smoke.

I froze at the gunshot in the salon behind me.

A woman screamed, and a dozen people attempted to trample me
in their rush to escape into the ballroom. I had no means of holding back a
panicked mob, even if one might be a murderer—or at the very least, Wee Willy.

Double foul word.

Without my handy army jacket, I was essentially weaponless.
I clung to my attaché case, but I hadn’t thought to add a flashlight to its
contents. I needed to know what was happening, dammit. I flattened myself
against the door jamb and aimed my cell phone light into the dust cloud, hoping
to see Tudor or maybe a silhouette with gun in hand.

Following the light I provided, my captives shoved past me
to stumble into the darkened ballroom. The main doors on the far side of the
ballroom crashed open to reveal squares of light from the central atrium as
hotel security dashed to the rescue.

I couldn’t see any guns in the dim beam from my phone.

A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me in the opposite
direction from the incoming police. I could have broken his wrist, but I sensed
Graham in that masculine grip. Since I wasn’t in any humor to be interrogated
by cops, I followed him.

Graham wasn’t a talker at the best of times, and this
certainly wasn’t one of our better moments. We ran to the back of the ballroom
and out the stage door through which our distinguished guests had entered—and
departed—an eon or so ago. Time was irrelevant. My heart was pounding too hard
for my brain to hear myself thinking.

“The gunman is escaping,” I finally pried past my tongue as
he tugged me into one of those dreadful concrete block stairwells.

“He’ll have washed his hands of residue by now. You
practically offered him his victim on a silver platter.” He nearly jerked my
arm off when I tried to pull away.

I didn’t even know who the victim was.

Graham’s insult got my blood flowing again. I ran up the
stairs after him, while trying to dig my fingers into the pressure point above
his elbow to make him release me. The maneuver would have brought any normal
man to his knees. Graham deflected me without a flinch, damn the man.

“The whole friggin’ memorial was a set up,” I argued,
although I’d only just realized that. “Were those
your
men leading us all to the front?”

“I had security by the podium—not in the damned salon.” On
the landing on the floor above the ballroom, he pushed open a fire door. The
lights weren’t on up here either.

“Yeah, well, your security sucks,” I retaliated, still
frightened but growing more irritated.

I could see flashlights on the far end of the corridor and
hear men shouting. Graham yanked me through a doorway into a laundry room. He
opened a rear door into an unlit service hall. It was a damned rabbit warren
back here. He flicked on a handheld LED to keep us from falling over laundry
bins and cleaning carts.

“Where’s hotel management?” I asked. “I saw them in the
ballroom. They should be in charge of fixing this mess.”

I was almost back to normal now. I hoped he was leading me
to the area over the not-so-safe room so I could see how we’d been invaded. “That
side room
should
have been secured.
That’s what it was designed for. Your communication leaves a lot to be
desired.”

He didn’t argue with my conclusion.
Ha
! Of course, he really wasn’t saying anything, period. In my
nervousness, I was doing all the talking.

We halted behind the service wall when we heard the voice of
authority shouting commands on the other side. I sighed with impatience as I
realized the cops and firemen and hotel management were all shouting
conflicting instructions.

“Do they even know someone may have been shot down there? Don’t
you have a friend to buzz?” I asked in disgust, finally hearing Brian
Livingston, the hotel manager, yelling at his maintenance workers. By the time
his maintenance crew got finished trampling around, there wouldn’t be a shred
of evidence left.