Cyber Genius (33 page)

“Of course,” Graham said stonily, with heavy emphasis.

“Oh crap.” I got his message. I didn’t like it. I tried
picturing that small room packed with people and shook my head. “I don’t
believe she’d dirty her hands like that.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, heading out a back door near the
Metro. “But who do you think had more power to order someone to black out the
safe room, Wyatt or Louisa?”

I’d been thinking Wyatt had texted Livingston, but Louisa
probably had bodyguards who could have crossed the wires without even involving
Livingston. Crap, and double crap. I wanted to go home to my relatively sane
family.

“
Louisa
wanted to keep
the spyholes?” I asked incredulously.

But now I remembered where I’d see the rose pin similar to
one Livingston had been wearing. Louisa Stiles—a Rose supporter?

Graham didn’t answer. He just kept stalking across the
parking lot, his long legs outstripping mine.

Surely he wasn’t taking me to the damned Metro? “What, no
helicopter to whisk us to safety?” I asked, seeing nothing that would take us
anywhere.

I was agog with curiosity. Graham never showed himself in
public, and the Metro was as public as it could get. Besides, I hadn’t had time
to rescue my ghastly green coat. I was about to freeze my buns off.

He flung his scrubs in the nearest trash can. Underneath, he
wore dark trousers and a long-sleeved heavy knit black sweater pushed up to his
elbows. “Go home,” he said. “I’ve got clean-up to do.”

“I hate you. I really hate you,” I told him, tagging on his
heels. “You can’t hint at Louisa’s involvement and walk away.”

“Stephen told me she’s a closet Rose supporter. He was
afraid she was involved in the program cover-up, which was why he was so
furious. If even Stark doesn’t know that, we can’t prove anything.”

Before I could formulate a retort, Graham hauled me off my
feet and kissed away any form of thought. All my frost melted.

He dropped me as abruptly as he’d kissed me. “Go home, Ana.
You’ve done what I paid you to do. I’ll take it from here.” He walked faster
and slipped into the shadows before we reached the Metro.

I ran to the place where he’d disappeared—a dark alley I
didn’t want to enter. A motorcycle roared out the other end, in the opposite
direction.

Damn the man, I should have kicked his shins when I had the
chance.

But the kiss had been infinitely more satisfying in ways I
wasn’t prepared to consider.

Tudor’s Take:

Tudor applied the final code to the O/S patch, backed it
up, and shot it off to his cracking new friend in MacroWare’s programming
department. The swot had caught him cyber-digging in the files, only because
he’d been doing the same. Ana had apparently sent the MW employees back to work
with fire blazing in their eyes. After these last few hours, Tudor was
confident the crew he’d been working with intended to memorialize Stiles by
updating all the beta programs overnight.

Once the holes were closed, his wonky cookie monster would
be blocked. And the blokes would go looking for whomever or whatever had warped
it. For now, they’d taken his code apart and created an anti-virus. And they
had servers back online so emergency services should be up and running shortly.

He slumped over the desk and tried to summon his next move.

“Dinner,
now
,” the
intercom on the desk spluttered.

He snarled, but that was Ana’s voice. She was home.

The rush of relief felt weird. Needing to verify that no
harm had come to his nutter half-sister, he glanced at the computer clock. It
was late for dinner. Mallard must have held it off until she arrived.

With a gut-load of trepidation, Tudor jogged down the stairs,
lured by the aroma of pizza well laden with pepperoni.

The whole bloody family had gathered in the dining room—even
Patra
. He couldn’t remember how long
it had been since he’d seen this many of his family in one place. Patra was
actually looking all grown up in a business suit, with her hair done up fancy—a
lot like their mother. Tudor tried not to stare. Head down, he headed for the
only empty place setting at the bottom of the table.

“We can’t talk with a reporter at the table,” Ana warned as
he sat down. She helped herself to the salad bowl while EG grabbed pizza
slices.

“I can keep secrets,” Patra insisted. “I helped, didn’t I? I
get to know what’s going on and won’t send in anything until you tell me it’s
okay. Provided you agree to tell me it’s okay.”

Tudor tried to ignore the give-and-take. He grabbed two
slices of pizza.

“Will the news get you the D.C. post?” Nick asked.

Looking particularly daft in his open-necked shirt and
scarf, Tudor’s half-brother lifted a glass of wine to admire it. Nick was a
useless twit most of the time, but Tudor sensed he knew more than he said. The
talk about jobs flew right over his head though.

“It might,” Patra answered him in satisfaction. “I just sent
in a story interviewing the hotel’s kitchen staff about the many ways poison could
be introduced to food. It blew my boss’s lid off. The station is sending their
top reporters to steal my MacroWare story, but if I could get a scoop on who
saved the day . . .” She waited hopefully.

No one replied. Feeling the silence, Tudor glanced up from his
pizza to see all eyes turned expectantly in his direction. He scrunched his
shoulders and tried to disappear, but that wasn’t happening.

He glared. “I just sent a working patch for the spyhole to MacroWare’s
office, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re pretty rattled and still trying
to route around the sabotaged servers, but they’re installing the patch tonight.
That should stop my monster.” He dug his teeth into the pizza so he didn’t have
to say more.

Ana picked up a breadstick and threw it down the table at
him. Her aim was blamed accurate. It bounced off his nose. He grabbed it and
set it on his plate and scowled, waiting for the usual interrogation.

“Good job, sport,” she said. “No more hacking contests for
you, right? The cookie monster dies here?”

Just a little chuffed, Tudor nodded and felt the weight of
the world lift from his shoulders.

“And MIT in your future?” EG asked with delight. “You’ll be
over here next year?”

Tudor looked to Ana, who smiled as if she actually
anticipated that moment. And maybe she did. Maybe he actually was part of the
family, however crazed.

And maybe he was even all right with not being a lone wolf
all
the time. The pizza was better here,
anyway.

***

Ana Does Supper

“If you get the D.C. job with our story, you have to start
taking responsibility for some of the family,” I said, pointing at Patra.

She looked a little confused. “What can I do? Tudor will be
heading back to London, won’t he?”

“This is a generic, all-purpose promise to cover whatever
happens next.” I was damned if I would be the family doormat forever. We all
had to be responsible for each other, and we had to make that promise even before
I discovered if we could buy mansions.

“I’ll try,” she agreed dubiously. “Just don’t ask me to be a
Girl Scout leader.”

“You’ll do it if EG asks,” I said, even though EG looked
horrified at the thought.

“And where is our glorious leader?” Nick inquired, filling
his salad bowl again.

Mallard had thoughtfully waited until I had reported my
arrival time before putting the pizzas in the oven. Out of respect for his
efforts, I helped myself to a large slice. I wasn’t fond of pepperoni but the
marinara smelled wonderful.

“If you’re talking about asshat Graham, I assume he’s on his
way to anonymously feed his police source everything we know, including a
recorded confession and a lot of damning phone numbers. If he doesn’t, I’ve got
my backup.” I held up Tudor’s old phone. “Copy this and give me mine back,
please.” I shoved the phone down the table toward my hacker genius brother.

Patra grabbed the phone mid-table and hit the play button.
Tudor tried to snatch it away but once the unfamiliar male voice emerged from
the gadget, they quit squabbling and listened.

I was uncomfortable with sharing, but they’d all played a
part in unraveling this mystery and deserved a few answers. There were a lot of
questions still hanging out there, but I wasn’t the FBI or the cops. Kita and
Wyatt had died at the hands of men with enough arrogance and power to hire
goons with guns. We had enough evidence to show that Wyatt had killed Hilda,
Stiles, and his brother. That didn’t mean the buck stopped there. It just meant
I’d done my job—for now.

Authorities bigger than I was needed to bring down the brains
behind the brawn. With corporations and top execs and untouchables like Louisa
Stiles involved, I just didn’t see it happening anytime soon.

Maybe, once we had our millions . . .

No, I could only use
my
share of the money for mayhem. The rest of my half-siblings were entitled to
their own choice of rewards—once they reached an age of responsibility, of
course. I’d have to work that out if the money was ever ours, but we’d never be
in the same tax bracket as Senator Rose and Louisa Stiles—maybe not even the
same universe.

“We need Wilhelm and Adolph’s confessions,” Patra decided
once the recording had played. “Wyatt’s dead and can’t give us any answers.
What about the gunmen who killed Kita and Wyatt? Can we track them?”

“I think Euan, Kita’s friend, will give the police what Kita
knew once she feels safe. That should nail Wilhelm and Adolph,” I said, knowing
I’d saved this witness for a reason. We’d finally found her a job at an embassy
that preferred vegetarian dinners.

“The police should be able to find Wyatt’s killers from
Stark’s phone records,” I continued, “but the goons will be long gone
underground if they’re any good at all. The gunmen won’t know a thing about
Stiles or who hired them. Murder on this level isn’t a quiet little affair of
wife shooting hubby. There are multiple levels of cover-up, and the cops only
look at the first—and that’s Wyatt. They won’t go for the root of the evil.
Those people will have to be dug out just as if they’re terrorists, which they
are, in their own way.”

Patra brightened. “Now
there’s
a story. Money is the root of all evil. I’ll start digging into Goldrich.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “This is why Graham doesn’t
want us here. Someone at Goldrich quite possibly hired assassins
.
Does this not ring any warning
alarms?”

Since Patra’s father had been murdered by the clique of
wealthy politicians affiliated with Senator Paul Rose and Top Hat, she at least
had the sense to hesitate.

“Pick another firm,” Nick suggested. “They all play the same
games.”

“But Goldrich was essentially responsible for the death of
good people,” Patra protested. “Wyatt may have been the trigger, but Goldrich
was his motive.”

“I’ll take care of Goldrich,” I said with satisfaction. “I
have a plan that won’t involve guns and poison. You just find a nice safe bank
to investigate. And should you turn up an honest investment firm, let me know.”

All except Tudor waited expectantly for explanations. I took
a bite of pizza and chewed contentedly.

The silence grew long enough that even Tudor finally looked
up from grazing his way through an entire plate of pizza, including the crust.
He apparently processed the last part of our conversation through his
formidable computer of a brain, glanced at me, and shrugged.

“She’s going to launder money,” was all he said—because
really, what else do you do with a filthy rich mortgage banking system that
kills good people?

“We’re going to MIT as soon as you book the train,” I told
him proudly.

***

I didn’t actually intend to launder money, although I had
taken a few courses. I knew how world-class crooks transferred funds to
terrorists and into their own pockets without anyone realizing what they were
up to. In this digital age, the ways are countless and really don’t require a
lot of imagination.

But according to my research, the Swiss bank account that
Graham had aimed me at contained our grandfather’s money and was thus
legitimately ours. Our millions were being held hostage by an antiquated
banking system that needed a wake-up call.

It was closing in on midnight. I was totally wiped after an
entire day of pretending I was an extrovert. I probably should have gone to
bed. But isolation restores my energy, and mischief makes me happy. I sat in my
basement office, humming, as I delved through the as-yet-unpatched beta system
of Goldrich’s favorite banking committee. While my Whiz worked its way through
boring financial files, I opened the nifty little netbook Tudor had hijacked
from the MacroWare offices.

Huh, the netbook operating system had the spyhole, too. Who
had been spying on whom? I’d look a little later but figured it was interoffice
politics and one asshat snooping on the other.

It was too damned easy for technology to
spy
these days. We had absolutely no
privacy. The Whiz was protected by Graham’s tech, but it wasn’t protected from
Graham.

The hole in the banking committee’s firewall made it easy to
find a file that would auto-send to Goldrich with my remote access attachment. Remote
access sounds really cool when we talk about accessing a home computer from
work or watching a puppy from a smart phone. Computer technicians use the program
to remotely clean computers—normally with permission from the computer’s
owners. Graham had made a few adjustments.

As I said, nothing is private anymore.

Once I had my little worm past Goldrich’s firewalls, I could
roam their data mechanically, reading through the files on the Whiz as if they
were my own. See? Technology just makes it too damned easy. Who needs drones?
If the government would just learn how to manipulate computers distantly, they
could wipe out entire countries with the push of a button. Heck, hackers do it
all the time, except they stick to small potatoes like identity theft and credit
cards.