Love After All (32 page)

T
his was it.

Samantha looked skyward at the massive structure in front of her. Cooperman Enterprises looked like any ordinary office building, except it was bigger and grander with a well-defined hint of superiority. Climbing above the clouds, the building seemed to go on forever as huge smoke-coated windows surrounded the street level, blocking any hint of visibility.

She entered the main lobby, then walked directly to the security desk and announced her name. The guard made a phone call confirming her appointment. After a few minutes he nodded, then hung up and asked her to follow him. She did. They walked to the bank of elevators down a wide marble hall. He stopped at the last elevator, inserted a familiar-looking key and the elevator doors opened instantly.

He held them open as she got on. He followed and inserted the same key. The penthouse light illuminated. “Mr. Cooperman's assistant will meet you,” he said, then turned and got off just as the elevator doors closed.

As the elevator climbed to the penthouse, Samantha used the time to calm her nerves. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. But still, every nerve in her body was on edge. She adjusted her jacket and casually released the first button on her camisole, exposing the soft swell of her breasts.

Seconds later the doors opened and a prim angular man stood smiling, backlit by white lights. “Please follow me, Mr. Cooperman is expecting you,” he said softly. She nodded and followed him down a brilliantly lit white marble hall to a sparkling glass door beyond which everything was even whiter, gleaming as intensely as the sun. She winced at the brilliance. Then as soon as she entered the private suite she smelled the distinct odor and sneezed.

George's assistant turned to her instantly, seemingly bemused. He knocked on the door and opened it. She walked in. “George, may I call you George?” she asked. He nodded. “George,” Samantha said, clearing her throat as she was escorted into his office by his assistant. George was seated at his desk typing on his laptop computer. Samantha smiled broader, focusing on the desk in the center of the room. Perfect timing, at least she didn't have to get him to turn it on.

George stood up, greeting her. Dressed in a formal business suit, he straightened his tie, readjusted his buttoned vest and grabbed his jacket, putting it on as he approached.

“Ms. Lee,” George said, walking toward her nodding to dismiss his assistant. “I'm delighted you called this morning. I was just thinking about you.” He quickly assessed her, glancing briefly at her face, then down to her tailored pantsuit and the lacy silk camisole beneath. His smile looked overwhelmingly pleased.

“Really? What a coincidence, I was just thinking about you, too.” Clearing her throat once more, she looked around admiringly as George beamed. “Excuse me, I think I'm a bit nervous meeting you again.” The flattery worked like a charm. George was overjoyed by the effect he presumably had on her.

“No need to be nervous, my dear, we're all friends here. Perhaps a glass of water?”

She looked around to see if he had a water pitcher, but he didn't. “Oh, no, don't bother, I'm sure I'll be fine in a few minutes.” She walked farther in and looked around the huge white room. “George, thank you so much for sending the limo to pick me up, that was so sweet.”

“You're very welcome, no trouble at all.”

“Want to hear a secret?” she asked. He nodded eagerly. “I love the beach, but I must confess I love the city even more—the shopping, the theater and the museums, I love them. There's an exciting energy in the city that you just can't deny. I think it kind of recharges me.”

George nodded, looking amazed. “I completely agree. As a matter of fact, I said something quite similar in an interview years ago.”

“Is that right?”

“It looks like we have something in common.”

“I'm sure we have quite a bit in common, George,” she said sweetly.

“Yes, of course. So tell me, you and Jackson—”

“Oh, my, George,” she gushed excitedly, “your office is absolutely stunning.” She walked over to his white antique desk while slyly reaching into her jacket. “This is absolutely divine, French eighteenth century original, is it not?” she asked, already knowing the answer, having just read about him and his penchant for expensive things, particularly expensive and white, on the Internet.

“Good eye. Yes, it is. I purchased this piece at an auction a few years ago. As soon as I heard about it I had to have it,” he said suggestively.

“I can see why, it's incredible. I've never seen a desk like this in white. It's breathtaking. How is it possible?”

“It's a bleached-blond oak, quite rare, there's only three left in the entire world.”

“Remarkable.”

“This desk cost just over half a million dollars,” he said proudly, “but well worth the investment.”

“Wow,” she said, then cleared her throat again. “I can definitely see that. It's marvelous. May I?” she asked, preparing to walk around to the back.

“Of course,” he said happily. “Please, sit, get comfortable.”

She opened her jacket, drawing his eyes instantly to the form-fitting camisole, then sat down in the large white chair and gently touched the pallid wood surface. “Oh, wow, it feels so smooth.” She laid her cheek on the hard wood and inhaled. Her eyes shifted quickly as she felt the underside of the desk, then spread her arms wide, seemingly to accidentally connect with his laptop-computer ports.

“You have incredible taste, George,” she said, standing up and looking across the room. An abstract painting on the wall across the room caught her attention. “That is beautiful,” she gasped as her hand was busily attaching a small amplifier to his computer output.

George smiled and chuckled. “Thank you, my dear. That is an original Saunders.”

“Saunders, I've never heard of him. Is he a local artist?” The receiver in place, she removed her jacket and dropped it to cover the small amplifier wire attached to his computer. She coughed a few times to cover the clicking sounds.

“Are you sure you're all right? Perhaps water?”

“No, no, I'm fine, really, just a tickle.” She coughed again, prompting George to casually step away.

Yet true to form, George gushed about his taste in art, the price and how he was able to get it cheap by intimidating the seller. They walked over to the painting together. She examined it in detail, listening to his continued boasting.

When he finally finished, she turned and looked around the room, walking around admiringly. George followed, continuing to boast as she stopped to admire each piece.

“Come, have a seat with me.” She smiled as she led him to the Italian leather sofa across the room from his desk. “We should consult.”

“Yes, indeed, I'm looking forward to it.”

She sat down, clearing her throat. George sat down beside her just as her cell phone beeped twice. She excused herself and looked at the number, then pressed a few buttons and turned back to him. “I must say, George,” she began, then cleared her throat again and coughed. He leaned back slightly. “It was such a pleasure meeting you last night. I, of course, have read all about you in magazines. Your career, your business savvy, you are my idol. And of course, meeting you in person was a dream come true for me.”

George smiled and instantly began a two-minute biographical monologue and a self-accolade. She seemed completely enthralled, ignoring her cell phone as it beeped again.

George, a megalomaniac, impressed by her admiration of him, inched closer and suggested they have an early dinner at his private club. She was about to answer but instead began coughing uncontrollably. George moved away as she requested a glass of water. He stood, hurried to his desk and called his assistant to bring in a glass of water quickly.

She followed him, sitting down at his desk again. He backed away, giving her space. His assistant rushed in with the glass of water. He attempted to hand it to George, who in turn motioned for him to give the water directly to Samantha. Just as the assistant gave it to her she dropped it, splashing water all over the antique desk.

“Oh, no, I'm so sorry,” she exclaimed, moving his computer away quickly as George and his assistant secured the drenched papers and files. She began coughing again.

“Get more water,” George ordered his assistant, who instantly hurried out again.

“Oh, can I get mineral water possibly?” she asked as the coughing fit continued.

“Of course, of course,” he said anxiously, then reached over the desk to call his assistant again just as Samantha coughed near his hand. George instantly withdrew his hand, looking at it as if it were contaminated. “I'll go hurry it up,” he said, rushing to the office door, opening it just as his assistant attempted to knock with another glass of water. A brief conversation sent the assistant hurrying away to find mineral water, with George right behind him, wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

Samantha, finally in the office alone, went to work. With her jacket for cover she quickly entered several keystrokes, completing her program's retrieval. Then she disconnected the device and removed the computer hookup. It was done.

She quickly sat back just as seconds later George came bursting through the door, flying back across the room toward her. Her heart nearly stopped as she began coughing for real. She looked up, fearful that she had somehow overlooked a security device and she'd been caught. But to her relief George only rushed over to hand her the glass of mineral water. Her hands shook as she took the water and sipped it. Then, finally in control, she exhaled slowly.

“I'm so sorry, George, this is so embarrassing.”

“Not at all, dear, not at all,” he said, having backed away, retreating to the far side of the desk as far away from her as possible lest she cough on him again.

“Maybe we should just do this another time,” she suggested, knowing that she needed to leave quickly.

“Yes, yes, that would probably be best, of course.”

“Could I have a rain check on that early dinner, too?” she asked.

“Yes, anytime, just give me a call.” He began pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Once you're over your cough,” he added, walking to his office door.

She grabbed her jacket and gathered her purse from the sofa, then hurried to the door. “Thank you, George, I'll call you soon,” she said, reaching out to take his large hand. He withdrew slightly, nervous as their hands touched, but she didn't let go.

“Absolutely, I look forward to it,” he said, now anxious to get rid of her, knowing that he had no intention of seeing her again with or without the cough.

She squeezed his hand softly. “Thank you, George, it was good meeting you. Goodbye.”

“Likewise, goodbye,” he said as he wiped his hand, looking past her for his assistant. She walked out as his assistant rushed in past her with several cans of disinfectant spray.

As soon as she left the suite she removed the small device from her pocket and slipped it into her purse. The deed was done. She walked to the elevators and pressed the button. She realized that she'd been holding her breath the whole time since she'd left his office. Her heart was beating like she'd just run a mile in thirty seconds. She pressed the elevator button again and looked back at the suite entrance.

The door opened. Her pulse raced and her heart lurched. She expected George to come barreling out to stop her. But it was only one of his assistants carrying another can of disinfectant. He politely nodded and smiled and hurried by. She returned his silent greeting as the elevator arrived.

Once inside she looked up and watched impatiently as the numbers descended to the lobby. On the second floor the elevator stopped. Seconds later as the doors opened, she looked out nervously, expecting the worst. But instead, a familiar face greeted her.

Inwardly she smiled her relief, but knowing of course not to show any outward recognition while working, she nodded and stepped aside. Carrying a laptop-computer case, he stepped onto the elevator and stood beside her. They both looked forward as the doors closed and the elevator began moving again.

“How'd it go?” Jefferson asked softly.

“Perfect, just as expected,” she said just as softly.

“Good, are you ready to finish this?” he asked just as the elevator arrived on the ground floor. There was a slight pause.

“Definitely,” she said as the doors opened. They exited the elevator and walked in opposite directions from each other. Once outside she walked around the corner and caught a cab back to Jackson's beach house.

W
ith the long day behind him, Jackson arrived home late and exhausted. After his early-morning conversation with Shauna, the rest of the day—back-to-back meetings and a pointless talk with his father—was a blur. All he could think about was Samantha and Eric on the beach. The thought of her in cahoots with him made him sick. He knew that he should have confronted her earlier, but he couldn't. He needed time to think.

He dropped his briefcase on the foyer table and, walking into the living room, saw a house of cards precariously placed on the coffee table. Four tiers high, it looked as if it would fall and collapse at his feet at any minute. He sat down, picked up two cards and cautiously added them to the towering assembly.

The house of cards didn't move an inch. Apparently it was stronger than he thought. He picked up another two cards, and then hearing laughter he looked up and unconsciously grimaced. Samantha was here and he knew that he had to confront her. He stood, tossed the two cards back down on the pile, then followed the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

Samantha sat at the center counter with two laptop computers in front of her, connected through a series of cords and wires. She typed on one as she focused her attention on the other's screen. She looked up quickly and smiled. “Hi, welcome home. How was your day?”

“We need to talk,” he said, walking over to her.

“Okay, sure,” she answered without looking at the laptop screen. Her fingers busily pressed a series of keys, paused, then pressed several more keys. The screen blinked and then a long list of file names appeared. She stopped and turned to give him her full attention.

“What's all that?” he asked, looking over her shoulder at one of the screens.

She pressed another key, exiting the longer list and bringing up another list. She focused on the screen and pressed a key, then answered, “These are George Cooperman's files from his personal computer.”

“What? How did you get George Cooperman's personal computer files, break into his office and steal them?”

“Of course not,” she said stiffly. “I told you before, I'm not a criminal.”

“So, you figured out the program Lincoln gave us?”

“The program was faulty, essentially useless.”

“So how'd you get the files?”

“The same way he did.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned back to the computer, hit several keys, paused, then hit a few more. The screen cleared, then blinked to a new screen, and the Daley Communication logo appeared. “How did you do that?” he asked.

She pressed another button and files appeared. “I didn't. These files were already in George Cooperman's personal computer.”

“What? How did he get them?”

“As far as I can figure, he somehow got access to your mother's company files and had them transferred to his personal laptop.”

“How?”

“Any number of ways. If you had computer system problems, your company might have called in tech support from the outside. Cooperman might have bought them off beforehand. All he'd have to do is copy what he saw and then get paid.”

“Wait a minute, you mean to tell me that anybody can just sign onto another personal computer and copy their files?”

“It's possible.”

Jackson walked away from the counter and stood in the center of the kitchen. “When my mother died six months back, we needed to get into her personal computer files. We had an outside consultant come in.”

“That's a possibility.”

He turned, “So just anybody can do this.”

“No, of course not.” Then she paused to qualify the statement. “Well, not just anybody. You'd have to know quite a lot about computers. Remember, I'm a computer engineer, I specialize in software programming and detection. Once I got Cooperman's WEP key I—”

“Hold it, what's a WEP key?”

“Simply put, it's a single computer's password encrypted key. If you know the WEP you can get into that system from anywhere. Every computer has its own WEP.”

“So it's like a password?”

“Like a password, yes, but much more detailed. The WEP is composed of ten digits, both numbers and letters. Ordinarily it secures a computer against outside systems pirates. In this case it was used against you, so I used it the same way and it opened the system to me. So to get these files, Cooperman's files, I simply had to redesign and tweak a retrieval and master copy program I'd already created.”

“Simple, right?” he mocked.

“No, not quite. It took a while, all morning and most of the afternoon to get it set up just right. I also needed to embed another program to count down to expulsion in about—” She paused and looked at her watch. “Twenty-six hours.”

“Then you just walked into George's office while he was sitting there and copied the files from his personal computer.”

“No, of course not, George invited me to see his new artwork last night at your father's party. So, while I was there I returned the file Lincoln gave us.”

“You said that that program was faulty.”

“For our benefit, yes, but not for his. Lincoln gave us the elevator key, the password and the disc to George's computer knowing that we'd figure out that he had your mother's information. He wanted us to sneak into his office and get it back. I assumed that's when we'd get caught.”

“He could have blamed everything on us,” he said as she nodded. Jackson looked down at the screen at the listing of his mother's files. He shook his head. “You knew about Lincoln's disc this morning?”

“Yes.”

“What else haven't you told me?” he asked.

Samantha didn't answer. Instead she turned and cleared the screen of Daley Communications information and went back to Cooperman's files, knowing that it was better not to elaborate on the afternoon's events.

“Lincoln knows my father and introduced him to Eric,” Jackson said. “He told me this afternoon,”

She stopped searching the screens, leaned back and looked at Jackson. “That's interesting.”

“And my father has no idea what's going on. He actually thinks that he's getting something out of all this. I tried to tell him but Lincoln was right, he didn't believe me. He believed two con men over his own son.”

“Jackson,” Samantha said, “don't worry, we'll get everything back, I promise.”

“And how are you going to do that, Samantha? Call him, meet with him on the beach again?” He observed that she had no outward reaction. Their eyes hardened as they glared at each other.

“If you have something to say, Jackson, just say it.”

“Yeah, okay, I saw the two of you out there this morning.”

“I know. I wanted you to see us.”

“Why?”

She paused and considered how much to tell him. “Seeing Eric and me together was the easiest way to…”

“Get your point across that you're leaving,” he said, finishing her sentence.

“Yeah, something like that. I guess it didn't work as well as I assumed it would.”

“It worked well enough. I was furious until just now when I looked into your eyes.” She immediately looked away. “No amount of manipulation can change that.”

“You have no idea—”

“You're right,” he interrupted, “but I will, in time.”

“You are one stubborn man.”

He smiled for the first time that day. “Now tell me about you and Eric.”

“There's nothing much to tell. I've wanted revenge for months, but now, seeing him, it just doesn't seem worth it. I don't really care what happens to him.”

“I'm afraid that I can't be that objective. You see, my father gave him ten million dollars this morning to invest in some bogus scheme in hopes of making a fifty percent return. He also signed over his and my mother's company shared as collateral. That means it's over. We've lost. I tried all afternoon to contain this, but I couldn't.”

“About that—”

“Tell me something, do you have a police record?”

“No,” she said truthfully.

“But your fingerprints are on record, aren't they?”

“Are you referring to the IAFIS?”

“The what?”

“The Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. It's a national fingerprint bank and criminal history system maintained by the FBI. Yes, my fingerprints are on file. How did you know that?”

“Why are they on file?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jackson, but they're not on file with the police for a criminal history. I do computer work for them from time to time. You checked out my fingerprints?” she asked.

“No,” he said, looking away. “Someone else did, but that's not the point.”

“Shauna,” she guessed correctly. “So I guess she told you the rest.”

“What rest?”

“You know, Jackson, if I were going to con you I would already have done it. I don't need your money and I don't want your money. I was doing all this as a favor.”

“A favor for whom?” he asked.

“Rachel,” she said just as the telephone rang.

“What?” Jackson said, stunned by her answer.

“Get the phone,” she instructed.

It rang a second and third time. “What do you mean you're doing a favor for Rachel?” The phone rang a fourth time. He picked it up, listened and then hung up. “I need to go,” she nodded wordlessly, focusing on the computer screen again. “This isn't over. We'll talk about this when I get back,” he said, then immediately left.

Samantha watched him walk out, then turned back to the computer screen. She needed to finish looking for the files.

 

George Cooperman sat in his office as Lincoln entered.

“When is this thing going to happen?” he asked impatiently.

“I spoke with Mr. Hamilton this morning. Everything was on schedule. Marcus should have given him a ten-million-dollar certified check early this afternoon.”

“Excellent.” He smiled, nodding his head approvingly, “And the signed majority shares?”

“According to Mr. Hamilton, they were transferred first thing this morning.”

George nodded happily as he opened his personal laptop and glanced at the pirated files he'd acquired. It was the best five thousand dollars that he'd ever spent. He went into the search engine and looked for new files. There were none. He continued looking. “What about the break-in here? When will that happen?”

“I don't know exactly. Soon, I would imagine. Marcus must realize by now that Mr. Hamilton's missing.”

“Make sure that he's on a plane out of here. I don't want any last-minute problems. He got his money. Make sure he won't cause any trouble for us.” Lincoln nodded. George continued searching for the files from Eric.

“I haven't heard from him, he must already be gone.”

“I still don't like the fact that you gave them the system code and the elevator key. Damn it, where are those files?”

“We need to catch them in the act, but you can't personally be involved. That way there will be no question of your innocence and that Marcus put them up to stealing from you and planting evidence.”

“Has the code been figured out yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe this Ms. Taylor isn't as smart as you said she is.”

“I don't know what's taking so long. I'll contact them again this evening.”

“See that you do. I'm scheduled to appear before the grand jury again in two days. I want this new evidence presented then. I need to be completely exonerated,” he said as he continued searching. “Wait a minute. There's something wrong. The files aren't here anymore. Find Mr. Hamilton. I think he just tried to double-cross me.”

Lincoln nodded, stood, then left. As soon as he got to his office he used one of his disposable cell phones and called Eric but got no answer. He frowned. It was late and he should have been there by now. The thought occurred to him that Eric had taken the money and the shares and run as he'd joked earlier, but Lincoln knew better. Still, he needed to find him.

He took the service elevator down and left the building. He got in his car and tried calling Eric again. Vowing to strangle him upon his next opportunity, he shifted gears to drive off. Seconds later, he watched from his parking spot across the street as several police and unmarked cars arrived at the building. He turned on his blinker and drove away.

 

Eric quickly covered his face lest the bright lights melt him to ash. His head was on fire and his brains were charcoal briquettes. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. So speaking or opening his eyes was totally out of the question.