Run: A Novel (8 page)

“I’m not sure. Soon, probably. AmeriTel’s going to get creamed.”

“Tell me again what’s missing.” Hayes suddenly leaned in toward me.

“Two memory sticks, a set of keys, and a computer program.”

“How do you steal a computer program?” Wagner was scowling.

“You copy it.” I was surprised she didn’t know. “It’s easy.”

“It’s not like stealing, say, a valuable painting? You don’t need the original. Just a copy?”

“That’s right.”

“Then the original program’s still on your computer?”

“No. It’s gone.”

“How’s it gone?”

“The thieves must have deleted it. Securely. I can’t recover it.”

“So you touched the mouse and the keyboard and whatever else, as well as your front door? You’re a forensic nightmare, Marc.”

“Of course I touched them. How else could I be sure the program’s missing?”

“Here’s what I don’t understand.” Hayes was frowning. “Why delete the program after copying it? Why attract attention to what they’ve done?”

“I don’t know.”

“You see, Marc, in our experience, criminals don’t usually try to draw attention to their crimes.”

“I don’t know why they did it.” My voice betrayed a little of the annoyance I was beginning to feel. “I don’t know how criminals behave. Or think. Unless, maybe, they wanted to set me back? To give themselves a head start? To get the product to market ahead of me?”

“This program, it’s valuable?”

“You could say that. My whole future depends on it.”

“Valuable, as in a big insurance claim is on its way?”

“Of course not. It’s intangible. And it’s not finished yet. It’s not even a fully-fledged prototype. It’s so new, if it were a fetus, not even the Pope would lose sleep over it.”

“But you kept a copy for yourself, right? You can load it up and keep on going?”

“No. But I can rebuild what I’ve lost. That’s not the point. It—”

“Who knew you were working on this thing?”

“No one.”

“What about your wife?” Wagner asked. “The mysteriously absent Carolyn?”

“I told her I was starting something new, but nothing specific. She didn’t know how big it’s going to be.”

“Really? Your whole future depends on this one, mega-important thing, but you don’t even tell your wife?”

“I started to, but there wasn’t time to go through all the details. I’m saving that till she gets back.”

“You didn’t keep it from her because you think it’s
your
future, not
hers
?”

“No. Listen. I swear. It’s for both of us.”

“There’s no bad blood between you two?”

“None.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because your front door shows no signs of being forced …”

“No. Never. There’s no way in hell Carolyn’s involved with this.”

“Has anything else suspicious happened lately? Strange people hanging around the neighborhood? Anything like that?”

A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead as I recalled the woman asking for directions and the guys in the Mercedes, last night. They hadn’t just been hanging around the neighborhood. They’d been hanging around my house. Right before it was burglarized. And right when Carolyn had made very sure that I wouldn’t be there.

“No.” I swallowed my uneasiness. “Nothing I can think of.”

“Who else had a key?” Hayes asked.

“Well, we have a part-time housekeeper, Ramona. She has one, of course. And so do our neighbors, the Frankels. In case there’s a problem when we’re away.”

“Write down their details.” Hayes pushed her pad toward me.

“The keys, and the memory sticks,” Wagner said, as I scribbled the names and numbers. “When did you last see them?”

“Last night, before I went to bed.”

“You left the keys next to the computer?”

“Yes. With one of the memory sticks. The other was still connected to the computer.”

“In your study?”

“Yes.”

“Show us.”

PRETTY MUCH EVERY NEW VISITOR
follows the same routine the first time they enter my study. First they stare at the Lichtenstein. Then at the Eames lounge chair—I have a limited-edition white ash and cowhide version with a matching ottoman, which is a bit of an eye-catcher. Then at the shelves full of computer books, which most people would sooner poke their own eyes out than read. Then finally at the desk, which is made of glass so thin and so pure it makes the computer stuff look like it’s floating on air. But the detectives didn’t do any of that. They just took three paces into the room, stopped, and turned to face me.

“No keys,” Hayes said. “And no memory sticks. We can see that.”

“But what about the program?” Wagner asked. “It’s invisible. Intangible. How can we tell if it’s here?”

“How could a thief tell it was here?” Hayes raised her hands, palms upward, exaggerating her incredulity. “If Marc didn’t tell anyone …”

“Spyware,” I suggested. “On the computer. One of my competitors must have infected it, somehow.”

“Oh, you think they saw the earth-shattering genius of your new project, even at its pre-embryonic stage, and ran straight over to steal it while you took a nap?”

“I guess.”

“This spyware, it’s like a virus, right?” Hayes’ expression screamed,
You idiot
. “It works over the Internet?”

“Usually.”

“But if these rivals were monitoring your new program over the Internet, why didn’t they steal it over the Internet? Save themselves a lot of time and trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have anti-virus software?” Wagner asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why didn’t it pick up this spyware?”

“It must be something new. The hackers are always one step ahead.”

“And the hackers with their new virus picked you, even though no one knew you were working on this product? Not even your wife?”

“You must be in a tough business.” Hayes rolled her eyes. “Competing with clairvoyants.”

“If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t need you guys. Look, I thought you were supposed to investigate, and find out this stuff. Not just dump it back on the victim and start making insinuations.”

“Insinuations?” Hayes repeated. “I don’t think so. Back to the kitchen, Marc, where we can sit. I want more coffee, and you need to hear some home truths.”

WAGNER TOOK A MUG
this time, but she still declined to join Hayes and me at the table.

“You know when we first got here, we told you we were here to help?” Hayes pulled her hair back and tucked it behind her ears. “Well, I’ve listened to the story you’ve spun, and honestly? It’s up to you to help yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why did you call us, Marc?” Wagner asked. “I want the truth.”

“The break-in. The thefts. Why—?”

“Filing bogus reports.” Hayes shook her head. “Wasting police time. These are serious things. If that’s what you’re doing here, Marc, you’re going to bring a lot of heat down on yourself.”

“Wait a minute. You think I’m making this up? Because I closed my own front door? And used my computer? Seriously?”

“There’s no smoke without fire, Marc.” Wagner looked smug. “Ever heard that? Well, we have a different version. Do you know how ours goes?”

I didn’t respond.

“What we say is, there’s no tequila without bullshit.” She crossed to the garbage can and pulled out last night’s empty Patrón bottle. “Someone laid this soldier to rest. You? Last night? On your own?”

“How did you …” Then it dawned on me that leaving a pair of
detectives unsupervised in the house while I changed my clothes hadn’t been the wisest thing to do. “Forget that. Yes. I had a drink last night. But not the whole bottle. It was already three-quarters empty.”

“Any witnesses to that?”

Carolyn might have confirmed that the bottle had been opened, if I’d known where to find her. But it was fifteen hours since I’d seen her. And she might also have mentioned it was considerably more than a quarter full when she last set eyes on it.

I shook my head.

“Anyone see you working on your new program?” Wagner asked. “Or with these memory sticks?”

A couple of people did know about the memory sticks, obviously. But asking them would hardly be in my best interests, given how I came by the contents.

I shook my head again.

“I don’t know what your deal is.” Hayes paused. “Maybe you’re trying to scam your insurance? Or maybe you’re late with some work deadline, and you figure you can dodge a bullet by claiming your computer’s been messed with? But whatever it is—and I honestly don’t care—it’s not going to fly. You’re better off getting in front of it now. Trust me. Just tell us.”

“Once this goes to paperwork, our hands’ll be tied.” Wagner leaned in close and a chunky silver necklace jolted loose from the collar of her blouse, its stylized “J” swinging toward me like a tiny scimitar. “There’ll be zero wiggle room. It’ll generate a ton of trouble, and that trouble will all land on you. Whatever kind of mess you’re already in, you’ll make it a hundred times worse.”

“Is that what you want? Or would you prefer to be sensible?” Hayes didn’t make it sound like a question.

Alarm bells were ringing in my head. These two thought I was lying. If I took back what I’d said—which actually would be a lie—they’d take it as proof. They said they’d turn a blind eye, but what reason did I have to trust them? It would be easier to charge me with wasting police time or some bullshit like that than to catch whoever had stolen my program.

“You’re sticking to your story?” Hayes feigned shock. “Seriously?”

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

“So if we take your computer to the lab, they’re going to find a new spy virus lurking on it?”

“What do you mean, take my computer? You can’t take my computer. I need it.”

“Oh, but we can take it, Marc. You opened that door when you reported your program stolen. And if the lab doesn’t find a virus, meaning you’ve been jerking us around and wasting our time, you’re going to be in a whole heap of trouble. Why not be smart? Admit you’ve been hosing us the whole time.”

And walk straight into a trap? I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t. I couldn’t work without the computer. And I couldn’t work if I was in jail. If they even took me to jail. Maybe I could trust them not to. It was a gamble. But if I lost, going to jail—even overnight, waiting for the charges to be dropped—would bring a host of problems with it, down the road. Could I afford that? Carolyn had been right about one thing yesterday. The importance of reputation for consultants. You can’t expect people to share their corporate secrets with you if you’re under a cloud of suspicion. Even a stupid, unjustified cloud.

I was chasing my tail, going round and round in paralyzing circles, when the fog in my head cleared for a moment and I realized the answer was right in front of me. Well, en route to me, via messenger. Because I didn’t need that specific computer. Any computer with a high enough spec would do. And there was one on its way to my house as we spoke, courtesy of AmeriTel. In fact, it should have arrived yesterday, making the whole point moot.

“Detectives, you’re right.” I suppressed a smile. “Be my guest. Take the computer. I’ll help you carry it to your car, if you like …”

C
AROLYN WAS STILL MISSING. THE DETECTIVES HAD TAKEN MY
computer. And I was left alone again, with nothing but questions for company.

Who had broken into our house? Where had they gotten the key from, if that’s what they’d used? Were they the same guys I’d seen outside the night before, right after Carolyn had lured me away? How had anyone known I was working on something new? And what were they going to do with the files they’d stolen?

In fact, following the detectives’ visit there was only one thing I could be sure about: I was in a race. Someone was trying to beat me to market on the back of my own idea. They had my prototype. And they had my test data. I felt like a character in a Western, sucker-punched in a bar fight and left to watch helplessly as the faceless villain rode away on my horse.

There’s only a handful of people in the country who do what I do, and I know them all, to a greater or lesser degree. The competition gets a little fierce sometimes—a couple of the guys have monstrous egos—but I couldn’t imagine any of them going to these lengths to steal a march on me. And there was a self-defeating aspect to the whole thing, as well. Anyone who announced a product based on my concept would be outting themself as a thief. I daydreamed for a moment, reveling in the fantasy of publicly unmasking whoever had sandbagged me. Then I pulled myself back to reality. I had a job to do. And to do it, I was going to need the right tools. I took out my phone and called AmeriTel.
It was time to find out what had become of the equipment they said they’d return.

It was Roger LeBrock who’d made the promise, so I tried his number first. It rang for what seemed like half an hour, then dropped me into voicemail. I left him a message—without wasting the effort it would have taken to keep the irritation out of my voice—then moved on to Simon Wakefield. I couldn’t reach him either, so I tried his deputy. Then the IT department’s helpdesk number. And finally, the switchboard. I got no answer from any of them. Surely the whole company couldn’t have been told to blackball me? Then another explanation popped into my head. The clock had crept past noon. The bandwidth auction would be over. AmeriTel might have sunk without a trace.

I opened the browser on my phone and searched for news. There were plenty of stories about AmeriTel on the business pages. But they weren’t reporting a disaster for the company. They were shouting about a triumph. AmeriTel had trounced its competitors—its bigger, richer, better-connected competitors—and walked away with the plum allocations in four of the five major auction categories.

The news was nothing short of miraculous. To do well in one category would have been a coup. But in four? The stress had been etched into LeBrock’s face yesterday. He’d obviously been pouring his lifeblood into AmeriTel’s bid. At the time I’d thought he was showing the defiance of a dead man walking. But now it looked less like honest exhaustion and more like he’d sold his soul.