Broken Build (10 page)

“I didn’t either, so can we call a truce?” She glared at him, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips in a thin line.

He held out his hand. “Forget the car wash.”

She shook firmly and the corners of her mouth lifted. “What car wash?”

Once they arrived at his car, he helped her in and put the crutches in the backseat. “You hungry? Had breakfast?”

“I dumped my breakfast in the sink. I guess I could have something to eat.”

He pointed to a Burger King across the street. “That okay?”

“Huh?” She looked across the dashboard. He started the car.

“I mean, Burger King is okay, isn’t it? Or are you one of those organic granola types?”

“It’s fine. I’ll have a Whopper Jr. and a cup of coffee.”

“Really? You would?” His heart fluttered. Jocelyn, his prim and proper Bible college wife, would never have let him grace the driveway of a Burger King. He resorted to getting his grease fix while visiting his father out of state.

He made a U-turn and pulled into the drive-thru lane. They ordered and he opened his wallet. A picture fell onto the console. Jocelyn in a white cap and gown. Jen picked it up and stared at it.

“My wife,” he explained. “She died.”

Her mouth rounded into a tiny circle, and she handed the picture to him. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” His voice came out too gritty. “It was also a hit and run.”

Her hand closed on his, comforting. “I’m really sorry.”

For a moment, he felt like bawling his eyes out. For a moment he saw the closed white casket, and for a moment he wanted to hold the woman in front of him and have her take his pain away. The spiral of loneliness drilled in his gut.

She removed her hand, and he wanted it back. Wanted it like he wanted the rest of her to plug the hole in his heart and make him whole again.

The car in front moved. He paid for the food and handed it to her. She set the coffee in a cup holder and reached for her backpack. “How much do I owe you?”

He stopped her. “Least I can do is treat you. I imagine it’ll be hard for you to go grocery shopping.”

She regarded him with an even stare. “I can ask Sherry to help with the shopping.”

“Who’s Sherry?”

“My new roommate. Let me give her a call. May I borrow your phone? I left mine at home.”

Dave’s throat tightened, and a chill squeezed the back of his neck. “What’s Sherry’s last name?”

“Montoya. Why?”

Could she be the email stalker or maybe
that
Sherry? Dave lost his appetite and shoved the onion rings he ordered back into the bag. Without waiting for her to unwrap her Whopper, he pulled from the parking lot into the street. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to drop you off. How about you stay with your family until your ankle is healed?”

She turned a quizzical eye at him. “Family? My sister stays in a foster home. I can’t impose on them.”

“Oh, I forgot. When I saw you last night with them, I thought…”

She punched his bicep and smirked. “What last night?”

“Right.” He kept his eyes on the road and tried to be casual. “By the way, what does Sherry look like?”

“Early thirties, washed-up trailer park spawn. Why?”

“What color is her hair? Eyes?”

“Blond with blue eyes. What’s going on?”

He swerved, barely missing a semi-truck.
Calm down. You’re acting like a fool.
He licked the sweat off the top of his lips. “Nothing. It might be a weird coincidence. I’ve an email stalker with that name. It’s always Sherry with some Spanish surname that starts with an ‘M.’”

“You’re afraid of an email stalker?” She waved the burger at him.

He swallowed, but the lump did not dispel. The Sherry from his past wasn’t a blonde. “Is it natural? Her hair?”

“How would I know?” Jen frowned.

He jerked the wheel, made a U-turn and headed south on San Tomas Expressway.

Jen grabbed the safety handle. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

* * *

Holy Mother of God. Jen squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall the words. Full of Grace. Mercy me. She gripped the armrest. They were heading to his home!

She peered at the man behind the wheel, the one she had wronged so badly. David Jewell, husband of Jocelyn Jewell, father of little Abby. Abby, who was kidnapped while her nanny slept in the bathtub.

It was all over the news six years ago. She’d often wondered how he coped. There had been no trace of the baby. Eventually, the helicopters and news vans left. Eventually, the world forgot and moved onto other sensations. And eventually, Jen had gone to college, earned her computer degree, and landed a job at the company this man started, the coveted startup everyone wanted to get in on.

She stole another look at him. His mouth formed a grim line, and he stared straight ahead. A twitch nagged his cheek below his right eye. She had had such a crush on him. He was younger then, and not just in age, but his entire face had that bright-eyed, optimistic gleam reserved for the rich, white, and privileged. Then his wife had died, and he hired her fulltime—to live at his house and mother his baby. A baby she’d loved and lost due to her negligence.

Dave glanced at her, and she immediately shrank into the seat. He roared onto Lawrence Expressway. He hadn’t recognized her. Of course not. That had been six years, sixty pounds, and ten grand to the plastic surgeon, eons ago. And he hadn’t seen anything in her back then. Not a spark or even a first look. And now, he had kissed her like she was his lifeline.

She looked at him again. Player. Boy toy to the rich and famous.
Mover and shaker, my foot
. “I could call the police, you know.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re kidnapping me. I want you to take me home right now.” She couldn’t hang with him any longer. Sooner or later, he’d see through her new face and remember the obese Jennifer Cruz, his wife’s best friend. Jen gripped the safety handle tighter.

“Do not say kidnapping,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m saving you from further trouble.”

“What?”

He hung a sharp right onto Saratoga Avenue. “If Sherry is who I think she is, she’s psychotic.”

“You can’t be serious. She’s a freaking waitress at a country-western bar. All she cares about is
Entertainment Today
and
People Magazine
. Stuck in front of the TV all day. I doubt she even knows how to set up an email account.”

“I don’t have to explain. Your boyfriend gets crushed in my parking lot. My car disappears overnight. Your purse is found at the crime scene. I get threatening emails and text messages.” He didn’t finish. They both knew about the blood on his bumper.

“He was not my boyfriend.”

“Fine, but I can’t let you out of my sight. The police suspect you. They’ve been asking about the builds and whether any code has leaked out.” He shot her a glare and narrowly missed rear-ending a car stopped at a light.

“Damn!” He slammed the steering wheel. “Well? Has any code been leaked?”

Jen jutted her chin at him. “No. Why would I do such a stupid thing?”

She hoped she sounded confident, although her belly churned, either from his lousy driving or his pointed accusations, or both. She held her head between her hands and bent down, closing her eyes.
Ay Bendito!
What had she done to deserve this? And how would she get out of it this time?

He passed the Saratoga Village Shopping Center and continued on Big Basin Way. A few swerves up a winding road with a guardrail, he turned up a tree-lined drive, hung a sharp right into the driveway hidden behind a tall oleander hedge, and screeched to a halt.

Dave helped her out of the car, dragged her into his house, and parked her on a leather couch. “You have to be honest with me. Or we’re both in a shitload of trouble.”

Her mouth dry, she swallowed and avoided his eyes, the weight of memories pressing in on her.

“What’s your true relationship with Rey Custodio?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

He grabbed both of her shoulders. “He had a memory stick with our mobile phone code in his pocket. Why’s that?”

Chapter 9

The phone rang. Dave stared at Jen, his hands still clutching her shoulders.

Her gaze slid in the direction of the counter where the answering machine lay.

Dave made no move.
Let it go to message. It’s probably the broker or dentist.

Beep.

“We have your daughter,” a computer-altered voice said. “If you want to see her alive, do not contact the police. A memory stick will be sent to your office. Follow the directions and your daughter lives.”

Click.

Jen gasped and covered her mouth. Pain shot through Dave’s stomach, and he clutched it while his legs gave way. The call was always the same.
Do not contact the police. Wait for instructions.
But the instructions never came. Never. It happened every year near the anniversary of Abby’s kidnapping.

Jen’s arms wrapped around his head, her hands caressing his hair and pulling him to her chest. His eyes blurred and his lungs hollowed as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He gulped to control his breathing.

When the first wave of grief passed, he was aware of her belly shaking from the sounds of her weeping. Why would she, a stranger, care? She couldn’t possibly know what he had gone through, the year he spent in the mental care facility, unable to cope or even function as a human being.

Embarrassed by his outburst, he pushed himself to a sitting position. She reached for a tissue from the box on the end table and wiped her tears. Her lips trembled and she cringed in the corner of the couch, looking like she wanted answers, but was afraid to ask.

Dave turned away and retreated to his thoughts. God no longer cared. He had allowed Jocelyn to die and Abby to disappear. Dave had spiraled into the abyss, drowned by anti-depressants and grief, almost giving up. But that sliver of hope, that Abby lived, kept him from complete oblivion. Once he had enough money, he’d hire his own vigilantes and find her, no matter where they had her hidden, even if it was the private island Jocelyn’s grandparents owned. The US Embassy be damned. He’d hire terrorists from Mindanao if he had to. But to do that he needed money, and that’s why Shopahol could not fail.

The buzzing cell phone pierced his mental fog. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered it.

It was Greta. “Is Jen done with the doctors? The builds are failing and we need her to fix the scripts.”

Dave stood and paced across the room, stretching to steady his breathing. “She’ll be plugged in soon. I need a good build tonight. No excuses.”

A second call beeped for him. He said goodbye to Greta and picked up Eddie from security.

“Hey, chief,” Eddie said. “I found something very interesting about the code on the memory stick.”

Dave glanced at Jen. Whatever Eddie had to say, he didn’t want her to hear. He walked into the den and shut the door.

“The code on the memory stick is really old. One of the originals you wrote.” Eddie said. “Praveena did a comparison and found several important steps missing. I did some googling, and get this, one of the professors at SJ State assigned his students to come up with a flock based social shopping app that runs on mobile phones.”

Dave’s throat tightened. “Which professor?”

“Craig Pearson.”

A cramp pinched Dave right under his ribcage. Craig Pearson was the CEO of BuyFriend, Dave’s chief competitor, and had an outstanding patent infringement lawsuit against Shopahol.

Eddie prattled on. “The code is a joke. It doesn’t compile and won’t run on the newer iPhones anyway. You think the guy who got hit was sneaking around our parking lot dumpster diving?”

“He might have been waiting for someone to give him code that worked.” He shot a pointed look at the closed door leading to the living room.

“No, no.” Eddie’s voice became gruff. “There is no way anyone from our company gave him the code. We have a safeguard on our systems. Anyone inserts a memory stick and it is automatically encrypted with the credentials of the user currently logged in. This stick was clear.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” Dave ended the call. No one else knew Jen had been with Rey the night before. Dave remembered Rey tucking something into his cargo pocket that night. Who better to steal code than the build engineer?

Dave swallowed a dry lump. He pocketed his phone. Firing was not an option unless he wanted to risk Friday’s delivery. The backup engineer was not up to speed. He’d have to watch Jen’s every move and let her know the gig was up. He stepped out of the den.

Jen had twisted the tissue into pointy spirals. She looked up from her laptop, expectantly, as if he’d tell her his innermost feelings. Fat chance.

He stopped halfway across the room. “You haven’t told me why Rey Custodio had dinner with you. Were you giving him code?”

Her expression changed from pity to pouty. “Because why else would he see me, right? There couldn’t be any reason unless he wanted something.”

“I don’t give a crap why he’d see you or not.” He closed in. “We know you gave him code, so don’t jerk me around.”

“Fuck off. I’m outta here. Talk to my lawyer.” She slammed the laptop shut and leaned over the sofa for her crutches.

Wait. She couldn’t leave. The Black Friday code had yet to be stabilized. He snatched the crutches. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Give it back.” She threw a pillow at him and hopped toward the kitchen phone.

“You’re not using that phone.” He pushed her against the wall, harder than he meant to.

A puff of air flew from between her lips, and she grimaced as if her wind had been knocked out. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She cowered into the corner, covering her face.

A raging ache ripped through his chest, and a massive swelling formed behind his solar plexus. He had to get control and fast. What the hell was wrong with him? He inhaled deeply, held his breath and let it out slowly.

Jen bit her lip, looking small and forlorn.

Dave’s heart clenched. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s all the pressure. I’m sorry.”