Broken Build (5 page)

“He can’t ever know.” Her belly seized as if a mass of wasps attacked it.

“These things come out one way or another.”

Chapter 4

Dave returned from the meeting with the venture capitalists and threw his keys across the room. The demo had glitched in the middle of his presentation. They questioned whether he’d be ready for the Black Friday trial, and he had failed to get any financial commitments. He pushed the call button on the intercom. “Lisa, get me Greta.”

Greta appeared minutes later, smiling and bobbing her head, her red hair stiff as helmet. “You called?”

“I want to know why the demo hung. Don’t you guys test the code before loading it onto the servers?” He had practiced with the previous version and ensured everything worked, but Greta had persuaded him to show the auto-bidding feature which caused the crash.

“What happened?” Her voice was flat.

“Auto-bidding locked up in front of the investors. Why did it fail?”

Greta licked her lips and swallowed, her gaze steady. “We took a few risks, okay?”

“I don’t need risks. I need cash. This should have been a slam dunk. You don’t churn the code before a big demo. No more broken builds. Black Friday is coming up, and you know how important the field trial is.”

“Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

Dave waved her away. If he couldn’t raise money to tide the company over Thanksgiving weekend, he’d have to lay off staff, and the first one to go would be Greta.

He slammed the door after she departed and speed dialed Claire. She sounded breathless, as if she were on a treadmill. After the obligatory small talk, he steered the conversation to his need for immediate liquid funds.

“Can you sell your stock without your husband knowing?”

“Let me distract him with a Mediterranean cruise,” she said, her tone impeccably dulcet. “My lawyer will be in touch. I want a stake in the initial stock offering and in my name only.”

“Yes, yes. We’ll draw it up. And… shall I see you soon?”

“I’m not sure, darling. What with the hit-and-run and all that hoopla. Did you report your car stolen? They said on the news it was a late model Camry, white.”

“Claire, it wasn’t my car. I found mine this morning parked two blocks from your place. Did you by any chance move my car?”

“I deny everything. My lips are sealed.”

“Sure they are, except when they’re pressed against mine.” He pictured her pink lips and patrician features softening to his silky bedroom voice.

“Oh, sorry, I can’t talk. I’ll send you a postcard.” Claire’s voice warbled with her faux-British accent.

The call ended. His cell showed a new text message. An unfamiliar number.
Man whore.

He texted back.
Who the hell are you?

Lisa poked her face through the doorway. “You wanted to see Jen Jones?”

He might as well ream her too for causing all this trouble
.
“Sure, send her in.”

His cell buzzed with another received text.
You’ll pay.

Dave glanced up. The woman he saw at Il Forno stood at his door. Where had she been hiding? He thought he knew all his engineers, but apparently not. He’d been traveling too much the last few months, and build engineers were the lowest on the totem pole and stayed in the data center all day.

He pointed a pen at her. “So, you’re Jen Jones.”

She clutched her iPad, partially shielding his view of her chest. Lush, flowing hair framed her high cheekbones. The long eyebrows arched over curled eyelashes and a straight nose. The lips said Latina, the complexion, dark Irish.

He shut the door, gesturing to a leather chair. “Sit, please.”

She perched on the edge of the seat and followed him with her golden-brown tigress eyes.

Dave’s neck flushed as a prickle of heat suffused his chest. A surge of adrenaline nearly knocked him to his knees. Why was he reacting like this? He wanted to lash out at her and ravish her at the same time. He loosened his tie and lowered the shade, the better to intimidate her and take control of his heartbeat. “You know what this is about, don’t you?”

“No, sir.” Her gaze assessed him.

He couldn’t have her distracting him and his workers, not with the police running around and she being involved with the guy who died. He shook a pen at her. “You give me no choice but to fire you.”

“But…” Her eyes widened. “Why?”

He hated confrontations. Better to act tough. He crouched over his desk, leaning toward her in his best linebacker imitation. “We have an important milestone, and I can’t have distractions. No one got any work done yesterday thanks to the police crawling all over the place. And you… what did Detective Mathews want with you?”

She pushed the chair back and stood. “I lost my purse and phone. He only wanted to return them.”

Dave moved to the front of his desk and perched on the edge with one hand on his knee. “Now that you bring it up—why did the victim text you about breaking the build?”

He tried to make eye contact, but she crossed her arms over her iPad and looked away.

“I have no idea.”

He got off his desk and moved closer, lowering his voice. “Were you involved with him?”

She lifted her chin. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

A beauty mark quivered near the swell of her lower lip.

Not as tough as she seems.
Dave circled around her. “The detective showed me a picture.” His breaths came in sharp puffs, and he enunciated each word. “Muscular Filipino guy with a jutting jaw. You were with him the night he died.”

She ran her teeth over her lower lip. “You can’t prove it.”

“I saw you at the restaurant.” He yanked the iPad from her and woke it. “You had remote desktop connected to your build system, and your foul language disturbed my lady friend.”

Her eyes shifted rapidly from his face to his feet. “Did you tell the police?”

He let the iPad slide onto his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

Something hadn’t been right. The guy she was with had been fidgeting, like he wanted something desperately.

“Please… don’t tell the police.” Her eyes beseeched him, big and round. “He was alive when he dropped me off. I need this job. I’ve got a little sister in a foster home, and I want her to go to college.”

He touched the side of her face near her left ear. “You’re telling me the truth?”

A tear left a silvery trail on her dewy skin. Dave almost brushed it with his thumb. Her eyes, the color of whiskey, pooled as she blinked faster and looked away, a light blush softening her cheeks. She nodded.

“Was he threatening you?” Something about the way they had left the restaurant bothered him. “Were you afraid of him?”

“I didn’t kill him.” Her voice had lowered to a whisper.

He swept her hair back. As he suspected. Bruises peeked from the top of her mock turtle sweater. She leaned away, as if waiting for the inevitable blow.

He stepped back. The last thing he needed was a vulnerable woman. He cleared his throat without knowing what to say.

She appeared to be praying, so he listed reasons to keep her. The publicity was bad enough with rumors inundating the blogs. Firing her would draw attention and cause speculation. She couldn’t have overpowered the guy. Besides, he left marks on her neck. The bastard. He needed an experienced build engineer to upload the Black Friday trial. He’d have to keep a close eye on her and make sure she didn’t speak to reporters or incriminate herself, at least until her replacement was trained.

“What kind of car do you drive?” Hopefully, not a white Camry.

“Mitsubishi Eclipse.”

Dave paced across the room and back. “I will not lie for you, nor perjure myself under oath. But I won’t volunteer this information if you had nothing to do with the man’s death.”

She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “I’m telling the truth.”

His fist crunched in his pocket, his father’s taunting voice replaying in his ear.
Soft-hearted sissy. In business you have to be tough. Look them in the eye and shoot.

He stopped in front of her. “I hope I’m not making a mistake. You okay?”

She sniffed and wiped tears with her elegant fingers.

“Was he your boyfriend?” His voice hitched, and he covered it with a light cough. He couldn’t see her being abused by that man without wanting to punch his lights out, not that it was any of his business.

A sob escaped her lips. She covered her eyes, and her shoulders shook. “No, but he’s… he’s dead.”

Dave’s chest and throat vibrated in sympathy with her raw cry of grief, and he tugged her into his arms. The familiar ache ripped at the seams of his heart. He closed his eyes, remembering—her face, a silent mask, hands folded, stiff—his wife, gone too young. The white coffin lowered to the ground. The red roses sprayed on top. The prayers and the weeping. He had stayed until the sunset—after the roar of the orange bulldozer had gone, leaving the scent of fresh earth mixed with the salt of his tears. Six years ago, and it still hurt like yesterday.

He tightened his embrace, as much for him as for her. The sobbing accelerated before gradually subsiding into tiny hiccups.

She pressed his shoulder. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s okay. Good to get it off your chest.”

Lisa cracked open the door. “Your six o’clock—”

* * *

Jen rushed into the women’s room. Her hands shaking nonstop, she wadded toilet paper and dabbed at the smeared mascara and eye liner. What a fool she’d made of herself. She hadn’t shed a tear for Rey until Jewell thought he was her boyfriend.

Poor Rey could have been dead already when the thugs grabbed the memory stick. He was not the kind of guy to leave her alone in the dark.

She stepped inside a stall and latched the door. First Rodrigo, and now Rey? What must Lola and Vera, their mother and sister, be feeling? She couldn’t go to the funeral this time. Not with the police suspecting her. At least Jewell hadn’t recognized her. She had to stay away from him no matter how comforting his arms and tantalizing his scent. Guilt gnawed her gut. She’d ruined his life. If only she hadn’t been so stupid. The white coffin… and the baby…

The bathroom door squeaked open and Praveena and Holly chattered outside. Jen clutched her elbows to steady her breathing. After they entered the stalls, Jen stepped out and hurried to the
Goodfellas
conference room. She stopped abruptly at the door. She’d left her iPad in Jewell’s office. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There was no passcode, and he could be snooping this very minute.

Too late to retrieve it. His six o’clock meeting wouldn’t be over, and Greta would be here any minute. Jen walked into the room and took a seat near the door.

Satish, the test lead, eased into a chair next to her. He flipped open his laptop. “You okay?”

Jen tightened her lips and nodded.

“What’s with the police questioning you yesterday?”

“Nothing,” Jen said as matter-of-factly as she could. “I was the only one in the building Saturday night, and they wanted to know if I saw or heard anything.”

“Well, did you?”

If only she had a pencil to bite, or a laptop to fidget with… She pulled out her cell. “Nope, nothing.”

Satish’s finger flicked over the touchpad. “OgleNews says it might be an inside job. A memory stick with our iPhone code was found on the body.”

A shot of acid constricted Jen’s esophagus. “Let me see.”

Nick the SnotOgler’s blog:
Unidentified sources say the victim had a memory stick of Shopahol’s iPhone code. Leave your comments.

Several complained the online bidding would be unfair if the code was rigged. Others asked if they could get a copy. Jen’s mind whirled. Had the muggers knocked off Rey to get the code?

“I’m typing a response,” Satish said. “It has to be fake. We have encrypted—”

Greta marched in like a prison guard and slammed her planner on the table. “Laptops shut.”

Wei, Holly, and Praveena scooted into the row behind her. Greta glared at the latecomers. “I don’t have to remind everyone how critical the Black Friday build is.”

She walked over to Bruce and turned his iPad face down. “The downtime Saturday night was inexcusable. Have you returned the faulty power supplies? And, Lester, you are now a build engineer. Work with Jen to catch up.”

What? Had Jewell told Greta to replace her?

Greta tapped her fingers on the conference table and stood in front of Jen. “You’re on call until Lester is up to speed. When was the last time we had a good build?”

No one answered. Greta eyed each person like a lioness sizing up her prey. “The VC presentation bombed this afternoon.”

Jen’s phone buzzed. A text message from her sister’s foster mother.

Mrs. Walker:
U seen Christy? Call.

Jen:
In a mtg.

Greta reminded everyone to be available at all hours and asked Satish to go through the bug list. At six forty-five, the meeting adjourned.

Jen called Mrs. Walker back. This had to be another false alarm. It wasn’t even seven o’clock.

Mrs. Walker answered on the first ring. “Christy hasn’t come home from school, and she’s not picking up her phone nor responding to my text messages.”

“Have you checked the mall? Or the Bubble Tea Palace?”

“She wasn’t there. I drove by the high school and asked around. Of course, no one knew anything.”

Jen stuffed her laptop into her backpack. “It’s not that late.”

“We have Wednesday evening church. She knew about it and agreed to come.” Mrs. Walker’s voice trailed off with a hint of exasperation. “Call me if you hear anything.”

Jen hung up after assuring she would. She hit the speed dial for Christy’s cell. It went to voicemail.

“Hey, sis, it’s Jen. Doing anything tonight? Want to hang out?”

Mrs. Walker was a worry wart. But the court had deemed the Walkers to be more suitable guardians for Christy than her older sister. Not surprising since Mr. Walker was a policeman and Mrs. Walker was a homemaker and parent volunteer extraordinaire, while Jen was fortunate not to be an ex-con.

Lester hovered near. “Did you want to go over the build file system?”