Cyber Genius (20 page)

“I don’t have friends,” Graham said coldly, dropping my arm.

But I noticed he got out his phone and texted someone.

I pulled out my phone and texted Tudor.

Tudor responded instantly. “Cops everywhere. I’m guarding
Mrs. Stiles.”

I showed the text to Graham, who cursed and started punching
out another message. I was getting bad vibrations from his urgency.

“Tell Tudor to get the hell out of there,” he ordered as he
typed, keeping his voice low.

My thinking, too.
OUT NOW
I
text-shouted in all caps. With no ID on him and the feds probably plastering
his face all over the internet, we really didn’t need Tudor anywhere near the
police.

Tudor didn’t immediately reply. I didn’t want to contemplate
what he was doing. That was his hero’s widow in there. He might have some
stupid notion she would listen to him about the spyhole. He didn’t need to be
revealing that to someone else who could get murdered for the knowledge.

Although after this past hour, I had the edgy notion that
the refined Mrs. Stiles already knew more than I did. The lady was one tough
cookie.

I breathed easier when I received a message curtly saying
gone
.

take the limo and go home
I
typed back.
i’m good

I got a crusty
K
in return. You
gotta love cryptic texts.

“We won’t accomplish anything with all those people out
there,” I told Graham, once I was reassured Tudor was out of the way.
“Shouldn’t we make ourselves scarce?”

Admittedly, I had a fondness for enclosed spaces like
closets for spying, but this dark corridor didn’t seem a particularly healthy
harbor.

“I need to check something.” He ran his pocket flashlight
across the wall. Wires and plumbing ran everywhere.

His light hovered over what appeared to be a jury-rigged
electrical connection—now burnt to a crisp.

“Old trick,” he said in disgruntlement, switching off his
light. “Let’s go.”

“Stuck a penny in and shorted it?” I asked dubiously. “All
that commotion for a simple short?”

“Bad wiring, heavy chandelier, weak ceiling. Someone knows
this part of the hotel hasn’t been recently updated.” He grabbed my arm again.
“Quick thinking on their part.”

Hotel management came to mind. I checked the clock on my
phone. I could bail now and go after Livingston—or indulge my sick curiosity
about Graham and his habits and let him drag me away.

He hauled me to a freight elevator. Guess that answered
that. I was practically humming with anticipation to see how Graham worked,
although that might have been hormones. Even in the dark my pheromones were
loving his.

We took the elevator up two floors and walked off into a
well-lit, carpeted office area. My good black silk suit was covered in plaster
dust, and the stupid veil had slipped over my ear. I hurried after Graham’s
long strides while trying to remove the pins with one hand and hold my case in
the other.

Graham glanced back to see what was keeping me. His Superman
jaw was set in a grim lock—not unusual. His black t-shirt and jeans exhibited
none of the dust that covered anyone close to the mayhem, so I knew he’d come
running at the explosion.

Mostly, I was too busy engaging in pornographic daydreams
gazing at his broad, muscled chest and shoulders to yank the veil off. I had a
thing for big shoulders.

He grabbed my lace and ripped it off, flinging it into an
open trash bag in a maid’s cart. “A blind man could see through that disguise.”

“Only if he knows me,” I countered. “And nobody does. By the
way, I’m now Linda Alexander, Thomas’s wife, should any of your pals ask.”

He suffered a fit of coughing as he hurried on, but I
suspected he was covering a laugh. He’s rusty at it. He opened the door to
another stairwell and we continued upward.

“Is this your way of telling me you’ve not hiding anymore?”
I asked, half in curiosity and half in aggravation as we climbed still more
steps.

“There are very good reasons that the Secret Service is
secret and the CIA doesn’t announce their presence,” he grumbled, using a card
key to enter an unmarked door on the landing. “My existence doesn’t need to be
known either.”

“I didn’t think fire exits could be locked.” I chose not to
acknowledge his reference to agencies I knew my mother aided occasionally.

“These aren’t fire stairs. They’re private ones for the
security around the presidential suite. This is the reason foreign dignitaries
stay here.”

He had keys to presidential security. I wouldn’t want this
man as an enemy.

We walked down a plush maroon-and-gold carpet in a hallway
so insulated we couldn’t hear ourselves breathe, much less a toilet flush.
Genuine artwork adorned the discreetly papered walls, not the cheap knock-offs
most hotels displayed.

I knew there were spyholes or cameras behind half the
wrought iron sconces between the paintings. This was the world I’d grown up in.

“Are they filming every move we make?” I asked warily.

“There’s no one staying up here now. I set the film to
loop,” he said casually, as if making a mockery of hotel security was a matter
of snapping fingers.

Using his card key, Graham opened one of the unmarked
mahogany doors and dragged me inside. If he meant to murder or ravish me, I’d
go out in style.

Or not. I stared in disbelief at the wall of computer
monitors where there really should be plush sofas and a baby grand. “You’re
kidding, right?”

Heavy draperies along the long far wall covered what was
probably a spectacular view of the Capitol. Graham flipped a switch over the wet
bar for light and rummaged for bottled water. He flung one at me before opening
another for himself.

From the bar counter, he flicked on the monitors. One showed
the ballroom, now illuminated by big police lamps. The memorial guests were
gone. The chairs were knocked over and scrambled. Anxious hotel execs conferred
with maintenance men. Cops did whatever cops do. The firemen had gone away.

Several other monitors focused on closed hotel doors.

“You’ve tapped into hotel security?” That wasn’t really a
guess given what he’d just told me about looping the cameras.

“The families of the MacroWare execs are staying here. Henry
Bates has stopped by to suck up to them. Beyond that, they’re not talking to
each other. The atmosphere is as poisonous as that dinner.”

Ah, so my suspicion that MacroWare was not one big happy
family was right. Interesting.

Graham lit up another monitor. That one came up black. He cursed
more out of habit than surprise—probably the salon. He hit another key. This
time we saw a plain room full of desks, computers, black suits, hotel security,
and a really official looking Captain Theodore Donovan. Oops.

“Does security know you’ve bugged them?” I rummaged through
the fridge and appropriated some high-end cheese and crackers. I tried to look
nonchalant as Graham listened in on the man who had come to our door looking
for him.

Graham didn’t answer. I took that for a
no.
Graham apparently thought his security was more valuable than
the hotel’s. For all I knew, he was right.

Knowing Tudor was safe, I had time to reconnoiter. The elegantly
upholstered blue and cream sofas had been shoved to the wall opposite the
monitors. Graham had dragged a crude collection of tables and consoles from
around the suite to create the line of monitors along the window wall—similar
to his office at home. So, this was what he did in his spare time.

On one of the tables, I found an array of flashlights and
dropped a few into my attaché. I needed to find a fancy leather tote if I was
doing this again. The leather portfolio was too small.

I wasn’t much used to actually being part of the action. After
appropriating what I could, I collapsed on a sofa cushion and swigged my water
to watch the monitors. I checked the time and texted EG that I was running
late. I got the ubiquitous
K
in reply.

Graham turned up the sound, but I wasn’t much of a listener.
On all those little screens, people hemmed and hawed and talked in circles. I
liked my info condensed, summarized, and neatly edited into factual lists with
bullet points.

I sat up when Graham opened a screen showing a stretcher
carrying a covered body being unobtrusively rolled down a service corridor.
“Who?” I demanded, thinking of the gunshot and all the people crowded into that
little room.

“Hilda Stark,” he said as nonchalantly as if he’d just said
“Big Bird.”

For his callousness, I flung a water bottle at him. It smacked
him on his brawny shoulder and bounced to the thick gray carpet. He didn’t even
turn around. “Why?” I cried. “She was just a loud old lady.”

“Exactly.” He switched on another monitor showing Louisa
Stiles delicately dabbing at her eyes while a police woman handed her a glass
of water. Anxious security and hotel staff hovered nearby. The room looked like
a private salon with gilt-edged French chairs and a writing desk.

I got the message. Lady-like Louisa, who kept her mouth
shut, got star treatment. Loud-mouth, argumentative Hilda, who’d been on the
verge of revealing company secrets, got shot. I ground my teeth in frustration.

“Why weren’t there metal detectors or searches to prevent
weapons?” I asked, belatedly. I should have questioned everything about this
memorial instead of spending my time designing appropriate costumes.

“That was the point of invitations—so we didn’t have to
strip search executives. Everyone on the list had high security clearance. How
would you have reacted if we’d had to search your attaché case? We couldn’t put
detectors on fire and service doors. I expected you to use a little judicial
wisdom in handing out the invitations.”

“I don’t think it was my invitees with the gun. If anything,
they would have used knives and gutted their victim. If you were listening in,
then you know this looks like a spur-of-the moment murder. The killer is
getting nervous.” Finishing off my crackers, I finally formulated a plan and
stood up. “I have to catch Maggie before she goes into hiding.”

“You are not going into that slum at this hour,” he said
with conviction, not looking up from his keyboard.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a perfectly respectable
residential area. She’ll run if I don’t get to her. She
knows
something. Did you hear her talk about Wilhelm? Our murderer
didn’t care if she pointed her finger at staff.” I shrugged out of my dusty
jacket and looked around for a mirror to inspect the damage. This was a bad
outfit for the Metro.

“Hilda and Kita knew
something
too, and you see where that got them. Maggie is better off hiding.”

I winced, wondering if he was right. Maybe we should all
hide and sneak around behind the cover of Graham’s computers. My gut said
no.

If Graham had any expectation of us working together, he’d
have to listen to someone besides himself.

I turned my back on him while I yanked my loose tank top
from my skirt band.
“Maggie will be
better off when the murderer is caught,” I insisted. “Hiding is not her style.”

“This is why I can’t get a damned thing done with you
around,” Graham muttered from right behind me.

He walked on cat feet. I hadn’t heard him approach. Before I
could react, his big arms circled my waist and turned me around as if I were no
more than a computer monitor.

His kiss stunned any other reaction except lust.

Oh, blast, that man could kiss! Graham hauled me off my
feet and devoured my mouth. I retaliated by wrapping my legs around his hips
and rubbing. Spontaneous combustion happened.

He didn’t falter but shouldered open the bedroom door.

I yanked my mouth away. “I’m still going after Maggie,” I
warned him.

He dropped down on the bed, crushing me between his heavy
weight and the dreamy mattress. “That’s the problem here. I can’t protect all
of you, all of the time, and get my job done!” he said in frustration before he
returned to smothering my mouth.

I wiggled beneath him and caught his attention by yanking
his hair until he let me speak. “Your job isn’t to protect us. That’s
my
job. And we can’t always be
successful.”

I knew that from harsh experience. We’d lost a sibling to a
terrorist bomb. He would have been twelve about now. That had been one of the
many reasons I’d abandoned my family after EG had been born. Old story, but I
understood his complaint—Graham hadn’t been able to protect his wife or hundreds
of other people in 9/11. For control freaks like us, who care too much, that’s
the end of the world.

Like
us.
Graham
and I were too much alike in too many bad ways.

I didn’t want to think anymore. I just wanted to feel.

He chose to drop the argument once I ran my hands under his
t-shirt. Thinking went straight away once he fastened his hands on vital parts.

This was nuts, but I was doing this, no question about it. I
didn’t know about Graham, but I hadn’t had sex in so long that I figured I
needed to clear my hormone-fogged brain.

Not that I was thinking anything that logical when he opened
a foil packet.

***

Less than half an hour later—I think Graham had been as
sex-starved as I was—I was a puddle of wax lying half under one heavy naked
dude. I’d seen his scars when we’d worked out in the gym, so they weren’t new
to me. The rest of all that gloriously muscular maleness—I’d have to examine
another time.

I wriggled until he lifted his hip. I slid out from under
him even as he grabbed to hold me down. “Save Maggie, first,” I told him,
heading for the bathroom.

“Send Sean,” he shouted after me. “The two of them can
out-Irish each other.”