Cyber Genius (23 page)

“Why should you?” Tudor countered. “He’s just a cog, but
he’s the cog who cranks the beta programs to end users.”

“He’s
Henry Bates’
brother.
The
Henry Bates, the genius
who could have fixed—or written—the hole and would certainly have been in
charge of the program’s development. Henry was not a cog. Wyatt Bates was at
the memorial, right next to Mrs. Stiles, cozying up to her. He was in the safe
room when Hilda got killed.”

“So were we and Mrs. Stiles and a lot of other wankers,”
Tudor pointed out, “including the twit chefs.”

She shrugged. “See if you can find any more fun connections
like this one. Then go to bed. Sleep is necessary.”

Ana left, presumably to stay up all night going through the
mail in her box.

Later, Tudor took another break to munch the last brownie. He’d
discovered Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook account when he’d researched Maggie. From
the messages shooting back and forth between Ana, Nick, and the reporter Tudor
hadn’t met, he gathered that O’Herlihy had somehow persuaded Maggie to pack
suitcases and hide in Nick’s house. It might be good to check the page and see
how the kid was doing.

Glancing at the posts, Tudor wanted to reach through the
computer and shake the prat complaining that their Mafia safe house was
yellow
. Someone needed to take Mikey’s’s
keyboard away and slam it on his braincase until he had some sense knocked into
him.

Tudor direct-messaged Michael’s account—
practice taking care of your mother the way she’s taking care
of you, twit. start by sending me images of anyone near your house now that
you’ve told the world where you are
. He added a secure email address.

The response was almost instantaneous. “Like this?” The
email contained an image of a black sedan with tinted windows parked in the
shadow of a row of multi-colored Victorian town houses.

Oh, bollocks. That was Nick’s neighborhood all right. Black
sedans were never good in Tudor’s world. Was parking even allowed on a street
that narrow? He didn’t see any other cars.

Tudor IM’d Ana and Graham, because he could tell by the file
exchanges that they were still working, then added Nick, just because. For good
measure, he called the cops and reported suspicious drug activity.

Someone had to protect the prat.

***

Ana takes a ride

I was just heading for bed when Tudor’s message popped
into my box. I didn’t quite catch the significance of a plain black sedan until
I recognized Nick’s neighborhood in the shadows. Black sedans regularly cruised
our area, but they did not park in that Adams-Morgan alley where Nick lived. No
one did. It was too narrow and littered with No Parking signs. Someone thought
they were above the law and common sense—not a good sign.

I uttered a few foul words and ran for the stairs. I was
closer to Maggie’s location than Graham and more responsive than the cops. I
pounded Nick’s door and kept on running to mine. I wasn’t going out again
without warm clothes.

Nick emerged yawning sleepily and holding his phone. He held
up the latest image from Tudor—a man standing by a tall bush. I couldn’t
recognize anything more. Nick pointed at a wrought iron mailbox hidden in the
greenery. “Neighbor.” He wrapped a cashmere scarf over his camel overcoat.

I texted Tudor as we crept down the stairs, trying not to
wake EG.
You’re in charge of eg. We’re on our way.

He texted back symbols representing obscenities.

“Charm is his genius, right?” I murmured as I held up the
phone for Nick to see.

He just snorted. “Which bolt hole do we take?”

“New one. You’ll like this one. I’ll show you.” I led him
down to the coal cellar, through the tunnel, and into the warehouse/garage on
the next street.

He whistled as my flashlight swept over the Phaeton. “Let’s
take this.”

I was about to ask if he’d like to steal a train, too, when
my mischief gene kicked in. I really was getting too old for these jokes, but I
can’t think straight when exhausted, and riding sounded so much easier than
hunting a Metro at this hour. “Keys?”

I couldn’t see him grin in the darkness, but I could hear it
in his reply. “What? You never took a keyless antique for a spin?”

He opened the unlocked door and almost whistled in
disappointment. “There are keys in the ignition. Who puts a keyed ignition in a
magneto classic like this?”

Having no interest in what he was talking about, I checked
the garage doors. They looked like old-fashioned carriage doors, but what
appeared to be an automatic opener produced a low glow to one side. I hit the
button and the doors silently slid open on well-oiled springs.

“If we dent the Phaeton, do we get to keep it?” I asked
through a yawn as I slumped into the ginormous front seat. No seat belts to
hold me upright.

“I’m thinking the car is part of Max’s estate and ought to
be ours anyway.” Nick checked the manual transmission, then smoothly backed the
monstrous machine into the narrow side street.

“The underground tunnel is a good indicator,” I agreed.

I still hadn’t had time to do more than exchange a few
emails about the Swiss bank account, so I didn’t waste time speculating on our
chances of being filthy rich and buying back the property. I wanted the house.
The ancient car—not so much.

Nick studied the weird stainless steel dashboard while twelve
cylinders growled at a stoplight. “If our grandfather was freaky paranoid
enough to build a tunnel to his garage, he probably built a bomb shelter under
the kitchen.”

“Or the entire cellar covers a cemetery of dead bodies. All
that concrete would be convenient for burying our enemies.” I could almost fall
asleep on the soft leather seat.

“The bodies would go under the
carriage house
.” Nick actually chortled. “No wonder Magda is a
piece of work.”

As were we, but we were driving into the Adams-Morgan neighborhood
now, and I was more intent on studying the streets than speculating on our many
family idiosyncrasies.

tell michael we’re in a limo
, I
texted Tudor.

“Just pull right into the drive,” I told Nick. “I’m tired of
sneaking around. That’s your house. Let’s own it. It’s not as if anyone in the
sedan can trace this antique or connect it to Maggie.”

“The drive is an alley in back. If you want storm trooper
tactics, let’s do full frontal exposure. It will be good for my cachet.” He
parked under the
No Parking
sign in front of his
yellow apartment house. Honest, it was one of the most sedate houses in the
neighborhood. Yellow is a good color, I thought, warm and inviting.

The black sedan was just down the street on the other side,
where a streetlamp had burned out and sidewalk construction obstructed the
corner. Probably as illegal as our blocking the street with the Phaeton, but that’s
the criminal mind for you.

“Do I look butch enough to enter with you?” I asked
sarcastically when Nick flung open the car door and sashayed out as if this
were Kensington Palace.

“In that knit cap, you look like a Russian spy. I’ll tell
everyone you’re my driver but you were too drunk to drive.”

The house looked quiet and dark, but we couldn’t see the
back windows from here. Nick let himself in with a key. He reached for the
alarm system but it apparently wasn’t activated. He muttered and swung his gaze
disapprovingly to the stacks of boxes and suitcases on his pretty parlor floor.

Michael rolled down the wide hall from the back of the
house. One good thing about these old Victorians, they had lots of wide open
space for maneuvering a chair in. Behind him, Maggie wiped sleepily at her
face. She was wearing a ratty chenille bathrobe, but the kid was still dressed.

“That’s probably the FBI out there, trying to catch drug
dealers,” Michael said with disgust. “Aren’t you supposed to carry automatics
and drive them off?”

I rolled my eyes and glanced over his head to Maggie. “Take
the TV away from him.”

“He has a point,” she said warily. “We have no idea what you
are.”

I pointed at Nick in his spiffy coat and scarf, looking all cosmopolitan.
“Nicholas Maximillian, attaché to the British ambassador and renter of this
little house of horrors. I’m just an assistant, and probably an enabler, to the
man attempting to find a killer.”

I pinned a glare on Michael. “The whole
purpose
of moving you here was to remove your mother from sight.
Telling the entire world where you moved has rendered the arrangement pointless.”

“I have to go to work anyway,” Maggie said wearily. “It’s
not as if I’m invisible. I can’t imagine I know anything anyone needs, so why
am I a target?”

I pointed at the front window. “Someone thinks you’re a
person of interest. That sedan out there isn’t from the local neighborhood watch.”

Michael wheeled over to peer out from behind Nick’s heavily
draped front window. He whistled—badly. “Isn’t that an antique Rolls? Is that
yours?”

“Phaeton,” Nick growled. He jerked the expensive draperies
out of the kid’s grubby hands and checked on our vehicle. I focused on Maggie.

“I’ve talked to Wilhelm,” I told her. “He says there was a
lot of horse trading happening on the upper level,” I said, being deliberately
obscure about MacroWare. “What did they offer you to do what?”

Michael was instantly back in the hall to listen. “What
upper level?”

Maggie just shook her head. “None of this has anything to do
with what happened that night. This is a nice place and all, but I know it’s
only temporary. I need the new place and don’t want to lose it.”

“Even if you have information that could expose a killer? Hilda
Stark
died
today. Kita died to cover
up what he knew. Isn’t it better to have the information out there so there is
no point in killers stalking you?”

“We don’t know those are killers in that sedan,” she said
angrily, gesturing at the window. “It could just be some drunk who fell asleep
at the wheel.”

Still keeping an eye on the Rolls, Nick looked up. “Cops
just busted the guy by the mailbox. The sedan is skedaddling.”

Michael rolled back to the window to savor the action—or
verify it. “Cool. The cops are undercover! They’ve got dashboard lights.
They’re chasing after the sedan! Did you do that?”

“Our little brother did that,” I said scornfully. “Kid stuff
and temporary. They now know the street is protected and will back off to
regroup. We’ve got to fry the big fish before they return.”

Maggie and I both knew that driving off one black sedan was
meaningless, but maybe the cops convinced her that we were the good guys. She
caved, anyway.

“The only thing I’ve done that involved that night was to
keep my promise to Adolph not to mention Wilhelm to anyone—until you blew up
the hotel ballroom. I accidentally learned that Wilhelm is an illegal a week
before the conference. I understood them wanting to keep it secret. We do that
all the time. It seemed simple enough at first. Adolph had me tell anyone who
asked that Wilhelm was a new hire from our sister hotel in Germany. He gave me
a bonus for my help that I really needed to pay the credit cards.”

She hesitated, then continued. “But then those VIPs died . . .
and I knew Wilhelm had prepared their vegetable risotto. At first, we all
figured it was the soup that made them sick, so I wasn’t too concerned. But the
health department started asking more questions, and then the cops. I told
Adolph I didn’t know if I could lie anymore. He said Wilhelm was related to one
of the men who died, and he would have done nothing to hurt them. I wanted to
believe him. I mean, Adolph is a pretty big deal. He actually knows execs at MacroWare.
That’s one of the reasons the hotel got the conference.”

I bit my tongue and let her babble. Sometimes, that worked
better than leading the conversation.

Maggie continued reluctantly, “Adolph said he’d talk to
Wilhelm’s family about my concerns. The next I knew, he said the family
understood and were grateful for my cooperation. They’d heard Mikey had been
having problems at school, and they wanted me to have a new apartment. They
made the deposit on one in a great neighborhood. What was I supposed to do,
tell them they were full of shit?”

“But then you told an entire room full of people that
Wilhelm had been there that night and Adolph hasn’t fired you. So what are you
afraid of now?” I waited expectantly. So did Michael.

Maggie sighed. “If Wilhelm isn’t the problem and they really
meant to help me, then...” She hesitated and stroked Michael’s hair. “I don’t
want to say anything that might endanger Michael. Adolph has done nothing but
help me. But Kita
died
. That must be
related to the fish soup, not Wilhelm. What I saw... was nothing. I’m just
afraid that if the cops start questioning me...” She glanced worriedly in the
direction of the windows and sighed. “The cops won’t care if the killers think
I know more than I do.”

Finally, we were getting somewhere. I held up my hands in
innocence. “Yes, I’m on the side of the cops. No, I’m not one and don’t
have
to tell them anything. But even
though you didn’t tell them about Wilhelm, we still knew about him. You have
choices—tell the cops whatever you’re hiding is one choice. Or you can tell me
and hope I’ll find the killer first, before the cops learn you’re withholding
information. Or third, you can sit here like a duck in hunting season.”

She tugged her robe tighter and caved. “Maybe the police already
know and this is nothing, but it’s the only other thing I can think of that’s
of importance. I saw one of the men at the table produce a salt shaker from his
pocket. When I served the soup, I overheard him say that it enhanced some
chemical in the puffer fish. I got the impression it would make them high or . . .”
She glanced at Michael, then shrugged. “Increase their potency.”