Cyber Genius (34 page)

It took a lot of digging, admittedly. I’m not a finance or
security expert. But I knew how to run searches, and I knew the types of
documents I needed. I located Goldrich’s banking transfer system, fed in the
account numbers on my grandfather’s Swiss bank account, and pushed a few more
buttons. Bank computers talk to each other better than people do.

Numbers began to roll across the screen—nice big fat numbers
that made my eyes roll and my head ache. In the morning, the headaches would be
someone else’s problem.

I set up several dummy investment accounts and let the
numbers from the Swiss banks roll into them in increments small enough and
spaced out enough to get lost in the crowd of complex transfers flowing in and
out of both banks. A fat amount would trigger alarms, but normal buying and
selling and cash flow stayed under the safeguards—as long as I didn’t do this
every night.

I began another automatic transfer that spirited the funds
from Goldrich into the Caribbean bank account where our wicked lawyer had
concealed his ill-gotten gains until I’d found them. Dollars weren’t just
pieces of paper anymore. They’re numbers on computers all over the world.

In the morning, the Swiss bank would be immensely poorer and
would hunt down the culprit—and blame Goldrich. By the time Goldrich located my
ghost accounts, they’d be gone. And so would the cash in the Caribbean account.
And there wasn’t a country in the world with the power to force the Caribbean
drug lords to open their books for investigation.

And once I was feeling good and secure with our
grandfather’s millions tucked away, I set about relieving Goldrich of a lot
more dollars. A few deserving people ought to be rewarded. Goldrich needed to
pay for some of their bad karma.

***

“Ana, what the hell are you
doing
down there?” a familiar voice roared through the intercom
after noon the next day.

I’d collapsed into bed in the wee hours and had just dragged
myself into my office a little while ago. I had only had time to take a bite of
the egg muffin I’d prepared for myself. I’d wasted valuable minutes carefully
cleaning the kitchen so Mallard wouldn’t complain.

“You’re back,” I responded, mouth full of egg. “No one
killed you. What a pity.” I called up the overnight news on the Whiz as I
talked.

Stark and three employees of Goldrich had been arrested on
accessory to murder charges—just for hiring assassins to kill Wyatt, mind you.
Hilda and Kita were already old news, but the wheels of justice ground slowly.
A good D.A. would get there eventually. Stiles and Henry Bates were mentioned
as Wyatt’s possible victims with much speculation attached.

Patra had a nice byline on the story.

“I’m back,” Graham growled. “I’m not blind. What the devil
are these Goldrich transactions?”

So many tales to tell... Let me count the ways I could tell
them. He really shouldn’t be spying on what I was doing with my computers, so I
wasn’t telling tales any time soon.

“Has Mallard fed you yet?” I asked sweetly. “You sound
cranky. Hypoglycemia kicking in?” I opened email from Tudor. He’d bought
tickets to Boston on tomorrow’s train. I smiled contentedly. We could afford
it.

“I’m still setting up the servers,” he acknowledged. “I’ll
eat later. Or come down and strangle you now.”

There
was the spy
in the attic I knew. It warmed my cockles to have him back.

“Check Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook page,” I suggested. “Then
do a search on Euan Yung. I think she and a few of Kita’s friends are starting
their own restaurant and naming it in his honor. Be right back.”

Still munching my muffin, I shut off the intercom and went
down the hall to the kitchen. I threw together another sandwich, made an entire
pot of coffee, and added it to a tray. Mallard came in to see what I was doing.
I grinned and sent the tray up on the dumbwaiter.

“Your mother called yesterday,” he said with disapproval and
just a little pleasure, because he worships Magda. “She was concerned that no
one answered her calls.”

“Tudor is telling her about MIT as we speak. She will not be
flying in to chastise her little cuckoos this time.” Because we were learning
to take care of ourselves. I was proud of our accomplishment.

Mallard blinked but didn’t question. I left him the dirty
frying pan.

Done eating my muffin, I took the hidden staircase up to
Graham’s office. I was back in my grubbies today, but I’d chosen black leggings
that showed off my legs, and my loose fisherman’s sweater—with nothing under
it.

Wearing his ubiquitous dark trousers and long-sleeved
t-shirt, Graham was in his office, plugging in wires and jacks and cables to
Uzbekistan for all I knew. He rolled out from beneath his counter, looking like
a hunky cat burglar, and glared at my appearance. Okay, he hadn’t heard the
dumbwaiter arrive with my peace offering.

I went out in the hall and fetched the tray and carried it
back to his darkened den. I switched on the overhead lights now that I knew
they existed.

Tudor wasn’t here. I’d dropped the stolen netbook in his
hands as a reward for his heroism. He knew to wipe the contents so all trace of
last night’s activity would vanish. I’d left him contentedly chatting up his
pals from his room.

I locked Graham’s door in case anyone got any ideas of coming
upstairs to play.

The sports paintings had vanished, probably behind the
monitors dotting the wall again. Unshaven and actually looking disheveled for a
change, Graham sipped my coffee offering, and keyed up the one operating screen.

It opened on Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook page. The kid was
crowing about looking for a real house instead of a rental. It seemed the house
they’d previously owned hadn’t been foreclosed on after all but sold for a nice
profit.

“Sweet,” I said with a straight face, pouring myself a cup
of coffee, even though I preferred tea. I wanted to savor the moment before we
returned to fighting. “Glad someone’s getting a new house out of this. I
suspect a few MacroWare execs and their minions will be losing theirs in a few
months.”

I could almost promise they would. I’d shared their
underwater mortgage files with all sorts of banking regulators. Some of them
were bound to be interested.

The excited announcement on Euan’s social media about a
foreclosed restaurant falling into her hands scrolled across the monitor next.
I shrugged at the old news, took away Graham’s keyboard, and called up the
local talking heads. A news video showed Adolph and Wilhelm being led
handcuffed into a police station.

“I want to know the rest of the story.” I crawled under his
console and began hooking servers to cable so he could eat, and we could get
back to business as usual. Sort of. That we were both in the same space at the
same time and not trying to punch the tar out of each other was a significant
improvement. With no bed immediately available, I was content with that. For a
while.

“The police interview is in your mailbox. Your suspicions
were correct. Adolph dried the fish guts for an aphrodisiac at Wyatt’s request,
in return for a promise that he could have the MacroWare dining franchise in
D.C.”

“And poor stupid Wilhelm?” I peered out from beneath the
console.

Graham had nearly inhaled his muffin. He had two more
monitors up and rolling—just like old times.

“Wyatt gave Wilhelm a pint of homemade salsa, said it came
from Stiles’ wife. It may have, for all we know,” Graham said. “Wilhelm wasn’t
even smart enough to get anything in exchange for using her salsa instead of
the one Adolph prepared.”

“Except satisfaction in spiting Adolph. I don’t think those
two are a match made in heaven, but neither of them are murderers, just the
vehicle of distribution,” I acknowledged.

With all the cables hooked, I crawled out to sit
cross-legged on the uncarpeted hard floor. I mentally did an inventory of
chairs that could be moved in here. “Where is Louisa now?”

Graham punched a key to show a grainy security video of the
elegant Louisa Stiles—still wearing that ostentatious rose pin—climbing into a
limo in front of a sprawling mansion. Judging by the rain, I’d say she was back
in Seattle. It was a crisp sunny day here in D.C.

And the rose pin had taken on more meaning—had Senator Paul
Rose given it to her?

“She’s taking a vacation to the Riviera?” I suggested. “Not
very satisfying if she was accessory to her husband’s death, and maybe even
called for Hilda’s.”

“We don’t know any of that,” Graham pointed out, bringing up
another screen. “But the dead can sometimes speak for themselves. I had this
filed this morning.”

A last will and testament displayed on the monitor. I took a
keyboard, zoomed up, and read the courthouse stamp, proving it had been filed
and was public information. I whistled happily as I scanned the verbiage. I’d
done enough legal research to recognize the terms.

“You did this yourself? Or did Stiles actually leave
everything to his charitable foundation?” I asked with a purr of delight.

“I just made certain that the most recent will got filed,”
he said enigmatically.

I wasn’t about to question. I liked this pretty picture. “Cancer
research and poor people in Africa benefit from MacroWare’s monopoly instead of
Louisa. That’s... generous.” It wouldn’t seem so to Louisa, but I got a
vicarious thrill. Justice came in many different forms. Louisa might not go to
jail, but she’d suffer in her own way without wealth.

Graham shrugged and sipped his coffee. “She’ll have funds
stashed away. She won’t starve.”

“And so we let karma be her judge. I can handle that. My
turn.” I occupied another screen and smiled proudly as a large MacroWare Alert
appeared advising all users of the new beta program to update their software
for a security patch.

They’d apparently released the patch while we slept. Good
boys and girls.

“That announcement is an admission that the new operating
system is already known to be wonky and will seriously mess with stock prices,”
Graham said dryly.

“I’ll buy a bunch of shares when the price plummets,” I said
with triumph. “MacroWare owes Tudor for fixing their problem.”

Graham snorted. “And for getting their executive board murdered
and killing their profits for the next year. Your family is dangerous.”

“Glad you realize that.” I stood and removed the cup from
his hand, setting it aside.

My head barely reached his chin. I grabbed his shoulders. He
caught my waist. We made it work. Our mouths clung hungrily. His tasted of
coffee. I drank him in with more triumph than desperation this time.

Whether he knew it or not, we were equals now.

I had the funds to buy our family mansion back—finally.

I cannot begin to thank everyone who has had a hand in keeping
this story on the straight and narrow highway instead of the curvy tunnels I
sent it through. And if you still think Ana’s tale is twisted, then you need to
thank those people too. I might have blown your mind otherwise.

My immense gratitude to Mindy Klasky and Jennifer Stevenson,
my early beta readers, who jumped up and down and screamed—
where’s the motive
? Okay, so I kind of forgot that essential. I’m
sure it was in my head when I started! They contributed a great deal more than
that as well, but let’s face it, it wouldn’t have been a book without motive!

And I have to thank my brainstorming buddies way back in
Charlotte NC when I conceived the original concept for this series. They not
only encouraged me, but aided and abetted its dangerous insanity. Waving at you
Nancy Northcott and Harold Lowry!

As always, my sincere gratitude to the entire Book View Café
membership. Without their help, support, and encouragement, this series would
never have seen the light of day.

With several million books in print and
New York Times
and
USA Today's
bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA
Patricia Rice
is one of romance's
hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances
have won numerous awards, including the
RT
Book Reviews
Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have
been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical,
regency and contemporary categories.

A
firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high
school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a
past resident of North Carolina and Missouri, she currently resides in Southern
California, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of
Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc. and BVC
Publishing Cooperative.

For
further information, visit Patricia’s network:

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Cyber Genius

The Family Genius Mysteries 3

Patricia Rice

Book View Café edition: September 29, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-539-7
Copyright © 2015 Patricia Rice

Production Team:

Cover Design: Pati Nagle

Proofreader: Phyllis Radford

Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.