Lead-Pipe Cinch (26 page)

After all, I had designed and installed systems for companies with really sensitive data. The kind that required men in dark suits and thin ties to check you out before they let you work.

Wade’s system wouldn’t even be a challenge. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable knowledge that Wade’s system was only accessible because he trusted me, and forged ahead.

I fiddled for a few minutes, digging into places in the system that most people didn’t know existed.

It was nothing more than old tricks I had learned over the years. Some dated back to college, and I had learned more in the early years at Samurai. It always impressed a prospective client when I sat down and accessed their date files in a matter of minutes.

Those tricks won us a lot of contracts.

I tracked through logs and files, unlocking encrypted information and digging deeper with each passing minute. I told myself I was only trying to protect myself and my mother, that I needed to know the truth about Mom and Gregory’s financial dealings.

Wade flipped a page, and muttered to himself. I glanced at him, ready to slam the laptop closed if he came my direction, but he was immersed in the reference book.

He didn’t pay any attention to what I was doing.

My heart raced and my palms grew damp against the keyboard.

Computer passwords were a balancing act between something the user could easily remember and something an intruder would be unable to guess. Most passwords didn’t take long to guess, and I knew several ways to discover at least a few characters. From there, it was usually easy to fill in the rest.

Computer security was a lot like plumbing. You designed and built a system to allow water—or data—to only flow in one direction. Sometimes you wanted the outside world to send data to you, just like your incoming water pipe. And sometimes you wanted to only allow outgoing transfers, like the wastewater system. The whole point of the security system was to control what direction that data flowed.

Wade’s system was designed to take data in. There were access points for his clients to connect to his system and send him their information—sales, expenses, payroll—all the details he collected in order to tell them if they were making money, or owed taxes, or whatever else he advised them about.

What I wanted to do was get into his system and draw the information out. Sort of like in the movies when the robbers get into the building by crawling through the sewer pipes.

I had never seen an outlet pipe that was actually big enough for a man to crawl through, but in the make-believe world of spy movies it looked cool and that was all that mattered.

I pulled my attention back to the task at hand. I might have only a few minutes more before Wade was finished and ready for lunch.

A few characters emerged, and a pattern began to form. People were creatures of habit. You could always find a pattern. And this wasn’t just anyone. It was Wade, a man I knew well. Someone I had known for a long time. A man who trusted me. I shoved the thought aside.

I heard Wade’s chair creak, and I swiveled to look at him. My hand was poised on the laptop, ready to snap it shut before he could see what I was doing.

“About ready,” he said. “Just let me clean up a little.” He pushed back from the desk and walked past the door of the tiny private consultation room to the washroom in the back of the office.

I had a couple minutes reprieve, but he would be back soon.

I listened for the running water that would signal his imminent return, as my fingers flew across the keyboard.

Just a few more characters to go.

I looked in horror at the words that emerged.

It was a phrase I remembered well.

“Georgie Nevermore.”

It was the juvenile play on my name I had used the day I broke up with him over Sue’s cheating boyfriend. It was how I told him to think of me when I had given him my self-righteous speech about friendship and loyalty and trust.

I closed the window and broke the connection. I could find some other way to get the information I needed.

A way that didn’t violate Wade’s trust in me.

I barely remembered lunch. I know I talked to Wade and he talked to me, but I couldn’t stop obsessing about the mistake I had almost made. I had been drawn back into the world I’d left behind and very nearly betrayed the trust of one of my best friends.

The dogs greeted me enthusiastically when I returned home. They wanted a walk, but I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts for that long.

I needed a distraction.

My
gi
was in the closet of the second bedroom.

I began my routine, concentrating on the precision of my movements, the control of my body, and the focus of my breathing. Slowly, I felt my concerns drain away as I reached down inside me for calm and control.

I wished again for a dojo and a sensei, then realized I no longer needed them. I used my martial arts training to gain control over my temper and negative emotions, and I had learned to do that on my own. I had gained the control I needed without anyone’s help.

It was a wonderful feeling.

Stress never solved a problem, it only made it worse. Although I had regained control, I still desperately needed a solution.

The key had to be Gregory’s finances. If he was in serious trouble, he could have been desperate enough to try and stop Blake.

I had stopped myself from snooping in Wade’s computer, but there was another place to look. Gregory’s files. I could break into the files of Whitlock Estates Realty.

I would be doing the exact thing I had battled against for all my years at Samurai. The same thing I had nearly done to Wade. The difference was I didn’t trust Gregory, and I didn’t think he trusted me.

It had nothing to do with his relationship with my mother. I had to save my own skin. The sheriff hadn’t arrested me for murder, and he still acted as though he believed I was innocent. But how long would that last if I didn’t find out who really did do it? How long before I
was
arrested and charged with Blake’s murder?

As Barbara Parks had said, it didn’t look good.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. And although I had mastered my rising panic, I was still in a desperate situation and it was time to act.

My desktop whirred to life, and I began tapping keys. There was a public website for Whitlock Estates. I would start there.

A long, frustrating hour later I had found the hosting system for the website, but there was no link back to the Whitlock computers.

Strike one.

It had been a long shot, after all. I hadn’t really expected it to be that easy, had I?

I went back to work, trying another avenue. Perhaps I could find information in public records that would tell me about the status of Whitlock Estates. I spent the entire afternoon crawling through search after search, combing public records, news archives, blog posts, anywhere I could find a mention of Whitlock or Clackamas Commons. I didn’t find anything that indicated whether Whitlock and the Commons were solvent or not.

I turned up a couple public-record filings that weren’t supposed to be searchable. Clackamas Commons was incorporated, and the named officers were Gregory, my mother, and the attorney who had filed the incorporation. Fortunately for Mom it wasn’t either of the Gladstones, who were in jail awaiting trial for the murder of Martha Tepper.

Beyond that there was nothing.

Strike two.

The sun had set and outside the night was quickly turning cold. There was a hint of winter in the air; snow and ice would soon keep most of Pine Ridge indoors.

I hoped we would be able to finish the McComb project before the weather shut us down for the winter. It didn’t matter how much of a premium Chad McComb was willing to pay, there were times when you just couldn’t work outside.

I shut down the computer, fed the dogs, and changed into the warmest clothes I could find. The morning’s visit to Wade’s office had given me an idea. I had my doubts whether it would work, but it was the only other thing I could think of.

The parking lot at the back of the Whitlock Estates office was deserted. A streetlight in front of the office cast a dark shadow over the lot, perfect for my purposes.

I parked close to the building, putting the Beetle deep in the shadow. When I opened the laptop the glow of the screen seemed overly bright in the darkness. I adjusted the display until I could just make out what I was doing on the dimly lit screen and set to work.

I scanned for available networks, and found several. I shook my head at the trusting folks of Pine Ridge. There were at least two local businesses whose networks were not only visible but open and unprotected. I could have prowled through their records and stolen their data if I wanted to.

Pine Ridge needed serious education about computer security. I hoped Gregory Whitlock was as clueless as the rest of the business owners.

I worked my way down the list of available networks, discarding the ones I could identify. Some names were obvious, and some were more obscure. I came to a network named
Commonsnet
, and my heart quickened. Commonsnet—for Clackamas Commons, perhaps? But no, it was a network for libertarian politicians, “in honor of the common man.”

I moved on.

Out on the street a car passed, its headlights cutting through the shadows. I lowered the screen of the laptop, shielding the glow from the display. Once the car was gone I waited, breathing shallowly, to see if it would return. When it didn’t I went back to work.

I discarded several more networks before I hit pay dirt. It wasn’t actually a network, just an unsecured computer left running. A few minutes of digging revealed it to be a “visitor” computer on the Whitlock network.

I was about to connect to the computer when my cell phone buzzed. I had set it on vibrate to keep it silent, but the hum of the instrument against my thigh made my heart race.

I glanced at the tiny screen. It was Stan Fischer, calling from his hotel.

I knew the parking lot was deserted, but I looked around anyway. There was no one to hear me.

“Hello?”

“Georgie Girl,” Stan’s voice boomed from the phone. I frantically thumbed the volume control. “I’m heading for the airport in a couple minutes, girl. Gotta get back and arrange to get somebody up here. Unless”—I could hear the sly smile in his voice—“you’ve changed your mind about takin’ the job.”

“No, Stan. Can’t do it.”

Stan sighed dramatically. “If you’re absolutely sure, then I guess I have to try and take no for an answer—and you know how hard that is for me.”

He chuckled, and I felt the corners of my mouth lift in an answering grin. It was a good thing he couldn’t see me, he might take it as a sign I was weakening, and maybe I was. But the force of Stan’s personality wasn’t quite as strong over the phone as it was in person. Lucky for me.

“Will you send me your notes?” he asked. He rattled off an e-mail address I knew I could easily remember: S Fischer at Samurai Security. The domain I used to own, when I still owned Samurai Security itself.

“Be glad to, Stan.”

“Okay then. Maybe I’ll get back up here sometime soon, check in on the job and all that.”

Check in on Chad McComb’s checkbook, more likely. But at least he would keep Samurai operating. It might not be my company anymore, but to my surprise I found I still wanted it to succeed.

I got Stan off the phone, and stowed it in my jacket pocket. Then I went back to the Whitlock network.

I established a connection with the “visitor” computer, and roamed through the system until I found the link to the Whitlock network controller. The computer I was talking to didn’t have permission to access most of Whitlock’s files. Which meant I had to spend a few minutes manipulating the network security to change that.

Finally, with access to the network I edited the password files, allowing my laptop to reach everything on the network.

I clicked quickly through the files, looking for anything that might be significant. I downloaded one file after another, copying them to a folder on my laptop.

The phone buzzed again, but this time I ignored it. I would worry about who it was later. Right now I was grabbing everything I could off of Gregory’s computer.

The files took several minutes to copy. All the while I waited in the dark car, barely daring to breathe for fear someone would notice me.

Pine Ridge is a small town, and most everything closes early. Still, an irrational fear gripped me as I sat there, watching the progress bar slowly tick across the screen.

I silently urged it to go faster. My hands clenched into fists and my shoulders drew tighter and tighter.

I felt a muscle spasm run down one leg and fought to hold down the surprised yelp of pain that rose in my throat.