Stolen Secrets (4 page)

It had been a particularly vicious entry, stopped by an alert chief security officer, who had immediately contacted Ryan. The intruder had used old passwords to get by Ryan’s first and second levels of security. But not the third.

Ryan shrugged his shoulders and pulled his CDs— the ones Angie had rescued— out of his briefcase. Was there a connection to MXOIL, he wondered as he set about to update them. He always kept a second copy just in case something happened to the first. His company’s protection included double back-ups for their clients.

How could Angie have missed one CD?

Answer. She didn’t. Either she had picked them all up and hidden them, or she hadn’t. Either the CD wasn’t there for her to pick up or she had handed it to the robbers.

Strange. Strange. He believed her— yet he couldn’t trust her completely, mainly because he had to protect those companies. That’s what they paid him to do. Although he
felt
like he could trust Angie, he couldn’t trust his feelings. He would always have that tiny bit of reserve, until the facts erased all doubt.

Leaving his office, he walked down the stairs. He opened the safe hidden in the base of the grandfather’s clock and retrieved the master copies to update.

Once finished, he made a CD to replace the one stolen. He put them in his too-large-to-carry-away office safe and returned the masters to the clock safe.

Ryan had a hard time believing in coincidences. If he hadn’t had the second CD with him— the one needed to access the program— it might’ve been stolen too. Angie could’ve stayed behind in the hope of getting it.

But crackers didn’t get involved physically. They didn’t do break-ins. They did all their damage via the phone lines, making themselves almost impossible to trace. So the theft probably wasn’t linked to the hacking of MXOIL. It could really be a coincidence that the thieves got the MXOIL CD.

Returning to his office, he closed the door behind him, then dialed Jim Markum, the oil company’s chief security officer and told him to change the security passwords once more, especially for the third and fourth levels of security.

Only one of Ryan’s computers had access to the Internet. He had networked the rest of his office together, but kept them unconnected to the outside world. The Internet had too many holes. He stored his most vital information on CDs.

He opened his Internet computer and examined its files for evidence of intrusion. He checked carefully, noting times and file sizes, but couldn’t find any. Stranger and stranger. People going after passwords should’ve tried his office first. Not Scott’s. Well, once they discovered they only had blanks, they might try again.

With that possibility in mind, he pulled out the CDs and made a second set to put back in Scott’s office. Ryan altered them, erasing all the vital information and putting another Trojan horse in each. He added an “X” on the labels to warn himself not to use them, and stacked them next to the good copies.

One thing left to do. Ryan walked quietly to Angie’s room, made sure she slept, then picked up her purse and walked back. He took out her cell phone, which was similar to one he had. He plugged it in and checked her address book. Two numbers: “Shelly” and a temp agency. He wrote the numbers down, then opened up the phone and inserted a GPS tracking device, tiny, but powerful.

He turned off the office lights and returned the purse, carefully positioning it back the way he’d found it. If she tried to run, he’d be able to locate her. It made him feel much better.

Ryan stripped down to his shorts, washed up, then realized he had forgotten to lock his front door. He ran down the stairs to set the deadbolt. Before he reached it, he heard Angie cry out.

* * *

Angie stood in a gymnasium at a meet judged by two men— one with shiny shoes. They chased her through the snow, waving their numbers— only they were written on CDs. Her foot caught in the floor mat and the man with scuffed shoes tried to yank her out. He hurt her, his raspy voice demanded that she give him something, and she fought, crying out....

"Angie, wake up."

Her eyes flew open to see a man bending over her and for a bleak moment confusion and terror combined to hurl her away.

He caught her before she reached the other side of the bed. "It's okay, Angie. It's me." The deep voice sounded familiar and comforting.

"Oh... Mr. Duvall? Ryan."

"Yes." He paused, pulling her backwards into his arms. "You’re having a bad dream." He pressed her closer against his chest.

"I thought you were one of them. They had come for the CDs and were chasing me through the snow."

"Umm." His fingers stroked rhythmically across the back of her neck, quieting the last tremors of fear. "Those two?"

"Yes," she murmured, enjoying the slightly hypnotic sensation of his hand as it worked down her backbone. "I couldn't run. My foot caught."

She tilted her head back to look up at his shadowy features, the errant lock of hair fully escaped by now. "Did I call out?"

He chuckled softly. "Yes. Loudly. You sounded frightened."

"I was."

"Are you still frightened?"

"No." She relaxed, breathing in the warm manly scent of him.

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke sounded critical. "Maybe you should be. I'm no teddy bear."

Half asleep, she considered his words of warning. Her heart had resumed its normal pace. It would’ve stayed that way if his statement hadn’t mentally alerted her to the situation.

Her cheek rested against his warm bare chest which had a light sprinkling of hair. One of his legs bent under her. She had better defuse things now or she would be back in her former situation, only this time with a broken heart.

He laughed ruefully as she snapped to attention with a gasp.

"Foolish of me,” he said. “You were set for the night."

"No, foolish of me. I didn't realize...."

"You're very tempting."

His lips traveled up to one ear, then over toward her mouth, leaving behind an exquisite, tingling glow, inviting a response she dared not give, yet even as she struggled against it, knew it wouldn’t be long before she did.

Throbbing pain and the smell of coffee vied for Angie’s attention as the clock chimed eight— a friendly, welcoming wake up. Long rays of sunshine streamed through the windows, throwing rectangles of brightness across the carpet and bed. Bathed in light, Angie sat up, keeping the blanket close against the invading chill in the air.

A slight swaying now and then reminded her that this house didn’t sit on solid ground. Reflections from the water below cast flickering patterns of light and shadow onto the walls and ceiling.

As the clock's last melodious stroke rolled away, Ryan appeared, clad in blue jeans, a long-sleeved gray plaid shirt and a pair of black loafers. His cinnamon brown hair was brushed neatly away from a side parting, the errant lock for once subdued. He looked bright and cheerful.

It had actually happened, she now had a job. And with a man whose quiet self-control reflected nobility within. He hadn’t taken advantage of the situation last night, but had left as soon as she started to pull away.

"Good morning," he said, giving her a welcoming nod. "You ready to go down?"

"Yes." She threw back the covers with a smile, sparking an answering glow from him.

She started to hop downstairs, but he gave her a lift, seeming to enjoy swirling her up in his arms. "You're featherweight, a little bird."

She hung on, finding his vibrant personality contagious. Usually self-reliant, she abandoned her independence in response to his openhearted manner. Besides enjoying his arms around her, it’d be rude to demand he set her down. It might put a damper on the thoughtfulness, the welcome charm he exhibited.

As a flower opening to the sun, her heart opened to him. He treated her like a princess, like someone of value for herself— and that was very precious to Angie. Her parents had both begrudged their "own" money being spent on food, utilities, rent, or Angie’s gymnastics.

Still, nagging in the background were statements he had made, such as, "I never trust anyone." Did he really trust her? These thoughts marred her joy as she arranged the white comforter around herself on the couch. Next he brought her coffee in one hand and an ice pack in the other.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the silently proffered cup. It had been a long time since someone had performed this simple act of courtesy toward her. She had stood alone, not realizing she had missed anything.

With quick but careful hands, he arranged the ice pack over her injury. He had already started a fire in the fireplace, its cheerful warmth and color radiating throughout the room, its blaze matching Angie's leaping spirits.

"Much better," he said.

Uncertain what he meant, she smiled at him, eager to share her happiness. "It's the job," she explained. "It's like having Christmas and birthday combined."

More than that, it was the assurance of future days, working with him. If able, she’d have jumped to her feet and done back flips all around the room, arms outstretched, pouring out her joy. She felt alive with energy— vibrant, intense, and renewed through the lifeline extended to her by this quiet young man.

His approval shone back, the laugh wrinkles deep in his freshly shaven face, one hand needlessly adjusting the ice pack. She met his open smile with one of her own. How wonderful everything had turned out.

"Welcome to my home, Angie."

The statement, simple and sincere, struck her as the nicest thing he could've said. He must no longer doubt her. Not knowing what to reply, she answered with a simple “Thanks.”

"Did grandfather wake you?" he asked, gesturing toward the clock.

"Not during the night. I was too tired to hear anything."

"He takes getting used to. My sister's idea." He shrugged. "When I'm working, I lose track of time. Don't eat or sleep. Can you cook? We’ll take turns."

"Yes, as long as you don't expect anything fancy."

"Fine. I don't like food disguised. Or chattering women." He paused, relaxed within himself, the stillness not uncomfortable. "You're quiet— we should work well together."

"What exactly do you do?" she inquired, as he took the chair opposite her and stretched out his legs.

"I'm a combination detective, trouble-shooter and consultant. I help businesses secure their computers from theft. If I can't solve their security problems with what's available on the market, I design something that will."

She sipped the coffee, now cooled down enough to drink. "And those CDs last night— they held security-type programs?"

"Yes. I spent weeks setting them up."

"And the one missing?"

"Stolen." He rubbed his hands across his eyes. "A security system designed solely for MXOIL.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“A cracker tried to access their files three nights ago, but couldn’t get past the levels of security. He needed the information encrypted on that CD, but I doubt if he actually stole it. They don’t do physical theft. He might buy it from a thief, though.” Ryan frowned, then nodded. “Yes, that’s a possibility.”

“How do you catch a cracker?”

“They leave fingerprints such as personality quirks and false names. I thought I’d isolated some patterns on this one, but when I sent the info to a person who keeps track of the known hackers, he found no one who matched. So I’ll try again.”

After checking his watch, Ryan removed the ice pack. “Like to shower and wash up?" he called back as he returned it and her empty cup to the kitchen.

"Love to."

"The pipes are wrapped with heat coils, but they’ve frozen before. So shower while you can."

“Water pipes?”

“Outside. They run alongside the dock and come in next to the boat. They’re prone to freezing.”

Once again she got a lift upstairs and had to resist the urge to lay her face alongside his with its pleasing aroma of spicy after-shave.

He set out a large towel, then put a plastic chair in the shower for her and told her to take as long as she wanted— which she did, reveling in the soothing spray. It felt wonderful to scrub and soak up the warm water and then scrub some more.

She emerged with the light lit in her eyes, sparkling back at herself in the bathroom mirror. Not even the pain in her ankle could diminish her delight. Angie felt the same elation she had experienced during her first Olympics.

Dressed in her gray wool skirt and slightly wrinkled white blouse, she looked much less a waif of the storm and more like a confident working woman. Or at least so she hoped.

She dried her short hair, then found some fresh gauze and wrapped her ankle, something she had done countless times as a gymnast. Of course it had to be her weak ankle, the one which had never quite recovered from a poor dismount off the uneven bars.

Finished, she opened the bathroom window a crack, letting in fresh air, and peeked out at the houseboats surrounding them. A boat bobbed next to each, including Ryan’s, but the covering snow kept Angie from seeing what kind he had. A solid blue sky backdropped the scene, fresh out of the paint box with no subduing hues mixed in. Gulls circled overhead, their high-pitched cries accenting the moment. She stood still for several seconds, breathing in the fresh air.

Hearing Ryan’s voice, she closed the window and went into the hall.

"Don't worry, Scott," he said. "I’ve got things well in hand." He looked up from the phone as she hopped to the office door. "I'll talk to you later."

Don't worry? Why? Because Ryan could keep tabs on her, the witness? Or was it the suspect who was being kept close at hand?

Ryan pushed back his chair, walked over to where she stood, and looked her up and down. He nodded. "Better.” He motioned towards the stairwell with his hand. “Breakfast is ready."

"Okay." She wanted to ask him what he had meant just now, talking to Scott, but didn’t know how to form the sentence to keep it from sounding wrong.

He dished up a man-sized breakfast, eggs, hash browns, toast and strawberry jam.

"You're going to spoil me, you know.”

"You'll stand for it," he replied, and poured some coffee, then set to to eat his own meal.

When they finished, he picked up a blank notebook. “Now, tell me about those men, how they walked, talked, what they said. Anything."

Using her hands to emphasize her words, Angie set about describing the scene. “I had just put the blanks on Mr. Sunderstrom’s desk when I heard them open Patti’s outer door. I didn’t have any time, so I dove under the desk. I could only see their shoes.”

“Describe what you can.”

“One had a raspy voice and brown shoes with scuffed toes. He sort of wheezed before he spoke, like he had difficulty breathing. I figured he had a cold, or maybe asthma. They mentioned that Patti had talked to the other one. She actually called him by name, but I can't remember it."

"Try."

"I think it started with a "T"... and had three or four letters in it. Tim or Tom or something like that. Todd? I can't remember."

"Leave it for now. The brown shoes. Hard-soled?"

"Loafers." She remembered clearly. "Not suede, although they were stitched like moccasins. You know, a half-circle around the toe area."

"Keep going. Anything else? Pants color?"

"Brown shoes had brown pants. Dark brown. And Shiny Toes had on black bat-wings— with pinholes. Black pants."

He wrote it down, then poured some fresh coffee. "I wonder if they took anything else.”

“They didn’t spend much time in the office. They didn’t open the safe, just grabbed the CDs on the desk and left. Which made me very happy. A spider had joined me under that desk.” She shuddered, remembering.

“What kind?”

“I didn’t ask. It looked huge. As big as a quarter.”

He chuckled. “Was it hiding, too?”

“You can laugh, but it came nose to nose with me. If it had moved any closer, I’d have screamed, robbers or no.”

“It just sat there?"

“No. It left when I blew on it.”

“Good.”

She watched him write in his notebook. He’d never know how close she came to lifting the desk off the floor when that spider ran next to her. Luckily it came out the other side before she did. “When the men left, they turned out the lights. I waited for a minute and gathered my things to leave. Then you opened the door— ”

“Kicked it open.”

“Was that what you did? No wonder— ”

He stopped writing to look at her. “Did I hurt you? Your head?”

“My shoulder took most of it. My head got a good whack on the side. It’ll be okay.”

“Sorry. I imagined an armed man inside.”

She nodded. She could understand that.

"Repeat Patti's conversation, please."

"Okay. I didn’t hear the first part. She was already talking when I came in. It sounded like boyfriend-girlfriend talk. You know, sort of chummy.”

"What did she say?"

Angie told him as well as she could. The conversation had shocked her, so the first part remained a blur, but the rest stayed quite clear.

“Patti said she’d leave her door unlocked for this guy, and that the CDs were worth millions. Evidently he had gotten into trouble, because she said she wouldn’t be doing it otherwise. And, uh, she said you wanted them brought to the airport. That’s why they had been set out.”

* * *

Ryan jotted down Angie’s account. Had Patti truly been in on the robbery? Along with her boyfriend, Ted Fairweather? And how did Angie know about the airport if not from overhearing Patti? Had he or Scott mentioned it? He couldn’t remember.

Patti talked so much, Angie could’ve picked up the name last summer. Or, Patti could’ve been talking to her boyfriend on the phone when Angie entered, but not discussing a potential robbery.

Ryan circled the initial “T” with his pencil, careful not to add his own interpretation to Angie’s memory by writing down the whole name. Even he had heard Patti jabbering about Ted. He mustn’t condemn Patti just because he wanted Angie to be innocent.

And yet, when Angie looked at him with her clear gaze and flashed that gamin smile, so generous and unassuming, he couldn’t imagined her guilty of anything. How could so much innocence shine from an impure source? The tired girl of the previous night had bloomed into a lovely young lady.

He liked the transformation even as he regretted it. The more beautiful she became, the harder time he’d have staying objective.

Women were deceptive— he had learned that the hard way. Everything in him demanded he trust Angie, whom he barely knew, and suspect Patti, whom he knew quite well— or thought he did. He wondered how much he had imagined and how much was fact. He could be projecting his own images onto Angie, the way he had done with Kathleen, blinding himself to her true nature.

"I can’t remember any more. They didn't talk long. I'm sorry."

"It’s okay."

"What do you plan to do?”

"Follow through. "

"We need to call the police.”

"I already have.” He had contacted Eric Hayes, a detective friend, while Angie took a shower. Eric would write up a short report and then go about his business, confident Ryan could investigate this.

Angie showed no particular alarm in the fact, although she did look down when he mentioned the police, so he really couldn’t tell. Kathleen used to do that to him, hiding her eyes. He had thought she was shy. She wasn't.

Disturbed by his thoughts, he stood up, gathered the dishes together, took them to the sink, and dumped them in.

“Can I help?"

“No."

"I feel so useless."

He glanced back at Angie, seeing the frustration on her face. He could’ve told her that she didn't need to help. Just her being here was enough for him.

He turned on the hot water, did a quick soap and rinse. Company. The companionship of a woman meant life to a man— the loss of it like death. Angie’s presence banished the emptiness of his house, adding a new dimension to it. But he didn't want to tell her that. Not yet.

He left the dishes on the drain rack to dry, and pointed upstairs. He enjoyed carrying her and welcomed the opportunity.

They spent the next hour in his office with Angie sitting in a reclining chair, icing her ankle at twenty-minute intervals. Ryan sent an e-mail alert to all his clients, asking each to arrange an appointment to update their systems.