Unauthorized Access (13 page)

Dysart thought of his phone call to Lesley that afternoon. “No, not really. Look, I need that keyword. Shouldn’t we focus on how to get it?”

“That’s what I’m doing, Mr. Dysart. We put the screws to Rob pretty good tonight but he stuck to his guns. He’s getting himself a lawyer so it’ll go one of two ways. The lawyer might be able to talk some sense into him and they’ll come looking for a plea bargain. Believe me, he won’t get any deal until he gives up the keyword. If he keeps saying he’s innocent, though, the lawyer will probably advise him to say nothing more, in which case we need to talk to other people, either find someone else who’s involved or someone who can give us something we can use to persuade Rob to cooperate.”

“And you’re sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“There’s no doubt,” Steeves said. “Not with what we found, and we’re going to keep going, see if we can dig up some way to force him to cooperate. What I need from you is any ideas about where to start. Are any of your computer people particularly good friends with Rob?”

“That would be Tim Whitlock,” Dysart said. “He and Rob grew up together, went to the same college, that sort of thing. As for the others, you’ll have to ask John Kelleher.”

“All right. I’ll keep you up to date.”

Dysart hung up the phone and sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring unseeingly into a dim corner of his office. He didn’t want to believe it was Rob, of all people.

What would this do to Lesley? Rob was probably on his way to jail. What an idiot. How could Rob mess up so many lives like this?

Dysart left his office and padded up a set of thickly carpeted stairs. The sound of soft, regular breathing greeted him when he cracked open the door to the guest bedroom. The sleeping pill Sheila had supplied was finally working. Lesley was asleep. He looked at her face in the spill of light from the hallway. The sight brought back memories of the last time she had slept there, following the death of her father. He felt the urge to scoop her up from the bed, to comfort her as he had done years before. She was like his own child and he hated to see her in pain like this. He closed the door quietly. He could wait until morning to talk to her.

As he walked away, Dysart’s thoughts returned to the even more pressing issue of how to get the bank back on an even keel. He needed the keyword at all costs. Unless Rob changed his tune soon, Dysart would have to call Ray Landry and turn him loose—assuming Landry was still in business. It had been several years since Dysart had used his services.

And Heaven help Rob if it came to using them again.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Thursday

“HOW YOU EXPECT me to eat this?”

The voice echoed off the beige cinder block walls and made Rob’s headache throb even more. He looked up from his breakfast, which sat on a long wooden table with fold-down metal legs. Rob’s neck complained about the movement by delivering a jab of pain. The thin foam mattress he had slept on hadn’t done much to separate him from the unforgiving steel frame.

The scrawny young black man across the table regarded his breakfast with obvious disdain.

“Look at this here. It’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

The other men seated around the table paid no attention. Rob looked down at his own black plastic tray full of breakfast-like substances. Two slices of toast sat on a paper plate. It looked like someone had waited half an hour after the toast was made and then waved a knife covered in oily margarine in the general vicinity of the toast. There was also coffee in a cardboard cup, a creamer, a packet of sugar and a plastic stir stick.

Rob held his head in his hands and tried to kick his mind into gear. He hadn’t slept long. He had sat for what seemed like hours in the interrogation room after requesting a lawyer. Every time he had started to doze off a sharp rap on the door startled him awake and he would see a face looking in through the wire mesh. Eventually he had been cuffed, taken outside and driven a few blocks to Nashua Street where, after considerable paperwork, he had been placed in a cell for what remained of the night.

“Hey you. Cracker.”

Rob looked at the young black man who, despite his earlier complaints, sat munching his toast. From what Rob could see, the man had spent a good portion of his life in a tattoo parlor.

“Better eat up,” the young man said to Rob. “They’ll want us to be done in a few minutes and it don’t get any better at lunch time.”

Rob considered the tray again but his stomach seemed to fold in on itself at the thought of food. He went back to holding his head in his hands.

“Say what you in for anyway?”

Rob didn’t answer. It was all too bizarre, being treated like a low-life by the police and like an equal by the other inmates. Everyone thought he belonged here. He was just one more aberration who had to be locked away for the protection of society. But he had done nothing wrong and had to have faith the nightmare would end soon.

The worst part was the lack of information. Last night he had called his father and asked him to arrange a lawyer, and also to tell Lesley not to worry. He had no way of knowing how things were progressing on either of those fronts. His one phone call was used up. He didn’t know if visitors were allowed, just that there had been none. The police officers he had dealt with the night before had refused to answer any of his questions. He couldn’t even tell what time it was. They had taken his watch when he had been processed, along with mug shots, fingerprints, his wallet, his belt and a good chunk of his dignity.

“Shoot, you don’t need to be ignorin’ me like that. The days drag on something awful in here without you got nobody to talk to, know what I’m sayin’?”

Rob lifted his head long enough to shoot an apathetic gaze across the table.

“Murder,” Rob said.

“Say what?”

“That’s why I’m here. I shot a guy who wouldn’t stop yapping at me.”

“You kiddin’ me?”

Rob picked up a piece of toast and tried to imagine eating it.

“Man, that’s hardcore. Sure beats the measly possession charge they got me on. Two grams is all. Won’t amount to much.”

The chair to Rob’s left was vacant, but next to that sat a mountain of a man drinking a coffee. His blond hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail, which matched his unkempt beard. A grimy T-shirt revealed a few tattoos on the slab of an arm, though they were nowhere near as intricate as those sported by Rob’s other, more talkative companion.

Had those crude tattoos been done in prison? One appeared to be a snake. The man noticed Rob looking at him and turned a threatening scowl in his direction.

“What’re you looking at?” the man said.

Rob felt a chill form at the back of his skull and spread quickly down his spine. Steeves’ words about prison life came back to him. He looked away and pretended to study the breakfast tray, though his stomach was clenched so tightly he stood no chance of forcing down any food.

The guy across the table piped up again. “Hey cracker. How many years you looking at? They tell you that yet? They talking death penalty? Or maybe you planning to get off. That it? They got any witnesses?”

The guy just wouldn’t shut up, but he was right about one thing. It was shaping up to be a long day.

* * *

Lesley stretched in bed as she rose out of the fog of sleep. She rolled slowly onto one side, careful not to squash Leo, who was usually curled up somewhere near her knees. Then she realized there would be no Leo this morning. She opened her eyes and found herself looking at the antique-style white porcelain pitcher and wash basin Sheila kept on the bedside table in the guest bedroom.

The previous night flooded in on her—Rob’s arrest, her tear-soaked conversation with her aunt and uncle in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the situation didn’t look any better after a night’s sleep.

Her aunt was sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning newspaper when Lesley arrived downstairs. A partially eaten bagel sat on a plate beside the paper.

“Morning,” Lesley said.

Sheila smiled at her and said, “Did you sleep okay?”

Lesley crossed her arms tightly across her chest and shrugged.

“I guess.”

“Have a seat. I’ll get you some coffee.”

Sheila got up and walked over to the coffeemaker on the counter.

“You must think I’m a total basket case,” Lesley said as she sat at the table, “crashing in here all hysterical like that last night.”

“Not at all. You had quite a shock.”

Sheila placed a cup of coffee and a spoon in front of Lesley, then picked up her own dirty plate. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked, moving over to the dishwasher.

Lesley picked up the spoon and gave the coffee a slow stir.

“I just need someone to tell me this is all a big mistake and Rob’s going to be okay.”

“I’m afraid that’s unlikely,” her uncle said as he strode brusquely into the room and started pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed in a black suit, white cotton shirt and a subdued maroon tie. The hard sound of his shoes on the porcelain tile floor contrasted sharply with the whisper of Sheila’s slippers.

“I spoke with the FBI last night,” he said. “Rob is definitely the one who attacked the bank.”

Lesley’s mouth went dry.

“How do they know that?” she said.

“Lots of ways.”

He told her about his conversation with Special Agent Steeves.

Lesley’s world suddenly took on a serious cant. She swallowed dryly.

“Will he go to jail?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Stan,” Sheila said.

“What do you want me to say?” Dysart said. “That I hope he gets off? Maybe I should invite him back to the bank so he can cripple the rest of our computers.”

“Of course not,” Sheila said, “but Lesley’s already upset enough.”

“You know what I keep asking myself?” he said. “How Rob could be so angry at the bank that he would pull off a stunt like this.” He looked at Lesley. “And you would have no idea.”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Lesley’s gut.

“Really, Stan,” Sheila said.

“Think about it,” Dysart said, still staring tight-lipped at his niece. “Apparently he planted his program on the computer months ago. All that time he’s seething inside, desperate to lash out against Stan’s big, bad old bank, and he never says a word to you? Doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Lesley shook her head in mute denial.

“So the question I keep asking myself,” Dysart said, “is why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Stan.”

Dysart ignored his wife.

“Why didn’t you tell me so I could stop this mess from happening in the first place?”

“He never said a word,” Lesley said.

“There must have been something. A snide comment here or there about the bank.”

Lesley shook her head as she tried to recall.

“No,” she said. “He loves his job. He was excited you were going to put him on that merger team.”

“I knew it,” Dysart said. “He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I told him not to tell anyone about that.”

Lesley opened her mouth to explain, then realized there was nothing she could say.

Dysart turned to Sheila. “You know what else that jerk is doing?”

“Really, Stan, the language.”

“He won’t tell the FBI the keyword. Even now that he’s caught, he still wants to squeeze the bank—squeeze me—for every ounce of pain that he can.”

“But we haven’t even talked to him yet,” Lesley said, “heard his side of the story.”

“How could he possibly have a story I care about? There is no excuse for what he’s done.”

“We should at least talk to him.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to him all right,” Dysart said.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

ROB CLIMBED THE stairs to the unit’s second tier where the three visiting rooms were located.

“Room 702,” the officer in the control booth had told him, “the one in the middle.”

Rob opened the door and looked in. His heart seemed to skip a beat when he saw Stan Dysart sitting on the other side of the Plexiglas barrier. Suddenly he felt like a fish in an aquarium, trapped and on display for the world. He walked in and sat down on a metal chair.