Ginger snaps, p.32
Ginger Snaps, page 32
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When I came down the next morning, I found Debbie in the kitchen
making cranberry-oatmeal muffins. Clovis had already gone to pick
up Micki’s computer guru, and eric had left for morning rounds.
Micki had poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table
in old sweats, wet hair wrapped in a towel. She looked great.
I took my coffee and muffin out onto the sunny patio and watched
the Tahoe round the curve into the driveway. Clovis stepped out and
opened the door for his passenger, Stella Rice. Micki had told me
they’d met at a triathlon. She was a friend of Mongo’s, and a com-
puter whiz. I didn’t have any preconceived notions, but I expected a
more or less nerdy woman who spent her days and night in front of a
computer screen. Boy, was I surprised.
In boots with four-inch heels she stood as tall as Clovis. She wore
skin-tight jeans and a tank top that showed off her muscular arms,
one of which was covered with a rose vine tattoo. She had twisted her
heavy, dark blond hair up with some kind of comb. Bright purple
nails and lipstick completed the picture. Debbie told me later that
she owned a gym downtown and spent most of her time either in
it or running with her constant companion, Blakely, a solid black
retriever mix. Now the dog sprang out of Clovis’s Tahoe, wagging
and wiggling. He must’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven
when he saw the huge pasture.
over her shoulder, Stella carried an obviously heavy bag filled with
electronic gear.
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“Hope you don’t mind. I brought my office with me.” She patted
her bag with her off hand, as I shook hands with the other.
She greeted Micki and Debbie like long-lost friends, politely shook
hands with Maggie, and began to set up her equipment on the dining
room table.
Maggie stood staring until I pulled her into the kitchen to help me
make a fresh pot of coffee. She gave me an appraising look and whis-
pered, “Don’t you get any ideas, Jack Patterson.”
Debbie said, “See, Jack, I knew you’d like her. She’s much more
your type.” I hadn’t realized she had joined us in the kitchen.
My type? I had no idea what to think of this muscle-bound package
who made Clovis look flabby.
We brought coffee into the dining area while Stella swept the house
once again for newly planted bugs. It seemed to take quite a while; I was
long through with the flimsy local paper before she returned.
“Sorry, but we can’t be too safe,” she said after she finished and gave
us an all-clear.
For the next hour she told us what she’d discovered: in a nutshell,
multiple attempts to hack both our office and personal computers
by more than one source. She’d left the “hacking that succeeded” in
place in case we wanted to send out false information, but had created
a new firewall between the intruder and our reality. She asked us to
reserve time for individual training after lunch.
I asked her about liz’s computers and phones.
“liz was easy. She only uses an iPad to send e-mail and check Face-
book. I told her to assume anything she did or said was being moni-
tored. She laughed and said she’d be sure to be especially offensive
from now on. Sounds like my kind of woman!” Oh, great. I tried not to
think about what that meant.
liz had called Maggie earlier to say she couldn’t see us until
Wednesday morning before the auction, something about an appoint-
ment with her hairdresser. Her hairdresser? I was irritated, but also
relieved. liz required a lot of energy.
Muttering something about what was really important, Clovis
had slipped away when Stella began the debugging process. Now he
returned with barbecue from Ben’s— I couldn’t believe it was already
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lunchtime. I had devoured my sandwich, and was eyeing a second,
when Maggie asked the obvious question.
“How did you get so proficient with computers? The image of a tri-
athlete doesn’t exactly square with that of a computer nerd.”
“I was good at math, one of the few girls who went to engineering
school at Arkansas. I got hooked early on computer technology and
worked for IBM fresh out of school. Then, on a bet, I entered a half
marathon. I didn’t make three miles. It pissed me off, and I started
training for real. I found a new love and got into serious cross training.
As you might have noticed, I gravitated away from IBM’s dress-for-
success look and mentality. I like glossy lipstick and turning heads. So
I left IBM, bought a gym, and do computer consulting when I’m not
doing personal training. I’m my own boss. If I want to take off to hike
Mt. Magazine or bike in the Delta, I can.”
“Have you ever married?” I was surprised by Maggie’s probing.
“Never found a man who could keep up with me.” She answered
curtly, taking another sandwich and returning to her computers.
“I assume you’ve checked her out?” I asked Clovis, who was lin-
gering out of her earshot.
“After Moira? What do you think? She’s exactly what you see—
former IBM, health nut, an independent woman with an attitude. An
odd sense of style, but as smart as they come. You interested?”
“Not in that way. I’m not so much into muscles, besides Maggie
would tan my hide. But she does seem to know computers.”
“You should have seen Walter’s IT guys. They were all giggly and
snooty at first, but within thirty minutes, they were ready to hire her.
She blew them off, but you watch, they’ll make another run at her.”
“I can’t figure out how she stands up in those boots.”
Clovis laughed. “I asked her the same thing this morning.”
“And . . . ?”
“She said, ‘Men admire my ass a lot more when I wear these. They
hurt like hell, but I bet I can outrun you in them.”
“Well, let’s see how good she really is before we give her a gold star.
I need a break. Maybe she can provide it.” We wandered back into the
dining room.
She and Maggie were huddled over Maggie’s laptop.
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I was blunt. “So, Stella, can you tell me who’s been hacking our
computers?”
“The short answer is ‘maybe.’ The problem is that more than one
person is trying to get in there. She gestured toward Maggie’s laptop.
“The multiple hacking attempts make identification more difficult,
but not impossible.”
“Next question: if you figure out who it is, can you explain it to a
judge?”
She didn’t hesitate. “If I can discover who it is, I can make it so easy
to understand, even you’ll get it.”
“I take it Maggie told you about my computer skills,” I replied, not
quite ready to be convinced.
“Micki and Maggie told me you have many talents, but computer
proficiency is not one.”
“Can you do it by Wednesday morning? We don’t have much time.”
I caved.
“Well, again, maybe. No guarantees, but I’m willing to try, if you’re
willing to pay.”
Micki interrupted. “What do you need? Money is not the issue.”
“It would help if I could work from here. I’m likely to have lots of
questions about who I’m looking for. I’ve got some idea what this case
is about, but the more you can tell me, the better chance I have to
discover the source. I’ll need to run programs at night. Maybe I could
crash on the couch and wake one of you on occasion?”
Micki answered before I could. “We’ve got plenty of room. We’ll
send someone to your place for clothes. You can start right now. If you
have any questions in the middle of the night, you should ask Jack. He
won’t mind.” She didn’t give me a glance, didn’t need to.
Paul beckoned me from the front door to let me know he and
Debbie were leaving for Dub’s next press conference. Holding a press
conference on a Saturday afternoon . . . he was either clueless or des-
perate. I gave Debbie a little hug, followed by a stern warning.
“Be really careful, Debbie. Dub is a dangerous man. We want his
mind focused on why you are there, but I don’t want you to be in any
danger. okay?”
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Debbie had chosen a very stylish dress by French laundry. I recog-
nized the brand from Beth’s clothes. Her lips were bright pink, and
she wore flashy crystal drop earrings. “Don’t worry. He’ll notice me,
but we won’t stay. I want him to wonder where I’ve gone.”
I looked at Paul.
“Don’t worry—I’ll take care of her. I’ve got back up, just in case. It’s
the reporters I have to worry about,” Paul said with a smile.
I wanted Dub to sweat, but I knew each time he saw Debbie the risk
grew greater. She could be Moira’s next target if we weren’t careful. I
was toying with Dub at Debbie’s expense, and it scared me more than
a little. Never mind my promise to Novak—Debbie was a keeper.
I returned to the dining room to find that Maggie and Stella had
finished putting traps in place to catch the snoopers and were about
to change into walking clothes. Micki came in from the kitchen and
we walked out onto her patio. Winding wisteria covered the pergola,
and the late afternoon sun crept in and seemed to embrace us with
its warmth, allowing my brain to relax, to wander from the business
at hand. After a few minutes of reverie, my thoughts turned to words.
“Ah, Micki, this moment feels so good—I don’t want to force my
mind to connect with reality. Sitting on your porch, watching the
sunset, sipping on a glass of good wine . . . it all feels so natural.
Maggie, Stella, and Blakely are tromping through your property; they
look like they don’t have a care in the world. It’s nice to forget all this
chaos and just enjoy the peace—and being with friends.”
“You know you’re welcome any time,” Micki responded quietly.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” I reached across to take her hand.
She left it in mine. “I’m glad to have some company. eric means
well, but he’s such a wet blanket. I wish he’d give it a rest.”
“If you were my girl, you can bet I’d be protective, too.”
“You had your chance,” she snickered. “But I’m serious, Jack. It’s
nice to have you all out here. Having Stella here is a special treat—
she’s such a kick.”
“I’m not interested,” I said, surprising myself with my automatic
response.
“Really. Could have fooled me,” Micki retorted.
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“listen, Maggie reminds me constantly that women here can liter-
ally be the kiss of death.” I paused.
“There isn’t much that gets past Maggie.”
At that very moment, eric walked onto the patio, still in his
morning scrubs and obviously tired.
“What are you two up to?” he asked as he bent down to kiss Micki.
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MoNdAy
May 5, 2014
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53
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Mr. Kim, head of the organization’s North American operation,
had called Mr. Smith to DC for a meeting with the client. He gave
them both a full report on the activities of Patterson and his team.
The ensuing discussion affirmed his presumption that their success
depended on the upcoming auction. Mr. Kim recommended elimi-
nating Patterson before the auction, but the client was concerned that
his death would result in further unwelcome publicity, again delaying
the long anticipated return on their investment. Mr. Kim agreed that
loose ends could wait until after the auction. Smith’s assignment was
crystal clear.
As expected, Dub had finagled his way onto the rounds of Sunday
talk shows and public appearances. Debbie and Paul managed to be
part the gallery, usually right up front, at each event. Debbie wore
increasingly provocative attire, and Dub became increasingly uncom-
fortable with her presence. It was time to throw him another curve.
“Your gig is up. No more press events for you.” I had said to Debbie
Sunday afternoon.
She was clearly disappointed. “Why? I enjoy messing with his mind.”
“I want him to loosen his guard, feel safe again.”
“No more waving and watching him sweat?”
“I didn’t say that. You’ll be front and center Wednesday in court
and, if Cheryl lures him onto her show, you’ll be in the front row.”
“You mean I could be on Tv?” Debbie squealed like a child.
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“Well, I hope so, but for now, let’s make Dub wonder where you
are.”
Cheryl had booked a room at the Armitage and was enjoying her
celebrity status to the hilt. The local Tv stations had interviewed her
and would broadcast her show all week from the auditorium at the
UAlR. Her theme was a return to little Rock, one year after the
murder of Senator Russell Robinson. She’d asked Dub to appear on
Tuesday night, but he demurred. ever persistent, Cheryl had con-
vinced him to meet her for drinks after tonight’s taping. I wasn’t wor-
ried—Cheryl would wrangle the interview.
At Micki’s urging, Marshal Maroney had agreed to personally
supervise the auction. She managed to finesse the arrangements so
the cars were available for inspection at a marshal’s lot. Doug’s files,
computers, and lab equipment could be seen, if not actually exam-
ined, in a spare room at the courthouse. Dub’s office insisted that
Maroney keep a list of exactly who requested access to either. Several
car dealers had inspected the cars, but so far no one had asked to see
the items in the locked room.
I decided against asking Stella to inspect Doug’s computer—too
much of a heads up. Clovis drove me out to look over the cars. It gave
us an excuse to go to Ben’s for lunch. The Austin Healy 3000 was in
mint condition. I was dying to drive it, but was told it couldn’t leave
the lot. Bad luck. It was a beautiful car.
Maroney told Micki that as soon as Dub’s staff heard I’d been out
to inspect the Healy, two of his marshals showed up with a mechanic
who went over the car from stem to stern.
Part of Maroney’s responsibility was to insure the financial integrity
of the auction. I spent some time becoming familiar with the rules.
As evidence of ability to pay, he had decided to require cash, a certi-
fied check, or a letter of credit worth ten percent of the winning bid.
Maroney was to be the final arbiter of financial ability. of course, there
were many more rules, but that was the one that mattered most to me.
All of Doug’s research files, his lab, equipment, the patent applica-
tions, etc, everything except the cars, would be sold in one lot. That
too worked in our favor. liz had asked her bank in Memphis for a sep-
arate letter of credit to bid on the truck and the Healy. In response to
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my skepticism, she’d said, “A pick-up’s a handy thing to have around.
Besides, men love a girl with a pick-up.”
I spent a good deal of time shooting baskets in Micki’s driveway. We
were all a little antsy, nervous about the auction, unsure what would
happen next. Sam called two or three times—he was nervous, too.
Moira had been spotted in Brazil, confirming Novak’s intelligence.
Her assistant, Roger, had turned up in New Jersey—unfortunately for
him, face down in the Passaic River. As yet, New Jersey authorities had
no idea what had happened.
I debated whether to invite Peggy Fortson to attend the auction. I
don’t know why I dithered—I’d known her my whole working life. If
I couldn’t trust Peggy, who could I trust? But she’d been so negative.
