Immoral Code

by Lillian Clark

  “Well, that’s good news,” I said. “What now?” Nari glanced at me, chewing the inside of her cheek again. Then her gaze shifted down the sidewalk behind me to where Reese and Santiago approached.

  Reese smiled at Nari and asked, “Phase two?”

  Nari narrowed her eyes at FI’s main entrance.

  “Phase two,” Keagan repeated, a question without the inflection.

  “Yup,” Nari said. “I’m going inside.”

  KEAGAN

  If You’re Not Paranoid, You’re Not Paying Attention

  “It’s no big deal,” she said, adjusting the pin she’d stuck to the collar of her blouse. An owl, which was…ironic? The whole wisdom/night-watching thing? Or maybe it was just fitting. I don’t know. I could look up the definition of “ironic” eight thousand times and still not be exactly sure what it means. But set in the owl’s belly, looking like a polished oval of decorative glass, was a camera. A camera linked to an app on her prepay. Because, well, this was really happening and I should’ve known Nari’d go full-on spy. “I added this appointment to Foster’s schedule weeks ago.”

  “What appointment?”

  She rolled her eyes at me but, like, good-naturedly at least? “The one with Rowan Malik of Malik’s Motifs’ hyper-eager teenage cousin who happens to have an interest in fashion and complex cybersecurity.”

  “And he, Super-Important Billionaire and CEO Robert Foster, just…agreed to that?”

  She tipped her head to one side coquettishly (seven points!) and said, “He didn’t disagree. Meaning I added the appointment to his calendar, then fabricated and archived a short email exchange between him and Rowan with him agreeing to it. I’m banking that he’ll feel too guilty about ‘forgetting’ the favor he promised to the creator of his highest-performing fashion brand to turn me away.”

  “Diabolical, Dr. Okada.”

  She grinned, not like a “happy” or “this is funny” grin, but an “I’m humoring you” or “at least I’m trying” one. Then shrugged. “If it gets weird, I’ll leave.”

  I glanced across the street, looking for Bells, who leaned against a cylindrical billboard thing pretending to stare at her phone by, well, staring at her phone. San and Reese were around the corner, or down the block or who knew where, since Reese had seemed less than enthused to return to staring at a wall for the afternoon. Which, granted, seemed a little ridiculous, the spying and splitting up and acting nonchalant. And I’d have called it balls-out batshit, except that it didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt like a thousand all-knowing eyes were watching us and some grotesque ultrasecurity guard with, like, six arms of steroid-popping body-building muscle was waiting around every corner.

  Or maybe I was just paranoid.

  Ha ha. Sure. Just paranoid.

  Arms crossed, Nari looked past me, through me, around me, despite me? Does that one work? Nah, not a preposition no matter how “in spite of” I felt right then. I knew she was expecting me to argue or try to stop her or reiterate how amazingly stupid this all was. But I was feeling pretty over it by that point. I was sick of being the ignored voice of reason, so I said, “Which wins, Pop-Tarts or Toaster Strudel?”

  Her eyes flicked to mine. “Toaster Strudel, hands down.”

  “What? No way. Pop-Tarts, no contest!”

  She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Really?”

  I held up fingers to count off my reasons. “Uh, portability? Built-in frosting? They are not frozen?”

  “Okay, except they also taste like cardboard and Toaster Strudels are basically donuts you get to cook, all hot and gooey and frosting-drizzled, at home.”

  “That’s only one to my three.”

  “Eatability counts for at least five.”

  “Pop-Tarts may be cardboard-like, but they are no less eatable.”

  She rolled her eyes, lips curved in a reluctant smile, and turned toward the entrance.

  “Okay, who am I kidding?” I said to her back. “Pop-Tarts are gross. Their only salvation is that they can go in a vending machine.”

  “Damn right,” she called, pulled open one of the doors, and stepped inside.

  Through the windows, I watched her cross the lobby in a few long strides and stop at the information/security desk inside. The two men working behind it turned their attention to her, at first unsmiling; then she tipped her head—long hair swishing a bit to the side, hands up on the countertop, one knee bent with her hips off-kilter—and a few seconds later, both men smiled warmly, obligingly, while the bald one with strikingly white teeth moved from behind the desk to show her the way.

  NARI

  Violets Are My Favorite Flower

  Security Personnel Winston led me across the lobby toward the row of turnstiles at the rear, soft-soled shoes softly stepping while I, in my favorite pair of brown suede booties with stacked three-inch heels, snapped along behind him. At the turnstiles Winston swiped his ID card across the scanner, the light flashed green, and the clear plastic barriers retracted. He motioned me through first, then repeated the process for himself.

  “This for a school project or something?” he asked as we continued down the wide hall to the elevators. I did a slow spin, taking in the (honestly, not all that) grand world of Venture Capitalism, i.e., capturing the hallway with its high ceiling and oversized pendant lighting and the placement of, count ’em, one, two, three security cameras on my handy Owl Cam.

  “Nah, just exercising a little light nepotism, you know? Angling for a letter of rec.”

  He chuckled. A deep, rumbling, honest-to-god chuckle. I’d stopped at the desk, feigning ignorance about the location of FI’s executive floor (with a touch of ineptitude since that info was online as well as, you know, literally printed on the wall) because both of those guys were scheduled for tomorrow and why not introduce myself to a possible hurdle in the flesh?

  He smiled back at me. “A go-getter?”

  “You know it. Gotta be competitive these days.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my niece is always telling me.” He pushed the button to call the elevator, and we waited. “She’s a junior in high school, too”—(I’d changed the faux cousin’s age. And name. And where she was from. Obviously)—“and hoping to get a scholarship to study music. I think she’s brilliant. But she’s always saying, ‘Winston, everyone’s brilliant.’ You can’t just be good anymore. You can’t just be smart.”

  The elevator dinged and we stepped inside. He hit the button for the twelfth floor. After the lobby, floors two through nine, per my research, were home to the offices of various businesses both unaffiliated (including a restaurant and a gym) and affiliated with Foster Innovations, while FI itself used only the top three floors.

  “She’s right,” I said, both because she was and because that’s what Winston wanted me to say. “Which is why I’m so grateful for your help! This letter will be super impressive with my applications. If I can get it.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” he said, and smiled his thousand-kilowatt smile at me again. “You want to be the next Robert Foster?”

  I grinned back. “That. Or rule the world.”

  He laughed, hearty and full.

  When the doors opened on the twelfth floor, I made sure to catch as much of the lobby as I could on the Owl Cam. This was the way we’d decided Santiago should come tomorrow (why crawl through a window if the front door’s unlocked, so to speak), and since the security so far had seemed pretty minimal, this was where he’d face his first real threat of being caught.

  The room was smaller than it seemed on the camera feeds, less a lobby and more like a vestibule or antechamber. Everything was a shade of gray or white or natural wood, and it all screamed, Expensive and trendy and maybe even futuristic business is done here! Which was not altogether true since it wasn’t as if any of the businesses FI funded—such as, say, 2550 Robotics, a company
that’s pretty self-explanatory, being that they design and build, you know, robots—were actually doing anything on these three floors. Specifically, 2550 Robotics had a lab across the bay, but they sourced their materials and bulk parts from places like Indonesia, China, Mexico.

  FI’s assistant office manager, Patrick Buckman, was at the reception desk. Age twenty-eight, formerly of Akron, Ohio, with degrees in business and interior design from NYU, Patrick had plans to meet up with his boyfriend and a few friends at a new restaurant they’d all been waiting to try after work on Friday. Now he stood behind the bar-height wood and brushed-nickel desk wearing a crisp, white button-down shirt, super-skinny tie, and narrow leather suspenders beneath his fitted and currently unbuttoned suit jacket. Which, I mean, did he try to match the room? Though, also, he looked dapper as hell. We could’ve posed together for some hipster photo shoot. Him with his perfectly trimmed hair and beard. Me in my blouse printed with tiny black bird silhouettes, pleated leather midiskirt, wool tights, booties, and Owl Cam.

  Winston walked over to the desk and introduced “me.” “Patrick, this is Violet Murakami, here for her appointment with Mr. Foster.”

  Patrick’s eyes met mine, and I gave him a warm, Violet-y smile. (Violet Murakami was sweetly intimidating. Like one of Reese’s big-eyed creatures, all cute and soft and hiding a set of razor teeth. She also had a fondness for cats. Because, hello, Murakami.) I offered him my hand across the desk. “It’s a pleasure, Patrick.”

  Patrick arched an eyebrow and gave my hand a pert shake. “Thank you, Winston,” he said to Winston, and to me, “I’ll let Mr. Foster know you’re here.”

  Winston turned to go, smiling at me as he went. Patrick reached for his phone and informed Foster that his next appointment was here.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll ask,” he said, then covered the mouthpiece to speak to me. “He says his assistant doesn’t recall scheduling the meeting.”

  Of course she didn’t. Because she hadn’t. I put on a Moments Away from Crushing Disappointment expression and said, “I’m Ms. Malik’s cousin? She said she confirmed a few weeks ago?”

  Patrick nodded and held up a finger for me to wait. “Yes, sir? She says Rowan confirmed some time ago.” He nodded again. “Okay, certainly.” Covered the mouthpiece again. “What did you want to discuss with him?”

  “FI’s role in the diversification of the cybersecurity market with regard to his partnership with CyTech and the accessibility and transliteration of SIM-ex653.”

  Patrick’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, and how he managed to build all of this, of course! Freaking amazing, right?”

  He uncovered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Sorry, sir. Ms. Murakami would like to speak with you about your success story. And she has a special interest in cybersecurity.” There was a final pause during which Patrick listened and nodded and I did a slow rotation, focusing my Owl Cam on the frosted-glass doors to the right of Patrick’s desk, the security camera above it, and the other one mounted on the ceiling by the elevators, then back on Patrick himself.

  He hung up. “All right, Ms. Mur—”

  “Violet, please.”

  He half smiled. “All right, Violet. Mr. Foster agreed to give you ten minutes. But only ten. He has a conference call at one.” (Yeah, with the founders of a company pioneering the use of 3-D printers with organic material that he was hoping to invest in. I’d read the confirmation email Bells’s dad had received that morning.)

  I smiled back with Violet’s charming mix of delight and conceit, as though I was both grateful for getting what I wanted and unsurprised that I had. Which I guess was pretty much a Nari smile, too.

  Patrick led me through the frosted-glass doors into Foster Innovations proper. As this was the executives’ floor, the mood was subdued. No manic ringing of phones. No pit of intern desks filled with eager interns. No overworked junior associates darting around as though ropes of tangible deadlines were tightening around their necks. Just a wide and ridiculously beautiful common area (atrium-like, complete with an assortment of fancy and immaculately maintained flora alongside fine white furniture plus loads of natural light from the giant skylight centered in the ceiling above it) flanked on either side by offices and conference rooms and so on.

  I took a moment, soaking it in, turning my body in a slow arc from left to right, catching it all on the Owl Cam and letting the reality overlap with my mental image of the video feed and the floor’s blueprints.

  Patrick waited, his expression patient with a touch of smug, then said, “This way,” and motioned for me to follow him around the common space to the right.

  We passed a series of offices, some with doors open, some closed, all with nameplates on the walls and large windows that could frost for privacy with the flip of a switch. Each office had exterior windows overlooking the city and bay. Robert Foster’s office—the largest, of course—was located in the northeast corner.

  Patrick knocked on the open door. I stood back a pace to catch the door itself on the camera and noticed a problem: an electronic keypad lock above the handle. Shit. Seated deep inside the huge space at an imposing dark-wood desk, Robert Foster looked up. “Ms. Murakami,” my guide announced, and Foster rose from his chair. Patrick moved aside. I took a steadying breath and strode into the office without deigning to look back.

  “Mr. Foster,” I said, walking toward him. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time.”

  He breathed a small laugh. Amused. He was amused by me. Which, I suppose, was what I’d wanted. To seem innocent and eager. But he looked at me as if I were a puppy. A toddler. Something small and cute and needing to be (a bit grudgingly) entertained.

  “Ms. Murakami,” he said, coming out from behind his desk to shake my hand.

  “Violet, please.”

  He gave me a curt nod and gestured to an arrangement of furniture off to the right of his desk. I sat on one side of the stiff gray love seat, my back to the coast and the bay out the oversized windows behind me. He chose the matching gray chair across from me.

  I shifted, crossing my legs, aiming my shoulders toward his desk. There were two computers set up on it, a Mac desktop and a MacBook, open, the apple lit. I imagined he carried the laptop home with him evenings and weekends, but I also knew they were linked, mirrored. So even if the laptop was gone tomorrow when San got here, he could load the malware onto the desktop and it would be equally effective.

  “So, Violet, cousin of Rowan Malik,” he said, grinning, “what can I do for you?”

  You can tell me why you abandoned your daughter and never looked back.

  You can tell me why, when that daughter summoned all of her courage and held back an entire life’s worth of emotional hurt to call you, you hung up.

  You can go over to that grand desk of yours and write me a check for seventy, no, screw it, let’s make it a full two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and save us all a load of trouble.

  You can stop looking at me with that smug fucking expression.

  This was why criminals return to the scenes of their crimes, this power. Pure adrenaline coursed through me. It was like knowing All the Secrets. Being about a hundred steps ahead. This man thought I was Violet Murakami, teenage cousin of one of his first and most successful partners. Violet Murakami, high school junior with a naive sense of entitlement. At best, I was a blip in his day worth grinning at, and at worst a minor nuisance. He thought he was the mighty one here, bestowing a few precious moments of his time upon me. Like charity. A good deed.

  He had no clue how far and deep and wide my d0l0s fingers stretched. How strong my grip was. How, with a few keystrokes, I could burn his whole life down.

  But hey!

  Lucky for him, that’s not my style.

  “Well!” I said, and I launched into a fawning diatribe about my respect and interest and blah blah blah.

&nb
sp; Fourteen minutes later Robert Foster was at his desk offering me his personal business card, “In case you’re staying in the Bay Area for college, or even afterward, and are interested in an internship.” When he called for Patrick to escort me out, he said, “Give Rowan my best.”

  I dipped my head and replied, “Of course.”

  Five minutes after that I was waving to Winston as I crossed the lobby, striding out the door, meeting Keagan where he waited impatiently outside, and folding into an elegant and triumphant curtsy.

  SANTIAGO

  Think It, Believe It, Do It

  The office’s door lock was a snag, but one Nari assured us could be smoothed out. “San’ll just need the code, right? Easy-peasy.” And it was easy enough. We gathered back at the hotel room and Nari immediately pulled up the security camera feed for the executive floor, zooming in as much as she could on Foster’s office door. Then we watched. All afternoon. In shifts. Waiting for Foster to leave and lock his office, then return and key in the numbers on the pad, which he did only twice, typing in a five-digit code, the camera feed too blurry for us to do much more than follow his finger’s positions on the pad, but that with a double-check the next morning would have to be enough.

  After Foster left for the day, closing the door and checking the handle to make sure it had locked behind him, we watched the footage from Nari’s owl pin camera at least six times together and I watched it alone another three after that. It was simple, straightforward, but I wanted to memorize every moment; how many steps, the look of every pathway and turn. I wanted to be able to do it with my eyes closed.

  I figured it was like learning a new dive, as much in my head as it was in my body, so I visualized:

  Wait for Reese to start her performance, walk through the lobby, head up, steps even. No glance at the security desk. No nods at anyone else lingering in the lobby. No need. I’m normality. I’m there every day. I belong.