* * * *
TO CAROLINE'S SURPRISE and relief, the landing gear functioned properly and the fire department did not have to lather the runway with flame retardant foam. The plane even arrived on schedule.
While waiting outside the terminal for the rental-car shuttle, Caroline saw Mick one last time. He strolled a few steps ahead of two dark-skinned men wearing business suits 15
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and the traditional Saudi Arabian headdress of cap and ghutra, the red-and-white checkered scarf that fell below their shoulders. The three men headed toward a black stretch limousine that idled boldly in a no-standing zone. Small flags with the crest of an Arab sheikdom billowed in the breeze from the front fenders. Caroline stood too far to see the license plate, but it was clearly not the same borne by the cars lined up in the passenger-loading zone. Hmmm. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. Anything was possible, but a fair-skinned, red-haired sheik named Mick? Not likely.
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Chapter Two
AN HOUR LATER, Caroline zoomed across the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin County. Once the heavier traffic thinned, she picked up her cell phone from the passenger seat where she'd tossed it and dialed the number she'd memorized while waiting for her rental car.
"Good afternoon, ZyQyx," a cheery voice answered.
"Good afternoon. Ian Foy, please." On the first ring, an even cheerier voice answered, "Mr. Foy's office, this is Gerard."
"Good afternoon, Gerard. It's Caroline Spring."
"Oh, Ms. Spring, you're early," he chirped. "Mr. Foy will be so delighted. You're calling from the parking lot?"
"I'm not early at all. I've just crossed into Marin so I'll be at least another thirty minutes. Mr. Foy never mentioned all the construction in San Francisco."
"I know, I know. Isn't it a horror?"
"May I speak to him? I'd like to let him know I'll be late."
"Not to worry, dear." Gerard's voice dropped to a more confidential tone. "He's tending to some last minute details. He's ordered in so you two can have a nice visit without starving."
"How thoughtful."
"Oh, to a fault, to a fault. If you only knew."
"Please tell him I'll be there shortly."
"You know the off ramp, and exactly where to park?"
"Yes, I do. See you in a few."
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Sweet Caroline
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The day could not have been nicer. San Francisco had been mostly gray, an overcast 60 degrees with tiny cracks of sun. Marin, only a few miles across the Bay, was sunny and warm, without the oppressive 100 degrees she'd left behind in Dallas.
Following the directions Gerard had given her, she easily found ZyQyx headquarters. A pristine white building rising four stories, nestled in an age-old stand of cypress and pine. Caroline knew that both she and Ian Foy had the right to walk away from their agreement without penalty at the end of today's meeting. If they didn't mesh, if something didn't "feel right" about the investigation, or they agreed to disagree, no harm done. Another investigator from her firm would be on a plane to San Francisco in the morning. But it would take something catastrophic to pull her off this job. According to the map, Sebastopol, CA was approximately 10 miles northwest of ZyQyx headquarters. Before she set foot on a plane again, she'd know the mystery of the postcard and the answer to the puzzle her mother had left behind. Caroline made sure the tendrils of loose hair were back in place, the topknot secure, and her lipstick refreshed. Satisfied with what she saw in the rearview mirror, Caroline was ready. Some buildings seemed alive, others felt empty and dead, hung with the silence of a mausoleum. Not so with ZyQyx. From the art on the walls to the clack of Caroline's heels against the terrazzo floor, she sensed vitality often missing in the places she consulted.
Three women waited at the elevator, laughing and enjoying their break. They did not stop their conversation at 18
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her approach but smiled hellos. Happy employees. Another good sign.
Caroline saw, too, that while business casual was the order of the day, these women were impeccably groomed in slacks and shirts that looked as expensive as the suit she wore. Obviously, good salaries contributed to the happy mix. The elevator doors on the fourth floor opened into the executive suite. Marble floors, teak and leather furnishings, oriental rugs that reeked of money—and Gerard. He looked exactly as she'd envisioned him, late twenties, slender, fastidious.
"You must be Ms. Spring." He jumped from his chair and came around the desk, arm stretched, hand out to greet her.
"Caroline, please."
"Aren't you kind?" With a hand on her elbow, he led her to a set of teak double doors. "Mr. Foy said to bring you right in."
In the current downsized economy, Caroline was surprised at the opulence of Foy's office. It was two to three times larger than the digs of most of her client CEOs and furnished with starkly modern Scandinavian that leapt right off the pages of Architectural Digest.
"Mr. Foy, Ms. Spring is here," Gerard announced. The desk chair, high-backed black leather, faced the window. It turned slowly forward and Ian Foy stood to greet her.
Caroline did not know what she expected, but what she saw shocked her silent. In his late forties, Foy stood several inches taller than she, straight and robust, except for a waist 19
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paunch that bent the belt on his trousers almost in two. But it wasn't his height, or his hair, strawberry blond and gray, curly and worn long that caused the knot in her throat. No. It was a strange familiarity about him.
She saw he sensed it, too. For a moment, his expression changed from pleased and gracious to wary and baffled.
"Ms. Spring ... Caroline," he said. "I feel like we've met before."
With an ironic grin, she answered, "I know what you mean."
"Please, have a seat." He pointed to one of the low-slung leather guest chairs in front of his desk. "Gerard, give Ms. Spring a few minutes to get settled then have lunch brought in."
"Yes, sir. Coffee now?"
"Coffee, Caroline? A latté perhaps?"
"Coffee's fine."
Ian began talking, but Caroline failed to focus on what he said, unable to stop staring at him, wondering where they'd met before. She blamed some of the cobwebs on the aftereffects of Dramamine and the close, stale air of the plane. The rest was a sense of familiarity that grew stronger each time Foy turned his head, gestured with a wave of his hand, or spoke. For some odd reason, he gave her the shivers—not from excitement, but from uneasiness and that unsettled her more. She'd spoken to him by phone several times, visited the ZyQyx website, reviewed his annual report. His photo was all over the site and in the report, studio portraits touched up 20
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here and there, but none had jogged even a distant memory. Why such a strong reaction now?
"It was a sad day that I discovered the thefts," he was saying and Caroline realized she had not been listening. He stopped. "Are you sure I can't get you something a little stronger?" He pointed to her coffee cup. "You seem, ah ... a bit distracted."
Caroline felt heat crawl up her neck. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm
... I'm not a good flyer."
He held up a hand. "Say no more, I understand." He grinned, all teeth and dimples. "I fly only if I must. One of the perks of being the boss—I send others to do the jobs I despise."
What an odd thing to say. Gentle smile, soft voice, big stick. "You were saying..."
"As I told you in our phone interview, I've suspected for more than a year that someone is tampering with my system. I have an idea who, but I'd rather not say at this time." She remembered Foy saying as much in his initial call to her employer, and repeating it time and again in subsequent conference call
s.
"It has to be computer theft. We've put so many check points in our inventory controls, it couldn't be a physical act." Long ago Caroline learned not to correct her clients. They wanted to think of cyber crime as something way out there, untouched by human hands. She knew nothing was farther from the truth.
"Unfortunately, the only ones with access to the system are people I've known most of their lives, neighbors, my 21
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friends' children. Honest, hard-working individuals. That's why I wanted an unbiased third party to take a look." How many times before had Caroline heard those exact words? People expected criminals to come equipped with horns and a tail. No horns, no tail, no crime. It wasn't like that, particularly with cyber crime. With a computer and a modem, anyone from your maiden aunt to your ten-year-old nephew could commit the most heinous crimes while they looked you in the eyes or kissed you on the cheek.
"Mr. Foy, you've seen my résumé. Uncovering the truth is my specialty. If someone is defrauding you, or spying on you and causing your company to lose money, I will identify him. My final report may not say what you want to hear, but it will be one hundred percent accurate and will stand up in court if you decide to press charges."
He shifted in his seat then rubbed his Adam's apple, which bobbed above the open neck of his sports shirt. "What if you don't find anything sinister? That's possible, isn't it?"
"That's what we always hope for. If it's a glitch in your system, I'll find that, too, and correct it." Caroline always loved this part. She saw it in his face, read it in his eyes, knew that he was asking himself, Is she really that good or is she just pouring it on?
Foy stretched his arms in front of him, laced his fingers, and leaned forward on his desk. "You're a very self-assured young woman."
"No, Mr. Foy, I'm very good at what I do. I won't take on a project unless I immerse myself in it. You will have my full attention. Your needs are my needs, your welfare is my 22
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welfare. If I fail you, I fail myself. I won't allow that to happen."
At a knock on his door, he called out, "Enter." A woman wearing an apron wheeled in a cart and set the table in the far corner of the room, the perfect spot for casual conversation. Or, as in this case, casual dining. A few minutes later, the caterer left and Foy said, "Shall we?" The food looked exquisite. Crab Louie, a generous basket of warm sourdough bread, iced tea or if she preferred, a chilled estate Chardonnay. Warm Brie and fresh fruit rounded off the meal.
Caroline nibbled only enough to avoid offending her host. She didn't enjoy dining with clients or wasting perfectly good working time on mindless chit-chat. At the first opening, she forced the conversation back to business. "I'll need unlimited access to your network." She squeezed juice from a lemon wedge into her tea.
Foy bit into buttered bread. "Done."
"What's my cover? Who am I supposed to be?" He dusted crumbs off his fingertips and sat back in his chair. "Communications specialist. That's fairly innocuous." That worked for her. She opened the leather binder she'd carried to the table. It contained a small lined tablet and automatic pencil. "Please go on."
"ZyQyx has seventy-three employees on site." Foy closed his eyes, as if mentally taking a head count. "And thirty or so up in Eureka."
"Thirty or so? You don't know the exact number?" 23
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Another toothy grin. "You're obviously not from this area or you'd understand. I employ day laborers up there. Every time the DEA walks into the woods, I lose half my staff."
"I see." She made a notation: possible drug connection.
"That office is networked with headquarters I presume?" He swirled sugar into his tea. "All of my offices are linked."
"The others are where?"
"One in Santa Rosa, north of here. One in Novato, south."
"This is your largest office?"
"Right. The others have less than ten employees each."
"That makes it easier."
Gerard knocked, entered and cleared away the food. After he'd closed the door behind him, Caroline said to Foy, "I assume you trust Gerard?"
"He's a good man."
She took a sip of tea. "Does he know why I'm here?"
"Not really."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I'm thinking about opening an office in Canada. You're here to test the viability of an international connection."
"And that means what?"
His blue eyes twinkled. "I left that for you to define." Caroline shifted to a more comfortable position. She loved the challenge of these assignments. They tested her mind, her imagination, stretched her in so many ways. Best of all, they gave her a chance to right a wrong. "Let's allow your staff to fill in the blanks."
"Whatever you think best."
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"Tell me about your I.S. team."
They'd covered the Information Systems Department in several phone calls, but she wanted to hear it again since she'd soon be putting faces to names.
"Twenty altogether. One in each branch, the rest here at Corporate."
"That's quite a ratio of network support to employee. About one to four."
"The network is our life's blood," Foy said. "We can't afford to have even one station down for more than a few seconds."
"What about your programmers and systems analysts?"
"Five programmers, three analysts."
"That makes twenty-eight, not twenty, who have free access to your system?"
His forehead creased as he frowned. "We use some outside folks, too. Hardware technicians, our website designers and their staff."
"If any one of these people wanted to, they could stroll in here, and right in front of everyone, sabotage your network and no one would be the wiser."
Foy took a deep breath, as if this was the first time he'd even thought of that possibility. "We use a lot of temps, too." He exhaled. "Damn!"
"When do you want me to start?"
"How about last week?"
"How about after I freshen up?"
"Great. Where do you want to start?"
"Where else? In I.S."
* * * *
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Sweet Caroline
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THE NEXT THREE hours zoomed by like ten minutes. Everyone she met appeared more than willing to help, and some were blatant enough to let her know they'd love to be reassigned to Vancouver, British Columbia, the rumored new office. They all appeared to get along, with no discernible tensions or petty jealousies.
Foy joked with them while he walked her from cube to cube. They threw barbs and jibes right back at him. At first glance, ZyQyx looked like the perfect place to work, but in Caroline's years as a programmer, software designer and engineer, and forensic investigator, she'd found no perfect place, and nothing was ever as it appeared at first glow. Caroline didn't realize how quickly time had flown until Foy knocked on the door to the corner office he assigned her, directly below his on the third floor.
"It's after five, Caroline. You must be tired from your trip." She flexed her shoulders aware she was very tired indeed. Foy sat down in a chair beside her desk and dropped a manila folder in front of her. "We haven't talked about where you'll be staying."
Inside the folder, she found a few brochures, a couple of photos, and some sheets printed off the Web.
"We keep apartments in all of these places. This one, the Marina," he pointed to a glossy photograph of a huge complex with several pools, tennis courts, and hiking trails, "is about four miles north. Mostly singles. You wouldn't be lonely. Several of our employees live there."
"I'm here to work, Mr. Foy, not to party." 26
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"Ian," he corrected. "I appreciate your diligence, but you
needn't cloister yourself."
She picked up a glossy brochure. "What about this one?"
"Marin Heights? It's a condo complex about ten miles south, and its home to a lot of ZyQyx families." Caroline rubbed her eyes. "What about someplace where none of your staff lives?"
That question seemed to take him aback. "Why? Don't you like the people you met today?"
"On the contrary, I liked them very much. Unfortunately, I'm not really here to conduct a Canadian feasibility study." Foy pursed his lips. "I suppose you think I'm in heavy denial?"
She smiled, but said nothing.
"Watching you interact with my staff today, everything looked so natural. You're right, of course. You can't afford to have a suspect pop over to borrow a cup of sugar while his dossier dances on your screen."
Caroline smiled at that, too. "Let's not to leap to the term suspect just yet. However, privacy and confidentiality are key."
He rubbed the light stubble on his cheeks then ran both hands through the sides of his longish hair. "I keep a flat in a town northwest of here, about 10 miles." Her breath caught. Ten miles northwest—the same direction and about the same distance as the place she'd hope to scour—Sebastopol. "That would work," she answered, keeping her tone neutral. At his frown, she asked, "What's wrong?"
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"Nothing's wrong. It's in Sebastopol." Yes!
"I'm sure you've never heard of it, a little hole-in-the-wall of a city. Not much action."
She took a sip of tepid coffee. "I'm a home body. 'Not much action' sounds perfect."
"There're a couple of other problems."
"Like?"
"It's one of two flats above offices, right in the heart of town—on the main drag, which becomes the Gravenstine Highway farther west. A lot of noisy traffic." Caroline shrugged off the objection. "What else?"
"There's a restaurant and bar next door."
"Not a heavy metal club?"
He laughed and shook his head. "Maybe a little karaoke at worst."
"I can deal with that. What else?"
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