Broken Build: Silicon Valley Romantic Suspense

by Rachelle Ayala

  He charged toward the door. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  * * *

  Jen took a moment to catch her breath. His brooding glare had been accusatory. Good thing she deflected his questions about the code with a snide remark. Rey had said the code was for his daughter. Only one explanation. Someone was going to pay him for it.

  She gazed at the front door. Six years ago, a baby had been kidnapped because of her carelessness. Leaving the key dangling in the lock was a sure invitation. Where could Abby be? Jen’s heart squeezed in on itself. It had all been her fault. How many times had she prayed for a do-over? But real life never offered second chances, at least not for her.

  Jen went back to her messages. The filer was finally online, but the build scripts hadn’t been adjusted, and the builds were failing.

  Instant message windows popped up all over her screen. Yes, yes, she’d get to it. Greta called her on video chat. Yes, yes. She’d have the builds going again if only everyone would leave her alone. Of course she didn’t express this to Greta. She just agreed to everything. She couldn’t hang up the chat window and Greta seemed inclined to stare at her.

  She cut and pasted mount points into the script. Something nagged at the back of her mind. Rey’s last words about Rod’s death. What if Rey found the killer? And the killer planted the code on him to set her up. An icy finger scratched the back of her scalp. It couldn’t be Dave because he needed her for the builds. And he certainly wouldn’t have had that snooty woman hanging onto him if he were planning to commit murder that night.

  Jen sat up straight, almost jumping off the couch. Claire Tyler, the woman Dave was making bedroom eyes at. She had met her with Greta while working on a remote server virtualization beta. Jen’s stomach twisted into Gordian knots. With such elegant women around, she didn’t stand a chance. He had only kissed her to keep her from calling the police. Nothing more. But if he wasn’t guilty, why the cover up? Unless it was for someone he cared about. Like Claire.

  Greta’s voice barked from the video chat. Jen went back to the laptop, fixed the scripts and sent corrected config specs to the engineers. She begged off to go to the bathroom. Picking up her crutches, she hobbled to the hallway.

  She emerged from the powder room a few minutes later. The nursery was next door. With a hammering pulse, she peeked in.

  The crib was still there. Empty. A layer of cobwebs and dust clung to the changing table. Jen picked up the Raggedy Ann doll she had made for Abby. Its painted-on button eyes, triangular nose and gapped toothed smile reminded her of Abby’s playfulness. Her fingers had twirled through the red yarn hair, and her gums had chewed on the black felt shoes. Oh, how Abby had laughed when Jen made Raggedy Ann do all sorts of funny tricks. Raggedy Ann always ate her peas. Raggedy Ann drank an entire bottle of milk in one sitting, and Raggedy Ann took good, long naps. A tear crawled down Jen’s face. If only Abby had cried out that day. If only she had refused to take a nap. If only Jen hadn’t been foolish and believed someone cared for her. She clenched her fist and put Raggedy Ann back on the dresser.

  The pinging of the instant messages drew her back to her laptop. Thankfully Greta had signed off. She let the tears drop onto the keys. No one saw her or cared. The nanny cam had been switched off, and they never found the baby or the kidnapper. And she had been upstairs, a lazy, fat slob, watching Tad Martin and Dr. Hayward duke it out on All My Children that fateful Monday before Thanksgiving. It would be six years this coming week. Abby, if she was out there, would be seven in March.

  The build completed successfully. Praveena emailed her to let her know she and Holly were on their way to Jen’s apartment to pick up her stuff. Jen logged into her bank account and transferred December’s rent to her landlord. She picked up the sandwich.

  The crack of shattering glass and a loud bang startled her. A hissing sound blew out of a canister. Jen scrambled to her feet with the help of her crutches. Her eyes watered and her lungs burned as if breathing in fire. Gagging and coughing, she stumbled out the front door and dove into the lawn. Her eyes stung, and she quickly plucked out her soft contact lenses. Male voices and footsteps approached.

  Chapter 10

  Three men stood over her. One man yanked Jen’s hair and grabbed her shoulders. Another kicked her in the ribs with his cowboy boots. Her stomach jolted with pain and nausea. A third man pushed her onto her back and jammed his knees between her legs. All three wore masks and knit watch caps and reeked of stale cigarette smoke.

  “Where’s the code?” The man with the boots knelt and squeezed her face.

  The tear gas searing her lungs, Jen shook her head and gasped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A slap stung her face. “Better tell us, or you’ll pay.”

  “There’s no code.”

  The man’s fingers dug like a lobster cracker into her cheeks. “Don’t play games with us, build bitch. Next time we ask, you’d better give it to us with a smile.”

  He pulled out a pocket knife and flipped a blade in front of her eyes. “Shall we do a bit of cosmetic surgery or leave a message for your boyfriend?”

  Jen held her hands over her face and trembled. “Please, no. I’ll give you what you want.”

  The man holding her shoulders ripped her hands back and rubbed his masked face over her lips. “Wait ’til I get you alone, bitch.”

  Boot Man opened each tool of the knife and flicked it in front of her eyes. “Screwdriver, blade, can opener. Oh look, the corkscrew.”

  The man holding her legs snorted. “Let’s drag her to the bushes and screw her. I got a bigger tool than that.”

  Boot Man made a twisting motion with the corkscrew right in front of Jen’s nose. “Wood saw, metal saw, awl, chisel or metal file. Pick one.”

  “I’ll give you the code. I promise,” Jen squeaked.

  “Sure you will.” Boot Man slapped her. “Close your eyes.”

  Jen covered her stinging face and squeezed her eyes shut. They lifted her sweater and bra. Their rough hands groped her and unbuttoned her jeans. Whimpering, she dared not scream when the sharp tool plowed trails of fire across her belly.

  * * *

  Dave held a box of roses under his arm and knocked on a stained glass door featuring a knight and a green dragon. He ran the rationalizations through his mind. He was doing this for Abby. If his company succeeded, he’d have the money to get her back. But what if she weren’t even alive? What if he’d waited too long?

  Can’t think about it, Dave, his therapist’s voice echoed, Whatever story you tell yourself, believe it and move on. Dave no longer wandered around scanning faces, staring at families and looking for an out-of-place child. Parents had glared at him and shielded their little girls. He stopped going to church or driving by schools. There had been no ransom demands, no leads, no credible claims for the reward money—only the senseless phone calls every year. The police had all but given up. Without a body, they could only wait. And every time the authorities found a young girl’s remains, Dave would pray the DNA didn’t match Abby. So far it never did.

  Melissa yanked the door open, startling him. Her sparkling blue eyes darted from the box of long stemmed roses to focus on his forehead.

  Dave gave her the flowers and stepped through the door, hoping he looked sufficiently penitent. Although what he was supposed to be sorry for, he had no idea. Her glare continued to be centered on his forehead, and he wondered if his third eye, chakra, or whatever hocus pocus she was into this week was giving off a negative vibe.

  “About time you showed up. You missed the tarot reading.” She swished her peasant skirt and walked barefooted to the kitchen, her steps toe-out like a ballet dancer. “I drew the knight of cups for you.”

  “What does it mean?” He followed her and perched on a bar stool.

  She floated over to him, her multiple beads, bracelets, and clutter jangling, and placed herself between his knees. “Romance in the air and an ocean of golden fishes.”

&
nbsp; Dave pecked her lips. She pursed them for more, and he settled in with a wet kiss and an intrusion of his tongue. She wrapped her arms around him and wiggled her hips into his groin.

  He pulled her poufy blouse down, freeing her bra-less breasts. “How many fishies?”

  “A cool million into your company’s coffers.”

  “Mmm… I love the sound of that.” He bent and trailed his lips from her throat chakra down to her breasts.

  She yelped when his lips touched her nipple, and he wondered whether she learned this vocalization in yoga class or when she had stuck a bobby pin in an electric socket during kindergarten naptime. Goes with the frizzy hair.

  He picked her up and set her on the island. She swiped backward across the butcher block counter, spilling wine glasses and sending a cutting board with a knife stuck through a slab of cheese flying onto the river-rock floor.

  Dave gripped the side of the counter while Melissa latched her greedy lips over his. His knuckles tightened, and he forced himself not to pull away. She tasted like chocolate marijuana, and her tongue was rude and sloppy. Nothing like Jen’s tentative freshness—the first gentle shower of spring. He pictured Jen on his soft leather couch cuddled between pillows and a homemade afghan.

  Melissa’s hands roved down his chest and tugged at his fly. Dave jerked back. “Not yet.”

  He didn’t want Melissa to feel his distraction. Jen had held him to her breasts and comforted him. So intimate, yet not sexual. Empathetic, not demanding, just sweet. And she had acted as if she cared about him, about Abby.

  Melissa spread her legs and flipped her skirt up. Of course, she wore no panties.

  Dave’s cell buzzed.

  “Ignore it,” Melissa panted while guiding his hands downward.

  “Sorry, I have to get it.” He pulled away and answered it while looking at the caller ID. It was his next door neighbor, Saul.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “There’s a fire engine over at your house. I don’t see smoke, but a police car just arrived.”

  “Holy shit! Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Um… let me go up the driveway a bit. Yeah. There’s a man with a dog talking to the police, and the paramedics are lifting a young lady into the ambulance.”

  Chills grabbed the back of his neck. Jen!

  “Thanks. I’ll be right over.” He pocketed his phone.

  Melissa sat on the counter with her arms crossed and a dreadful pout on her lips.

  Dave tucked his shirt in. “There’s a fire engine at my house.”

  “I’ll bet. Nice ploy.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

  She pulled her top over her breasts and straightened her skirt. “I shouldn’t have transferred the money so soon. Pete’s back tomorrow and staying until New Year’s.”

  “Mel, you shouldn’t be jealous. You’re a married woman.” He handed her the box of roses she had dropped on the floor and backed toward the front door. “Pete’s worth more than I’ll ever be. There’s no way Shopahol will exceed OgleNet’s market cap. You know how gossip sells.”

  She threw the box at him. “Don’t let the door slam you on the way out.”

  * * *

  Jen coughed and gasped while the paramedics placed a mask over her face. Her chest ached and sharp pains screamed over her stomach. The paramedics slapped on a blood pressure cuff and swabbed her wounds.

  Everything had happened so fast. A dog barked and the men fled, and then the dog was licking her face and the owner whipped out his cell phone and stood over her. Jen tried to relax, and the flow of oxygen eased her lungs.

  “The police will want a statement,” someone said.

  “She’s in shock,” another person said. “They’ll have to wait. Let’s give her some fluids.”

  A few minutes later, she was transferred from the ambulance to the hospital. The emergency room was a blur of activity. Jen’s eyes were watery, and she could barely see. Nurses cleaned her wounds and bandaged them. An elderly doctor reassured her that she would have minimal scarring. “Be glad they used a chisel and not a blade.”

  “Is there anyone we should call?” a nurse asked.

  Jen shook her head. She coughed, and a nurse brought water to her lips. Squinting, she shielded her eyes from the light.

  “The police are here,” another voice announced.

  “Not yet.” Dave’s voice floated as if down a hollow tube. “I’ll take responsibility for her.”

  The orderlies helped her into a wheelchair, and Dave pushed her behind a plastic curtain. He took her hands and rubbed them. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “They threw tear gas into your house. And they cut me.”

  “Did they say anything else?”

  She pressed her lips together and did not answer. They had called her names and wanted the code. But she wasn’t about to tell Dave what she promised while under attack.

  He leaned close to her ear. “I’m not letting you go anywhere until you tell me what you’ve done and explain how the blood got on my car. Were they working with you?”

  Jen turned her face to the wall, desperately willing the tears to stop. It had to be the tear gas, not the arrogant asshole hovering over her, trying to pin the blame on her. “I’ll tell the police you washed it off.”

  “Don’t be stupid. We had a deal.”

  A police woman poked her head through the curtain. “Is she ready?”

  “One minute,” Dave said. The police woman backed away.

  Dave shoved his face close to hers. “You know what they carved on you?”

  Jen shook her head in that quick staccato between fear and dread.

  “Code Thief.”

  Chapter 11

  The police woman whipped the curtain back and glared at Dave. “Are you finished? Or you tampering with the witness?”

  Dave kissed the side of Jen’s face and ran his fingers through her hair as if comforting her. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let Jen squeal about the blood on the car.

  The police woman jerked her chin. “I want to question her alone.”

  “No can do.” Dave crossed his arms.

  “You her attorney or her dad?” The police woman smirked.

  Steam heated Dave’s collar. “I’m only five years older than her.”

  “Then git.” She motioned with her thumb for Dave to step outside of the curtain.

  Dave stared at Jen long and hard, but she avoided his gaze. She seemed angry. He crushed an empty Styrofoam coffee cup and strode down the corridor to the exit. He should get rid of the Camry. But where could he dump it? The police would be at his house gathering evidence, and he’d look suspicious going into the garage and leading them right to the car. He numbed his emotions and walked past two police officers.

  After calling a cleanup service to board up his windows and sweep up the broken glass, he picked up two bacon-guacamole cheeseburgers, onion rings and soft drinks. Despite the toned muscles on her legs, Jen needed a bit of padding on her belly. He winced. Why would they carve ‘Code Thief’ on her stomach? And how did they know she was at his house?

  He arrived back at the hospital and walked into the waiting room. Jen was sitting by herself. He took the adjacent seat. “The police didn’t offer you a ride or call you a taxi?”

  Jen looked at her hands. “I’m tired.”

  Something about the defeated tone in her voice made Dave ashamed of his behavior. She had been attacked at his home and all he could do was berate her? He took a wheelchair from the corridor, but Jen waved it off, so he swung her into his arms and carried her to his SUV. Since no police officers accosted him, he figured she hadn’t said anything about his car.

  She nibbled on her burger and did not talk, so he switched on an eighties rock channel on his satellite radio. Once in a while, she’d shudder as if trying to calm herself. He shouldn’t have been so rough, but he had to know why she gave the code. Had they threatened her before? The marks on her neck had thankfully faded to
a yellowish brown tint, but would the scars on her abdomen disappear?

  Dave pulled up to his house. Praveena had left Jen’s car in the driveway and put her keys in his mailbox. He took her luggage out of the trunk and set it in the guest room. Then he carried Jen over the threshold and placed her on the bed. She’d been through enough, and he’d protect her from now on, or until the Black Friday build was delivered.

  “How’s your ankle?” He propped her leg over a pillow.

  She blinked, looking woeful. He smiled to reassure her, but she copied-and-pasted a smile that told him she was anything but.

  He fluffed a pillow. “Would you like a drink? Some milk?”

  “No, thanks. Could you cut the light? My eyes hurt.”

  “Sure.” He dimmed the light and brought back blankets from the linen closet. “These may be dusty. I don’t usually have guests.”

  “I’m not exactly a guest, am I?”

  He shook out a blanket. “I’d like to think of you as one.”

  “Sure, like the inmates at Guantanamo.” She pouted.

  He sat on the bed, and his heart did a tap dance being so close to her. “Do the inmates at Guantanamo have me fluffing their pillow?”

  She rolled her eyes. “More mercy for them. Are you going to include a bit of waterboarding?”

  “Something better. How about a bedtime story and a glass of warm milk?”

  “I’m hardly a child.”

  “No, I can see that.” He wished his voice hadn’t come out as husky as it did. “I’m really sorry they attacked you.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is. I should’ve been here—not left you alone.” He gazed at her, wondering how he had become so concerned for her.

  “Why would you care? Are you going to fire me now?”

  “Do I have a reason to?”

  She sighed, moving her fingers as if to rub her eye, but dropped her hand.

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you? Do you want to talk about it?” He tried to keep his voice low and gentle. He had to appear nonthreatening, get her to trust him.