Cyber Genius

by Patricia Rice

  ”In a manner of speaking.” Well, I was working for Graham who had been an associate, close enough. “How is your husband? I heard he’s awake.” That wasn’t a guess. I’d done my research on the families and knew she was Enrique Gomez’s wife.

  “They say he will recover,” she said in relief. “It will be months. The poisons caused so much damage—” She drew a deep breath. “We are luckier than others,” she added sorrowfully, nodding at the stylish matron with the ruby brooch.

  A tall man in a charcoal gray suit sat between me and the woman I’d followed in. He’d been conversing with her, patting her hand in sympathy. Now he reached over to shake my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Alexander. I’m Wyatt Bates. Will Thomas be joining you?”

  Bates. “No, I believe he’s in Belize, looking into a situation there,” I said warily. “He sent me in his place. Are you a relation of Henry’s?” Henry Bates was the man who had died with Stiles—one of the few men capable of overseeing the programming of a spyhole, or repairing it. I tried not to eye this personage with suspicion.

  “I’m Henry’s brother. I live here in D.C. He only came to the conference so our families could visit.” He looked a bit gloomy and harried. “In a way, it’s my fault he’s dead. His family has gone back to the west coast to arrange the funeral, so I’m sitting in for them.”

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, thinking fast. I didn’t think Thomas Alexander was exactly a well-known figure, but this man had brought up the name with familiarity. “How do you know my husband?”

  “I’m with the D.C. office of MacroWare. We’ve heard his reputation. I was hoping he was coming close to finding the madman who did this.” He said this loudly enough for everyone within hearing range to tune in.

  Interesting that MacroWare execs thought the killer had to be insane instead of purposeful.

  “I’m not able to discuss my husband’s business, Mr. Bates,” I said with care. “But I can’t imagine your security would allow Thomas to continue working on a case in which he was potentially implicated, like this one. I can’t think Thomas would approve either.”

  I didn’t want killers thinking Graham had any answers. It was bad enough having the feds and cops on our doorstep.

  The stylish woman on the far side of Bates unexpectedly spoke up. “You are quite correct, Mrs. Alexander. Until we know if my husband’s death was an inside job or the act of a madman, we must be scrupulous about whom we trust. Thank Thomas for understanding that.”

  Oh, wow, this was Stephen Stiles’ wife. What was she doing here in D.C? Even I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  “Let me convey my husband’s deepest sympathies, Mrs. Stiles,” I said. “He held your husband in the greatest respect.” Well, Tudor did, anyway. Who knew what Graham thought?

  She nodded graciously and returned her attention to the stage. I couldn’t tell from her stone-faced expression if the widow was grieving, furious, or on medication—the true mark of class in my mother’s world. Scary. Bates returned to murmuring sweet nothings in her ear. She didn’t appear to notice.

  An older woman leaned over my shoulder, offering her hand. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Alexander. I am Hilda Stark, Bob’s mother. If you would be so good as to give your husband my card...” She produced a gilt-edged one. “I would most like to speak with him.”

  Bob was the wealthy VP of finance, the one with a loan shark family. I wish I could swivel around to see his mother better.

  “Now, Hilda,” Louisa Stiles said disapprovingly, sending a warning look over her shoulder. “The police have told us not to speak to outsiders, and Mr. Alexander must be considered an outsider.”

  “My Bob may never be the same,” the older woman protested in her deep voice.

  I had an ear for accents, but hers had been buried beneath decades of flat west coast dialect. She could have been German, Russian, or Scandinavian for all I could discern.

  “I have a right to find out who did this to a good man,” she continued.

  “Five good men,” I said peaceably. “Thomas assures me that the best people possible are on the case. But I will happily give him your card so he may reassure you, if you like.”

  Personally, I was hoping her card had fingerprints. One could never have too much information. I tucked the neat square into my attaché case.

  That Hilda Stark had actually elicited a reaction from Louisa Stiles spoke of previous unpleasant encounters. MacroWare might not be one big happy family after all—a point to ponder.

  The memorial began before I could learn anything else. I kept an eye on the service doors to the left side of the ballroom, an aisle away from where I was sitting. Those were the doors wait staff had entered during the fatal dinner, so I assumed our kitchen guests would arrive through there. My seat was angled so I could see this entrance.

  I couldn’t tell if Tudor had entered behind me yet. He hadn’t responded to my text about sitting near hotel management, but I hoped he was watching my back. I waited to see if my extra invitations had reached their uninvited targets.

  A few minutes into the service, Maggie O’Ryan in a white serving uniform slipped in through the same service door she’d used at the banquet. She stood unobtrusively behind a pillar and bowed her head when the minister opened with a prayer. My bet was that her prayer was genuine.

  A black suit accosted her, and she handed him one of my printed invites. I smiled proudly as the suit accepted it. Tudor had done well. Staff would never have been invited to this event, but I needed them up here where I could see them—the ones who interested me, at least.

  Adolph arrived a few minutes later through a door closer to the chairs. He flashed his faux invitation boldly and stalked to an empty seat somewhere behind me. I hadn’t met the hotel’s chef, but I’d studied his photos—tall, stout, commanding dark eyes, thinning brownish hair with too much pomade. He was wearing his chef’s whites and didn’t look grief-stricken or guilty, just officious.

  I was wired and impatient, ready for the next act. But I waited respectfully and was rewarded half an hour into the service when still another kitchen worker slipped through the doors on my left. This one, I recognized, Goatee Man—Wilhelm—although he wasn’t wearing a white coat.

  He couldn’t carry off Adolph’s arrogance, not with those skinny, slumped shoulders. He glanced nervously in the direction of his presumed lover but waited for security to accept his faux invite. He took a seat along the wall. Adolph hadn’t taken a row with an empty chair where Wilhelm might join him.

  I waited just a little longer, until the crowd started to rustle and murmur during a particularly long-winded speech by a well-known conservative politician. Presumably, the widow had invited him. Interesting. Stiles had been a well-known liberal, so this really wasn’t the right audience.

  The guests were making that obvious. They shifted and looked at their phones as the windbag prosed on.

  I set my attaché in my lap and removed my phone, glancing down just long enough to unlock it and find the app Tudor had programmed for the occasion. Not for the first time, I wished Graham had been available to help me organize this better. My level of mischief sophistication is nowhere near his.

  Within seconds of my phone signal, Tudor set off the first of my pranks. Graham would seriously regret not staying in contact.

  A round of loud pops reverberated like gunshots in the high-ceilinged ballroom.

  Alarmed, the politician ducked and ran for the stage door. The rest of the speakers hurriedly filed off the stage under the direction of security, raising the room’s level of fear. Frightened murmurs rippled through the crowd. Trapped in their chairs, the intelligent guests anxiously looked for the source of the disruption rather than panic. A few of the more hysterical types stood up and tried to push their way out even though there was nothing to be seen and they were trapped by a mass of bodies.

  Another round popped. People hit the floor or threw chairs out of their way in their effort to escape. Security dr
ew guns and motioned everyone down as they edged toward the sounds.

  My group in front had plenty of room to escape—and me to shepherd them. I waved off a security guard coming our way and grabbed Mrs. Gomez by her elbow. “Gunfire,” I said curtly and authoritatively. I stashed the awkward attaché under my arm. “There’s a safe room to our left. Hurry.”

  Tudor had located the small reception room on the maps before our arrival. Presumably it was too small and not any safer than the ballroom or security would be rushing us toward it. Considering Tudor was in charge of the noisemakers, it was safe for our purposes.

  I shoved Gomez in the right direction, released her arm, and whispered the same to Bates, Mrs. Stiles, and the other immediate families. Once I had them moving in the right direction, I hurried in front of my little lambs to open the concealed door.

  Another round of “shots” fired, and my captives scrambled for safety.

  Rounding up my kitchen help wasn’t as easy. I couldn’t tell if Maggie recognized me, but she followed when I signaled Adolph and shoved her in his direction. Adolph had no reason to respond to my signal, except he’d seen the VIPs go that direction. Human nature being what it is, he followed them.

  Tudor, blessedly, hurried into the fray. He caught Wilhelm and urged him to follow his fellow workers.

  Our departure raised the level of urgency, even though there was still no visible gunman. The black-suited ushers were attempting to wrangle the panicked crowd toward the main doors. A few intrepid independents broke free and followed us. I couldn’t blame them. I just slammed the door closed after Tudor and a few of his geek buddies entered.

  I had hoped Tudor would steer hotel management in this direction, but they knew the floor plan and had apparently found better exits. Dang, I really wanted their reactions.

  The lights were already on in the salon we entered. Tudor’s map of the hotel had worked excellently. Apparently designed for the privacy of important guests, the salon sported shiny chandeliers and gilt-edged plaster molding, and no windows.

  Most of our guests actually relaxed in the illusion of safety. Wilhelm attempted to depart through a far door, but Tudor, tall and officious in Nick’s pricey black blazer, blocked the exit with enough authority to deter him.

  “We’re safe here,” I announced to the crowd. Even in my heels, I was shorter than everyone. But I stood against the white door and looked enough of a grim authority figure in my black suit to command attention. Heads swiveled my way. I set down my case and crossed my arms.

  “Thomas was afraid of this and arranged for your comfort until security can clear the main room,” I said solemnly, hiding my glee at stealing Graham’s nom de plume.

  “Thomas was afraid someone would shoot at us?” Bates asked incredulously. He was one of the taller people in the room. Maybe that gave him confidence. Or maybe Louisa Stiles clinging to his arm did. “Why didn’t he warn us?”

  “Madmen are not reasonable or predictable,” I said in my best placating tones. Of course, if the killer was in here, he knew I was lying through my pretty white teeth. Guns were not his modus operandi. “If someone, for whatever reason, has a grudge against MacroWare, what better place to carry it out than a public occasion like this one? We can hope the police are closing in on him now.”

  “That is no madman,” Hilda Starks said indignantly. “My son, he told me—”

  Ah hah—so our execs knew what they were dealing with.

  “Hilda,” Louisa Stiles said sharply, dropping Bates’ arm. “We do not know all the people in this room.”

  The attention of the expensively dressed crowd instantly zeroed in on Maggie and Adolph, the conspicuous white-coated kitchen staff. There were “others” in here that they didn’t know, but the kitchen staff, for the most part, stood out. I wanted an Academy Award for improvisation.

  “They are the people who poisoned the soup!” Hilda cried in booming accusation. “What are they doing here? Who invited them?”

  Wilhelm ducked his head. I couldn’t tell if he was hiding or embarrassed. He wasn’t wearing white, so no one noticed him but me.

  Angry murmurs rippled through my sophisticated crowd. Poor Maggie looked as if she wanted to run.

  The intrepid outsiders who had sneaked in with us began to look longingly at the doors Tudor and I blocked. But screaming alarms and pandemonium could be heard on the other side of the wall, so they tried to make themselves invisible while verbal gunfire burst over their heads.

  “The gentleman who cooked the soup is dead, you’ll remember,” I said with what I hoped was just the right note of regret.

  In the back of the room, Maggie was now straightening her shoulders and looking at me strangely. Well, I knew I’d be taking a chance there.

  “He hired the killer,” good ol’ Hilda insisted, pointing at Adolph. “Why is he in here and not out there with the shooter like everyone else? Did he know this would happen?”

  She might be a loan shark, but I adored the annoying old lady for making my job easier. I left Adolph to defend himself.

  “I hired Kita at Mr. Stiles’ request,” Adolph said stiffly. “Kita is dead and is not out there shooting now. We are all still in danger as long as the real murderer is free.”

  Yay, Adolph. I had thought he’d be an ingratiating toady to these people. Never underestimate the arrogance of an artiste, I reminded myself.

  “It was Wilhelm who made the vegetables,” Maggie offered with a clear gleam of malice in her eye. “Is that not where the botulism was?”

  Presumably, only the kitchen staff and I knew who Wilhelm was. Adolph had managed to keep his name away from the cops as well as HR, so his name was new to the bigwigs. I hid my triumph at finally having his part explained and waited for Hilda to go after him with a big stick. But for a change, the tough old lady held her tongue and actually seemed to squirm.

  Wilhelm edged for the door I was guarding, probably thinking I was a pushover. I hid my smile and waited for his move with anticipation.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hilda finally said with a sniff, constitutionally unable to hold her tongue or keep a secret. “Wilhelm is a good boy. A little misguided, perhaps, but he would not use anything except the freshest ingredients.”

  Oh, ho, a connection! I didn’t know to what, exactly, but Louisa Stiles asked for me.

  “Who is Wilhelm?” Louisa questioned accusingly, eyeing Hilda. “You know Stephen only allowed pre-screened personnel to prepare his food.”

  I hadn’t known that. I tried to maintain impassivity and keep an eye on the tall, skinny cook with the pathetic goatee.

  “Your Stephen hired the Jap who nearly killed my Bob!” Hilda shrieked, revealing her underlying ignorance, since there’s a substantial difference between Korea and Japan. “Do not tell me of this pre-screening. My nephew had as much right to cook as the soup killer.”

  Wilhelm was her nephew? Cogs began to click.

  Standing guardedly beside Tudor—she had us sooo tagged—Maggie spoke. “Wilhelm plated both the vegetables and the soup, but he’s an illegal, just like Kita. Being illegal does not make them killers.”

  Except Kita purportedly had obtained his papers. Wilhelm had not.

  Maggie shoved Tudor aside to walk out. Tudor let her go.

  At the same time, Wilhelm dived for me. I’d been waiting for this moment. I didn’t like being thought weak just because I’m small, so I took down aggressors with great glee.

  I kicked the much taller cook in the nuts with my pointed pumps. Once he bent over with a groan, I karate-slammed the back of his neck.

  And that was when the fire bomb fell through the ceiling.

  Sixteen

  Tudor’s Take:

  Crikey! The whole bloody ceiling caved in a spark blast. Chandeliers fragged into flying glass knives. Plaster dust spewed. Electric wires arced like a game gone 3D. And of course, the blooming lights went out.

  Coughing on smoke and dust, Tudor had no clue what was happening, but he ope
ned the hall door and began steering out the coughing, screaming prats who’d just been bickering like first-termers. If he caught their hands or coats, he yanked them toward the exit.

  With a sickening twist in his gut, he heard what sounded like real gunfire—and not his barmy fire crackers.

  Ana!

  Hadn’t she just taken down the bad guy with one of her wicked kung-fu moves?

  A big man almost knocked Tudor over, shouldering him aside in his haste to escape. To avoid being trampled, Tudor had to retreat to the hall with his back against the wall. The crowd spilled past him in panic, nearly bowling over police and hotel security rushing this way. Heart pounding in terror, he waited to see if Ana emerged. She had been on the far side of the room, next to the ballroom. Maybe she’d escaped that way.

  Mrs. Stiles finally stumbled out, coughing, her jacket coated in dust and smoking with little holes from the sparks. Swallowing his fear for Ana, Tudor peeled off the wall and offered a respectful arm in the smoky darkness. If he couldn’t reach his sister, he could aid his hero’s widow. “There’s a ladies room just ahead. I’ll tell the police you’re there after they’ve cleared the area.”

  She nodded shakily and actually clung to his arm to let him escort her. Tudor felt six-feet tall and... terrified.

  What the bloody hell had they done?

  ***

  Ana’s perspective:

  Before the ceiling collapsed, I had seen Tudor at the far door. Once the lights blacked out, I couldn’t shove through pandemonium to reach him. He was smart enough to get out on his own. I kicked around where I’d last seen Wilhelm, but he’d apparently crawled out of reach of my feet. I grabbed my attaché instead.

  Without light, we were all stumbling around in the dust. I heard what sounded like Mrs. Stiles properly castigating some poor peon. Others of her wealthy cast and crew were cursing at each other and making a push for both exits. I heard Hilda’s accent grow angrier and the toad who’d been sitting beside me raised his voice. I ignored them in favor of escape before the ceiling collapsed.