“Has Mallard fed you yet?” I asked sweetly. “You sound cranky. Hypoglycemia kicking in?” I opened email from Tudor. He’d bought tickets to Boston on tomorrow’s train. I smiled contentedly. We could afford it.
“I’m still setting up the servers,” he acknowledged. “I’ll eat later. Or come down and strangle you now.”
There was the spy in the attic I knew. It warmed my cockles to have him back.
“Check Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook page,” I suggested. “Then do a search on Euan Yung. I think she and a few of Kita’s friends are starting their own restaurant and naming it in his honor. Be right back.”
Still munching my muffin, I shut off the intercom and went down the hall to the kitchen. I threw together another sandwich, made an entire pot of coffee, and added it to a tray. Mallard came in to see what I was doing. I grinned and sent the tray up on the dumbwaiter.
“Your mother called yesterday,” he said with disapproval and just a little pleasure, because he worships Magda. “She was concerned that no one answered her calls.”
“Tudor is telling her about MIT as we speak. She will not be flying in to chastise her little cuckoos this time.” Because we were learning to take care of ourselves. I was proud of our accomplishment.
Mallard blinked but didn’t question. I left him the dirty frying pan.
Done eating my muffin, I took the hidden staircase up to Graham’s office. I was back in my grubbies today, but I’d chosen black leggings that showed off my legs, and my loose fisherman’s sweater—with nothing under it.
Wearing his ubiquitous dark trousers and long-sleeved t-shirt, Graham was in his office, plugging in wires and jacks and cables to Uzbekistan for all I knew. He rolled out from beneath his counter, looking like a hunky cat burglar, and glared at my appearance. Okay, he hadn’t heard the dumbwaiter arrive with my peace offering.
I went out in the hall and fetched the tray and carried it back to his darkened den. I switched on the overhead lights now that I knew they existed.
Tudor wasn’t here. I’d dropped the stolen netbook in his hands as a reward for his heroism. He knew to wipe the contents so all trace of last night’s activity would vanish. I’d left him contentedly chatting up his pals from his room.
I locked Graham’s door in case anyone got any ideas of coming upstairs to play.
The sports paintings had vanished, probably behind the monitors dotting the wall again. Unshaven and actually looking disheveled for a change, Graham sipped my coffee offering, and keyed up the one operating screen.
It opened on Michael O’Ryan’s Facebook page. The kid was crowing about looking for a real house instead of a rental. It seemed the house they’d previously owned hadn’t been foreclosed on after all but sold for a nice profit.
“Sweet,” I said with a straight face, pouring myself a cup of coffee, even though I preferred tea. I wanted to savor the moment before we returned to fighting. “Glad someone’s getting a new house out of this. I suspect a few MacroWare execs and their minions will be losing theirs in a few months.”
I could almost promise they would. I’d shared their underwater mortgage files with all sorts of banking regulators. Some of them were bound to be interested.
The excited announcement on Euan’s social media about a foreclosed restaurant falling into her hands scrolled across the monitor next. I shrugged at the old news, took away Graham’s keyboard, and called up the local talking heads. A news video showed Adolph and Wilhelm being led handcuffed into a police station.
“I want to know the rest of the story.” I crawled under his console and began hooking servers to cable so he could eat, and we could get back to business as usual. Sort of. That we were both in the same space at the same time and not trying to punch the tar out of each other was a significant improvement. With no bed immediately available, I was content with that. For a while.
“The police interview is in your mailbox. Your suspicions were correct. Adolph dried the fish guts for an aphrodisiac at Wyatt’s request, in return for a promise that he could have the MacroWare dining franchise in D.C.”
“And poor stupid Wilhelm?” I peered out from beneath the console.
Graham had nearly inhaled his muffin. He had two more monitors up and rolling—just like old times.
“Wyatt gave Wilhelm a pint of homemade salsa, said it came from Stiles’ wife. It may have, for all we know,” Graham said. “Wilhelm wasn’t even smart enough to get anything in exchange for using her salsa instead of the one Adolph prepared.”
“Except satisfaction in spiting Adolph. I don’t think those two are a match made in heaven, but neither of them are murderers, just the vehicle of distribution,” I acknowledged.
With all the cables hooked, I crawled out to sit cross-legged on the uncarpeted hard floor. I mentally did an inventory of chairs that could be moved in here. “Where is Louisa now?”
Graham punched a key to show a grainy security video of the elegant Louisa Stiles—still wearing that ostentatious rose pin—climbing into a limo in front of a sprawling mansion. Judging by the rain, I’d say she was back in Seattle. It was a crisp sunny day here in D.C.
And the rose pin had taken on more meaning—had Senator Paul Rose given it to her?
“She’s taking a vacation to the Riviera?” I suggested. “Not very satisfying if she was accessory to her husband’s death, and maybe even called for Hilda’s.”
“We don’t know any of that,” Graham pointed out, bringing up another screen. “But the dead can sometimes speak for themselves. I had this filed this morning.”
A last will and testament displayed on the monitor. I took a keyboard, zoomed up, and read the courthouse stamp, proving it had been filed and was public information. I whistled happily as I scanned the verbiage. I’d done enough legal research to recognize the terms.
“You did this yourself? Or did Stiles actually leave everything to his charitable foundation?” I asked with a purr of delight.
“I just made certain that the most recent will got filed,” he said enigmatically.
I wasn’t about to question. I liked this pretty picture. “Cancer research and poor people in Africa benefit from MacroWare’s monopoly instead of Louisa. That’s... generous.” It wouldn’t seem so to Louisa, but I got a vicarious thrill. Justice came in many different forms. Louisa might not go to jail, but she’d suffer in her own way without wealth.
Graham shrugged and sipped his coffee. “She’ll have funds stashed away. She won’t starve.”
“And so we let karma be her judge. I can handle that. My turn.” I occupied another screen and smiled proudly as a large MacroWare Alert appeared advising all users of the new beta program to update their software for a security patch.
They’d apparently released the patch while we slept. Good boys and girls.
“That announcement is an admission that the new operating system is already known to be wonky and will seriously mess with stock prices,” Graham said dryly.
“I’ll buy a bunch of shares when the price plummets,” I said with triumph. “MacroWare owes Tudor for fixing their problem.”
Graham snorted. “And for getting their executive board murdered and killing their profits for the next year. Your family is dangerous.”
“Glad you realize that.” I stood and removed the cup from his hand, setting it aside.
My head barely reached his chin. I grabbed his shoulders. He caught my waist. We made it work. Our mouths clung hungrily. His tasted of coffee. I drank him in with more triumph than desperation this time.
Whether he knew it or not, we were equals now.
I had the funds to buy our family mansion back—finally.
Acknowledgments
I cannot begin to thank everyone who has had a hand in keeping this story on the straight and narrow highway instead of the curvy tunnels I sent it through. And if you still think Ana’s tale is twisted, then you need to thank those people too. I might have blown your mind otherwise.
M
y immense gratitude to Mindy Klasky and Jennifer Stevenson, my early beta readers, who jumped up and down and screamed—where’s the motive? Okay, so I kind of forgot that essential. I’m sure it was in my head when I started! They contributed a great deal more than that as well, but let’s face it, it wouldn’t have been a book without motive!
And I have to thank my brainstorming buddies way back in Charlotte NC when I conceived the original concept for this series. They not only encouraged me, but aided and abetted its dangerous insanity. Waving at you Nancy Northcott and Harold Lowry!
As always, my sincere gratitude to the entire Book View Café membership. Without their help, support, and encouragement, this series would never have seen the light of day.
About the Author
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today's bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance's hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina and Missouri, she currently resides in Southern California, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc. and BVC Publishing Cooperative.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
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Copyright & Credits
Cyber Genius
The Family Genius Mysteries 3
Patricia Rice
Book View Café edition: September 29, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-539-7
Copyright © 2015 Patricia Rice
Production Team:
Cover Design: Pati Nagle
Proofreader: Phyllis Radford
Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Digital edition: 20150730vnm
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624
Other Book View Café Books by Patricia Rice
Mysteries:
Evil Genius, A Family Genius Mystery, Book 1
Undercover Genius, A Family Genius Mystery, Book 2
Cyber Genius, A Family Genius Mystery, Book 3
Historical Romance:
Wicked Wyckerly, The Rebellious Sons, Book 1
Devilish Montague, The Rebellious Sons, Book 2
Notorious Atherton, The Rebellious Sons, Book 3
Formidable Lord Quentin, The Rebellious Sons, Book 4
The Marquess, Regency Nobles, Volume 1
English Heiress, Regency Nobles, Volume 2
Irish Duchess, Regency Nobles, Volume 3
Paranormal Romance:
Trouble with Air and Magic, The California Malcolms
The Risk of Love and Magic, The California Malcolms
About Book View Café
Book View Café is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including mystery, romance, fantasy, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.
Book View Café is good for readers because you can enjoy high-quality DRM-free ebooks from your favorite authors at a reasonable price.
Book View Café is good for writers because 95% of the profit goes directly to the book’s author.
Book View Café authors include New York Times and USA Today bestsellers, Nebula, Hugo, Lambda, and Philip K. Dick Award winners, World Fantasy, Kirkus, and Rita Award nominees, and winners and nominees of many other publishing awards.
www.bookviewcafe.com
EVIL GENIUS: Sample Chapter
Patricia Rice
Copyright © 2010 Patricia Rice
ISBN: 978 1 61138 042 2
Book View Café 2011
Chapter One
In which EG and Nick arrive bearing trouble.
My name is Ana, and I’m a doormat.
I’m also one of the best virtual assistants in the world, if you’ll pardon my modesty. Being a virtual assistant and a wuss often go hand in hand. Most of us are introverts who prefer to work in cyberspace because human nature is messy and unpredictable and computers aren’t. My excuse is that my family is messier than most and so far beyond volatile as to establish whole new spectrums of the definition, so being their doormat involves a great deal of mud and muddle that I couldn’t take anymore.
So four years ago, I left my family half way around the world, and I never had reason to believe they had interest in finding me until the day my doorbell rang. At the time, I lived and worked in the basement of a Victorian tenement in Atlanta. Expecting the usual FedEx or UPS delivery, I ran up to the foyer, blinking to adjust to the sun filtering through the dirty transom before opening the door. Even though she stood right before me, I still couldn’t believe my eyes.
The last time I had seen EG, she was only five. I had fiercely missed my eccentric half-siblings, but once I developed the gumption to quit enabling my mother’s dysfunctional lifestyle, I had no choice but to walk out on them.
Since escaping, I’ve been practicing hard to overcome my doormat tendencies. Granted, it may not seem that way since I’m small and dark and work at blending in, but in my world, invisibility is a defensive position. After twenty years with my flamboyant, nomadic, mother and half-siblings, I treasured the anonymity I’d achieved since my declaration of independence. Invisibility allows me to be myself, giving me hope of establishing a normal life, with a real home someday.
I’m not angling for sympathy, but growing up as the responsible eldest of a family of drama queens, I felt responsible for their welfare, which required more assertiveness and the best therapists my mother’s government health plan could afford. It took me twenty-six years to conquer my need to act as mother-hen. And apparently, four for my family to find me again.
If I was as good a virtual assistant as I thought, I wouldn’t have been so surprised when EG appeared like a raven of doom that late August afternoon.
“I’ve brought my own bed,” she announced the second I opened the basement door.
In the gloom of the boarded up sidelites, I stared down at her shiny black hair. Since she was only nine, she was still shorter than me.
“EG?” My reaction times were a little off due to lack of use. “How did you get here?”
As far as I was aware, my mother never crossed the Atlantic. Panicked questions like How long were you on an airplane alone? and Who died? ran rampant, but expressing weakness was not a wise idea when it came to my family.
EG favored me to some extent, with long, straight black hair, slender build, and a mind like a steel trap. Unlike me, she wore her hair in bangs that hid her Irish-green eyes, although EG might be the only one of us who is pure American. I smothered an unexpected urge to hug her, except EG wouldn’t have understood a genuine demonstration of love. We’d been raised to be detached citizens of the world. We air-kissed but never hugged.
From beneath the long fringe, EG regarded me incredulously. “Lost a few IQ points since last
we met?” she asked, proving my point. She dragged in a wheeled Pullman nearly as big as she was. “The Hungarian Princess gave me her credit card to buy schoolbooks, and whoops, I guess I accidentally booked a plane ticket instead. You know, if you rented that empty apartment upstairs, we wouldn’t have to share the coal cellar.”
My family was used to EG’s ability to answer questions before they’re asked and solve problems before we know we have them. Unfortunately, the rest of the world found it a little disconcerting. Our mother, Magda—referred to as the Hungarian Princess for her fairy tales about our background— once had a boyfriend who invented the Evil Genius sobriquet after EG nailed him as a gambling addict just before he ran off with Magda’s last divorce settlement. EG’s real name is Elizabeth Georgiana.
“I didn’t know another apartment was available or that I needed a new one,” I said, letting her roll her own bag. “Did anyone come with you?”
There hadn’t been anyone on the sidewalk. I checked. Brought up as we had been, we learned to take precautions—and not necessarily against bad guys. Lost nannies, unpaid taxi drivers, even a camel could have waited on my doorstep.
“Nick will be here shortly.” Sidestepping my question, she shoved her bag down the stairs and let it explode on the antique Persian carpet I’d spent a month’s wages on at a flea market. It was the genuine thing, centuries old, frayed, worn, and I’d had high hopes of one day having a real home to put it in. I may as well have hoped the carpet would fly.
As promised, EG’s suitcase explosion produced an inflatable mattress and air pump along with her horde of books, two pairs of shorts, a silk robe that looked like a cast-off of our mother’s, and some T-shirts.
“I figured you’d need my help when Nick got here,” EG continued, gathering up her books and neatly arranging them in a stack beside the textbooks on my computer table. The textbooks were left over from an assignment that was as yet unfinished—mainly because my client had disappeared. At least he’d had the decency to pay his bill in advance.
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