by Jan Coffey
“I’ll wait for you inside,” Ashley said to Conor after she’d said goodbye to Emily. He didn’t miss the admiring look she gave his mom before disappearing into the lab. He was impressed, too. In fact, he was in awe.
“I never told you about Ashley liking dogs.”
“So?”
“So, that was so random about knowing her interest in dogs…and photography.”
She poked him gently in the chest. “If you like someone, then you should search out these kinds of details. They’re important.”
“Mom,” he drawled in a low but threatening voice. “Who’s your source?”
“Don’t you know parents love to brag about their children.” She patted him once on the cheek and placed a kiss on the other one. “You’d be amazed what Ashley’s mother and father know about your interests.”
Thirty-Two
“I have to admit, this wasn’t what I was envisioning when I tried to coerce you into asking me to stay at your house.”
With the kitchen door propped partially open, they could see the commotion in Emily’s living room. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls and windows, and desks and computers had been moved in. For tonight at least, her living room was to be used as an FBI field office.
“Are you chickening out?” she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter where they stood hip to hip. “Do you want me to take you back to the inn?”
“No chance. I’m not leaving you alone with these wolves.”
“Wolves? I thought they were federal agents.”
Emily glanced in the direction of the four men and two women crowded into the other room. Some were making calls, while others continued setting up computers and testing their equipment.
She was too exhausted to try to get in the middle of any of it. She’d even been too tired to take a nap earlier in the evening, afraid that once she went to sleep, there would be no waking up half an hour later. Her chat session was at nine. Forty-five minutes till show time. The text of what she was talking about tonight had already been decided upon. She was ready.
One of the agents, a younger man in his late twenties with longish hair and a gold hoop in one ear, knocked first before poking his head into the kitchen. He definitely didn’t look like the stereotypical FBI agent. “Do you have a preference about which office chair we should bring down, Em?”
“No chair. Just bring my bed down,” she said, unable to stifle a yawn.
The agent smiled. “I’ll bring both chairs from your office down. You can decide after.”
“Don’t do that,” Emily said quickly. “The one without the arms will do fine.”
Ben shot a narrow glare at his back as the agent left the kitchen. “I don’t like the way that bozo looked at you—like he wanted you wrapped, to go.”
She laughed and looped her hand through his good arm. “I don’t care how good the offer might be. I’ve already accepted a new position.” She looked up into his eyes. “Remember?”
His reaction almost knocked her off her feet. He bent his head and kissed her. The kiss was brief, but deep enough to leave his mark and make Emily go weak in the knees.
“I remember,” he growled.
Ben’s thumb traced her bottom lip after, touching the wetness. His gaze stayed on her mouth and Emily’s heart raced. Her face was burning. Her insides became a jumble of feelings. She had to stop herself from reaching up and kissing him again. She somehow managed to find her voice.
“What was that for?”
Amusement crept into his expression. “A little chauvinistic message to the boys out there that you’re already spoken for.”
In her entire life, no one had ever acted possessively toward her. When it came to getting men’s attention, she’d never thought she was special enough that there would be competition.
Ben glanced at the door. “I don’t think they saw it, though.”
His head dipped toward her again, but she pulled back and smiled.
“Behave! Someone might walk in.”
“That’s the point.”
“Is it?” Emily asked. She quickly shook her head, though, realizing she was daring him to kiss her again…realizing she wanted him to do it again. She swallowed hard. “By the way, are you still on pain medication?”
“Was the kiss that bad?”
“I wasn’t being critical of the quality. Your motivation, though, is a bit suspect.” Emily forced herself to meet his gaze. “‘Spoken for’? You’re sounding like a John Wayne movie.”
“John Wayne would have admired my self-control.”
“Self-control about what?” she asked, feeling the tumultuous beating of wings in her belly.
His mouth drifted closer to her ear. His voice was a hushed whisper. “About what I’d like to do to you.”
He nibbled on her earlobe before pulling back, and delicious chills raced through her. Instead of moving away, Emily leaned into his frame. She was definitely too tired, she told herself. She had no ability to reason clearly.
“You know,” she croaked, “we are officially working together. I don’t think this kind of talk will do us any good.”
“We’re both single, consenting adults.”
“Since my divorce, mixing personal and work relationships has been taboo with me.”
“With me, too,” Ben said. “But I’m realizing that life and its rules sometimes require exceptions. You and I happen to be one of those exceptions.”
“We are?” she asked, falling headfirst into his logic.
Ben nodded. He caressed her back with his good hand and drew Emily tighter against his side. She turned slightly, and one breast pressed against his chest. “By the way, there’s a lot more that goes with that kiss.”
“Is there?” she asked, seeing the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
He nodded again. His hand traced the curve of her bottom.
For the moment, there was no one in their direct line of vision in the living room, and the devil came out in Emily. “What exactly do you mean by ‘a lot more’?”
He pressed a kiss on her neck. “A lot more will involve some intimate activities in an occasionally horizontal position. I’m thinking about two bodies that are no longer separated by clothing.”
“You mean naked?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I see.” Her fingers moved over the front of his shirt. She could feel the pronounced outline of the bandages on his ribs. “But are you well enough for anything that athletic?”
He nodded slowly. “You’ll have to be very gentle with me…for a while.”
Emily’s hand wandered lower, caressing his hard, flat stomach. “How gentle?”
Ben turned his head slightly as one of the agents passed by the kitchen door. “No one better walk in here anytime soon.”
Emily followed the direction of his eyes, taking in the pronounced bulge in his khaki pants. She bit her bottom lip to hide her smile and stepped out of his arms. The thought that she’d done that to him was empowering. She’d forgotten the feeling.
“They’ll probably want me in there soon. Not much time left until we start the chat.”
His eyes devoured her, reminding her of every word he’d said.
Emily moved away and opened the fridge door, looking in without any interest in eating. She was just too hot. She hooked a finger inside the neckline of her sweater and pulled it away to let out some of the steam.
She peeked at him from over the open fridge door. “Can I get you something from in here?”
“Not from in there.”
Somebody pushed the kitchen door open, and Emily crawled deeper into the fridge, hoping to cool her flushed face. Ben turned to face the counter and opened the first overhead cabinet. He inspected the shelf filled with cereal boxes.
“You had surgery this morning, boss,” Adam said gruffly, coming in. “Do you really think you should be spending so much time on your feet?”
Adam had dropped Ben at Emily’s hous
e about an hour earlier and then had gone to the Wickfield Inn for a change of clothes and to check on any new faxes.
“I’m fine,” Ben said, closing the cabinet. “What’s wrong?”
Emily looked over her shoulder. Adam had dropped the cell phone and stack of folders he was carrying onto the kitchen table. He sat down heavily on one of the benches. “There’s been another accident.”
She closed the fridge, facing him. “Aside from Jeremy Simpson?”
“Yeah. A couple of hours before that, around noon. In Albany, New York. This time there was a fatality.”
Ben walked toward his associate. “What happened?”
“An elderly male driver in a brand-new car ran over his neighbor on their street. The woman was pronounced dead at the scene. It took the old man a couple of hours in the hospital before he comes out of shock enough to start swearing he had no control whatsoever over his car.”
“The first accident happened in Albany,” Emily said, stating what they all knew.
None of what they’d learned today had been released to the press. Thus far, the media had been left completely out. That ensured that every person who had an accident wouldn’t blame it on their car. And it also meant that not every accident vehicle that fit the profile would immediately be identified and tested. After tonight’s chat session, though, there was a good possibility that things would change quickly, for Emily intended to make the subject of the talk “Superbugs in Automobile Engine Control Modules.”
The feds were concerned that an unexpected change of topic might give away their investigation, but Emily figured her stalker had been monitoring all the research she’d done on the Internet Sunday morning. This was the same routine she’d been following in recent months. Do the research the day before the chat. They’d gone along with it.
Her thinking was simple. Ego. Throw it out there and see if he’d take responsibility, or at least sound like an expert on it. They needed bait to haul in this creep.
Adam was looking at his notes. “Because the first accident happened in that area and the area police departments were cognizant of the FBI’s involvement in the new investigation, they took the right steps.”
“They tested the board?” Ben asked.
“Called in the feds right away. It matches. The virus is there.”
“That’s two in one day.” Emily rubbed her temples.
“Do these guys know about it?” Ben asked, motioning with his head toward the living room.
“If they don’t, they will shortly. Hinckey was the one who called me about it on my cell as I was pulling into the driveway. He’s coming over, too.”
“The guy behind the accidents is pressing for attention. He’s showing off what he can do. He’s gone from one a month to two in one week, and now to two in one day.” Ben frowned. “He wants something. I’m surprised he hasn’t made any kind of demand.”
“He has…in so many words.” Adam glanced at Emily. “He doesn’t like the company you keep.”
“But I don’t know anyone in Albany,” she said. It was so hard to keep the guilt from seeping in. The thought that she could be responsible for provoking some nutcase into hurting innocent people, even killing them, was horrible.
“When I said he wants something, I meant monetary demands or some political platform to vent from,” Ben stated. His gaze caressed her face. “Emily, you weren’t receiving gifts from this guy when the first accident happened twenty-one months ago, were you?”
“No.”
“You weren’t friendly with any insurance salesman or any car dealer in Providence, or any eighty-year-old lady in San Diego, were you.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Then don’t take this on yourself. This virus has been out there. He’s been testing it.”
“Everyone—myself included—” Adam said quickly, “considers it a miracle that we have some means of communicating with this lunatic. Without his interest in you, he’d be some anonymous killer.”
“And quite possibly uncatchable,” Ben asserted.
She was tired, perhaps somewhat defensive. She understood she’d taken Adam’s comment too personally. But it was hard to separate herself from all that was happening.
The same agent who had inquired before about the chair poked his head back in. “We’re ready for you.”
Emily glanced at the clock on the wall. There was still half an hour to go, but the setup had to be tested and checked. As always, before she went in front of a crowd, her heart fluttered. In this case, there was so much more at stake. She was glad, though, that they’d agreed to have this at her house, where she was comfortable, more in her element. It had been critical to her that Colter Associates be kept involved in the investigation. Thankfully, there had been no objection.
She looked at Ben. His gaze was so confident. He believed in her.
She followed the agent into the other room.
Her laptop and chair had been put center stage. A screen had been set up so that everything on her computer was projected where everyone else could see it as well. Three agents equipped with their own laptops were sitting nearby. More agents had arrived and were crowded around the perimeter of the room and out into the hallway. A telephone communication center had been set up in one corner.
“We’ve installed a protocol analyzer on your system,” an agent to her right said, loud enough to be heard by all. He went on to explain what it was to the rest of the agents.
Emily was perfectly familiar with the protocol analyzer. Another term for it was a sniffer—an intrusion detection system. They wanted to be ready to digest anything that might come through while she was online. Through the sniffer, they could trace source and destination IPs of anyone who tried to hack into her system.
In the communication center, a secure cluster with a very high encryption level had been set up, linking the other computers and four different law enforcement networks. This way, they had access to the information fast and could work without the hacker knowing they were there.
The arrival of Special Agent Hinckey was a sign. The SAC was just about the only shirt-and-tie type in the assembled team. He was a large man of few words—but one who obviously commanded respect within the group. After saying hello to her, he moved to where Ben stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The two men exchanged a few hushed words, and she wondered if they knew each other from before. Emily glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to blastoff. Her heart hammered in her chest. The wait was killing her.
“How about if I go online and fish for some attention before the class officially starts?” she suggested.
“You’re the boss,” Hinckey responded.
Emily logged on.
Thirty-Three
Lyden pushed the container of chicken-fried rice aside the moment he saw the screen name EM V appear on top of the list of names already in the chat room.
“Hello, baby.”
The kiss-ass troops became instantly restless. Dozens of different messages and questions were posted before the moderator even acknowledged Emily’s early arrival. He sat back and watched, systematically cracking his knuckles as he read. They were like a flock of birds in mating season.
A bittersweet sensation filled Lyden. He was angry, of course, but he knew it must be hard for her. She was a goddess, and men were bound to worship her. Still, even if she was just being nice to these losers like Colter and Simpson, he couldn’t put up with it. It was beneath her. She belonged to him.
But he was also happy that she’d shown up at the chat. And early, at that. Maybe what happened to the detective this afternoon wasn’t much of a disappointment, after all. Simpson was just a mere mortal. Not even worthy of raising his eyes to her.
Lyden frowned. Of course, he had no idea what the hell had really happened to Simpson this afternoon, and he grew angrier thinking about it now. He’d just started having fun with him—Lyden had been in complete control—and then there was a total shutdown. As if someone had pulled the plug. Lyden
had clicked into the Connecticut State Police system right away. The dispatcher was calling for help. Local officer injured in a rollover. Fucking trucks. They were definitely overrated. Eventually they’d called for an ambulance, but no med-evac chopper. They only used the term “possible serious injury.” So, how serious?
Lyden sat up straight. Maybe it wasn’t serious enough. Maybe Simpson had been well enough to meet Emily and…
Bastard.
Lyden’s work on Simpson’s car was sloppy. He’d never had a chance to clean up after himself. If they looked closely at the event log, his intrusion would be visible. Because of the power shutdown, the back door had been left open. Still, he guessed most mechanics or QC engineers looking at the board wouldn’t even see it. It was nothing that jumped at you. And even if they were smart enough to notice it, they’d consider it a fluke—a one-in-a-million program flaw. None of other boards in the same lot would show the same signature.
Lyden’s brilliance had to do with the method of entry. It was sheer genius, if he did say so himself. There was no way in hell that anyone could guess it. It just wasn’t there. It simply was not where they would ever look.
Lyden focused on some of the crap that was appearing on the screen. Everyone was trying to impress her, clucking and chirping and flapping their wings. They were all full of it. Two lines that passed between the moderator and Emily, though, caught his attention. The topic for tonight’s chat was changed. He waited, curious. This was the first time that he was aware of her making a last-minute change.
A grin broke across his face when Emily announced what the talk tonight was about. Superbugs in ECMs. She didn’t want to run it as a lecture, though, but as an information exchange session.
“Jeez, I love this fucking woman.”
Lyden knew she’d been checking some Web sites on this topic on Sunday morning. Simpson must have said something to her about losing control. This was the way her brain worked. She was on a mission. Collect the data, form the hypothesis, then test it. And even though she knew her shit when it came to research, she knew everything on the topic wasn’t to be found in the journals or on the Net. No, she wasn’t stuck up enough not to appreciate the talent of others out there. She was coming to them—coming to him—looking for help.