“Oh, you’re Mr. Daly,” the kid says. “Sorry. It’s, er . . . Nice to meet you.” He retreats to a dark corner.
“How are you, Pete?” Chris says as they shake.
“I’m fine. Sorry about this case. We’re not turning up anything.”
“Show me what you have.”
He follows Pete back to his desk. The team of analysts are spread around the perimeter of the room, about twenty people, each with an eight-foot wide swath of desk covered with monitors. Most ignore him and Pete.
“We pulled all camera and cellular data, and wi-fi connections for a two-mile radius, from 1 A.M. until four on the day in question. There’s a lot less people out and about in the middle of the night, so the search results were small. After we excluded the people who live in the neighborhood, we turned up less than twenty anomalies. Mostly out-of-towners vacationing, but a few were folks from other parts of town visiting friends. We cross-checked with email and cells records, and all appear legitimate: they made plans in advance and had consistent electronic trails. We flagged them for ongoing monitoring, and all of their subsequent electronic activity is continuing within statistical norms. Your person-of-interest, Angelina—”
“She goes by Angie,” Chris says.
“Angie was on Mount Hood, at Timberline Lodge, the entire time. Definitely not in Bend. I’ve got her cell phone there, cell phone activity. Her vehicle never showed up on any street cameras. She was watching TV like usual. She watches a hell of a lot of TV.”
“We can make a false electronic trail to pass that level of inspection. She could have taken another car. Any chance of either?”
Pete shrugs, doubt on his face. “In theory, yes, but that’s a lot of work, and harder still without backdoors into the telecoms to insert the data in the first place.”
“What about the cookie?” Chris asks.
“Please don’t tell me all this is based on that cookie.”
The browser cookie is all Chris has. The day after the death in Bend, which is now months ago, there was a news story on the Bend Bulletin website. Tens of thousands read the article, their web browsers automatically sending tracking cookies so that advertisers can know who they are regardless of what website they visit. The NSA has those cookies, of course, and can map them to people’s identities as easily as the advertisers can. One of those visitors, according to the cookie, was Angie.
“It doesn’t show up in her browsing history,” Chris says. “And there’s no trail of how she got to that story. She didn’t hit the Bulletin landing page and there’s nothing in any of her social media feeds about it. No one hits a deep URL without some trace of how they got there.”
“She was still at Tomo then.” Pete shrugs. “It’s a huge company, really complex network. Lots of mixed hardware and software. Maybe she bounced a connection through routers in a way that we missed. The logs aren’t perfect. For all we know, the story was linked from another site, and we don’t know.”
“Something doesn’t add up here,” Chris says. “Why doesn’t it show in her browser history?”
“Plenty of people clear their browser history. Plus, in her case, she’s a programmer. They clear out everything on a regular basis.”
“There’s something weird about her, and something fishy about the death in Bend.”
“I don’t know about her, but you’re right about the death. The field team got the firmware back from the furnace last night. It differs from the factory code, and it was flashed the night of the death.”
“We can tell when something was flashed?” Chris is impressed.
“Yeah, something about half-life decay of electrons from atoms,” Pete says. “I’m not sure how it works. Anyhow, the evidence is clear someone modified the software, which is almost certainly what caused the carbon monoxide poisoning. Whoever it was left no record. They came in clean, no electronic devices, and probably used a directional antenna only the house wi-fi would pick up, and not any of the neighbors. You know what that means?”
Chris shakes his head.
“Whoever altered the furnace firmware might know we’ve compromised the consumer wi-fi access points to report on which MAC addresses show up. Nobody’s leaked that yet, which could mean they’ve got a source in the government.”
“Or they’ve read the leaks and assume we can track everything.” Chris glances at his watch. He can’t afford to be completely sidetracked by this personal job. He still needs to take care of his official BRI work. “Keep Angie on active monitoring, and let me know if anything pops up.”
CHAPTER 32
* * *
FOUR GRUELING weeks of work fly by in a blur. The deal with CompEx turns out to be bigger than anyone expected. They’ve suddenly decided they want in on our Series A round of financing.
On the plus side, it’s vastly more funds raised, their participation giving us industry acceptance, and the terms we’ve negotiated bring hundreds of millions of CompEx customers directly to Tapestry as part of the new product purchase experience. They’re such a conservative investor that merely including them in the investment round has upped our valuation.
On the flip side, their entry, along with the terms they want, dilutes my ownership stake under 50 percent, the point at which I lose total control over the board of directors, and therefore the company. This is exactly what I sought to avoid.
Still, Owen is convinced CompEx is a friendly investor. They have neither the desire nor the mettle to interfere with management of the company, and he asserts we can count on them to vote with me.
I’ve talked it over at length with Emily, Thomas, and over two sessions with Charlotte. None of them can offer a crystal ball. Worse, the negotiations are causing delays, and we’re already two weeks behind when we should have closed funding. My CFO begs me daily to close the deal so we can make payroll.
I desperately want to cancel the trip with Thomas. On Thursday night we grab dinner a little after nine, the restaurant nearly empty because this is late for Portland dining. Although I want a drink, I reluctantly skip the booze to save my clarity of thought for a call scheduled for later tonight.
I almost tell Thomas we need to reschedule. Looking at him, considering everything I’ve made him go through the last year, I realize I can’t do it. I’ve missed too many things, forced him to bear the burden of my stress too many times. It’s obvious the weekend is important to him. I must follow through regardless of what is going on at work.
On Saturday morning, we drive up to Timberline Lodge. It was cold on Thursday night, and there are a couple of inches of fresh snow on the mountain. I spend the first half of the trip on the phone as Thomas drives, exchanging messages and jumping on a call with the investors who are questioning our burn rate.
Not only has CompEx thrown the investments plans into chaos, they’ve also destroyed my spending forecasts. I’ve been forced to rapidly staff up our biz dev team to procure us a full complement of partners in time for our new ITX launch date. Hiring faster than planned has messed with our financials.
I spend the call defending my actions and juggling various factions. While most of the investors want to slow hiring and spending, one urges us to run an incubator program to bring smaller, more innovative partners onboard, which requires more money and people. Meanwhile, CompEx wants us focused on their integration. Everyone’s demanding more information, more data, more answers. My head pounds trying to keep track of it all. Balancing everything is critical to closing the funding round.
In the midst of this, Lewis Rasmussen comes to mind. He sent that email right before Owen gave us our seed funding, and then another a month later, congratulating us, despite the lack of any public announcement. Since then, nothing. It’s been six or seven months. If he was paying close attention before, why hasn’t he been in touch? It’s too much to hope we fell off his radar. I made a mental note to ask Owen if he’s heard anything the next time we meet in person.
I spend an hour arguing with the investors and iron
ing out details while Thomas patiently drives, only occasionally raising an eyebrow at my end of the conversation.
We’re passing a small town on Highway 26, when Thomas squawks. I glance over at him, and he smiles at me.
I shrug back at him and mouth “what?”
He makes more pretend static noises until I clue in. He’s been pretty patient so far.
“Hey guys,” I say, and it is all men on the phone besides me, because, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to find any female investors, “I’m heading into the mountains, and I may lose you. I’d better hang up here. I’ll have answers for you by Monday.”
I disconnect, and stare at the phone in my hand for a moment. The battery is hot from non-stop usage. Screw it. I turn the phone off, and turn to Thomas. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m signed up for the package deal. Everything okay?”
“Good enough for now. Please, let’s not talk about it. What are you working on these days? I have no idea.”
He tells me about his cases, his new automated legal discovery software, and before I know it, we’re turning up the seven-mile long driveway to Timberline.
It hits me as we pass the waterfalls along the road. The last time I was up this way was almost ten months ago, the summer of last year, when I faked a vacation and actually took a trip to Bend to kill some guy. To kill someone. I’m a murderer. I put that part of myself away when I left Tomo, and I’ve been living a whole different life since then. The old me, is she even in there anymore?
What happened to my old values? This new life might be too easy. I actually like running a company.
Maybe I’m addicted to power. Running a company is another form of dominion. I’ve gone from killing people to a more socially acceptable way of being in control.
And yet I’m creating Tapestry to stop people like me from being in charge.
I rest my head against the window. I don’t know if I can trust myself.
“Everything okay over there?”
“The snow is pretty,” I say.
“Yeah, it is.”
Unlike Emily, whom I could never fool with such an easy distraction, Thomas takes everything at face value.
“Did you pack boots?” he asks. “We can go for a walk tomorrow morning, up to Mirror Lake.”
“Yup,” I say. “Though you need to feed me before we can even talk about anything active because I’m starving.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, we have a dinner reservation at the lodge.”
We check in, and make our way up to our room with our luggage.
“Our reservation is in twenty minutes,” Thomas says, stepping into the bathroom.
“I’ll need a minute to freshen up when you’re done in there.”
The wood-paneled room is dark at first. I open the shades and light from the setting sun streams in, turning the room golden. I lie on the bed while Thomas uses the bathroom, just for a minute to rest, because I’m suddenly exhausted. The next thing I know, I wake up, the room dark. Thomas is curled up next to me, his arm wrapped around me. Once it would have made me scream, now I gently push his arm aside.
His eyes open immediately.
“You’re not sleeping?”
He shakes his head.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You were tired. I moved dinner back an hour. I’m keeping an eye on the clock.”
I lean over and kiss him. “How much more time do we have?”
“Enough.”
One thing leads to another, and soon we’re naked. Thomas goes down on me, and I wrap my fingers in his hair and bite my lip to keep from crying out. I’m melting into the bed as he climbs on top of me.
“Apparently the antidote to work stress is sex,” he tells me as we finally make our way to the dining room half an hour after our second reservation time.
“Yes, but if you don’t feed me, I’m really going to die. My stomach is trying to digest itself.”
“Hah. They have ribeye on the menu. Will that do?”
“If it comes with a honking huge potato it will.”
When we arrive at the dining room, it’s nearly empty, a few wait staff cleaning up and a single table of diners eating dessert.
“We had a reservation for eight o’clock,” Thomas says to one of the staff who’s walking by with a tray of glasses. “We’re a little late.”
A hostess walks up from behind us. “Sorry, the last seating is at eight. We’re closed now.”
“It’s only eight-thirty,” Thomas says.
“The Ram’s Head Bar is open until eleven, and they have food.”
“I want to eat here,” Thomas says.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Let’s go to the bar.”
Thomas stares forlornly at the dining room.
“I can live without a steak. I’m sure there’s something good upstairs.”
The Ram’s Head is crazy busy, a whole different atmosphere from the fine dining experience we missed. Even at this late hour there are families with kids of all ages running around, and layers of wet snow clothes draped over everything. We manage to grab a table by the window. When the waitress comes with menus, I don’t let her leave until we’ve both ordered food and drinks.
“I want to—” Thomas begins.
“Wait,” I say. “I’m too hungry. No talking until the food comes.”
Bread and olives and our drinks finally arrive together. Buttering bread is not one of my fortes, so I plop a slab of butter on a slice and try to shove the whole thing in my mouth at once, which is, by far, too much food. I’m like a chipmunk, my cheeks puffed out and so full of bread I can’t even properly chew.
Thomas laughs, which makes me laugh, and I blow little chunks of crust onto the table. Soon we’re both laughing so hard tears are pouring down my cheeks. “Sure, laugh at the one-armed woman trying to eat before she dies of hunger.”
“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, still laughing. “Can I give you a hand?”
“Sure, I’ll take the right one.” I rip a smaller piece of bread.
“You’d look funny with one hairy arm.”
Finally, food makes it to my stomach and the frenetic hunger dissipates.
“I want to ask you something,” Thomas says.
There’s something in his tone that makes me look up from the olives. Nothing prepares me for what comes next.
He carefully places a box on the table and pushes it toward me. My mind can’t make sense of it at first, and then I realize.
“Will you marry me?” He opens the felt box turned towards me. There’s a ring inside.
Oh. My. I nervously giggle, then cover my mouth with my hand. I take a deep breath, then a swallow of my drink. I breathe deeply a few more times and fan my face. I’m burning up in here.
“There’s no rush,” Thomas says with a smile. “But I guess I’d like some inkling of what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t expecting . . . I mean. I’m so honored. I . . .”
“It’s our two-year anniversary. I hope it’s not too much of a surprise.”
Cue the record screeching effect. Holy shit, our anniversary? Two years? I’m stunned, too shocked to say a thing.
Thomas’s smile is a smidgen smaller than it was a minute ago. “You said you wanted to wait, and I have. But not forever. I want to live with you, spend our lives together. Do you want the same? We don’t need to do anything right now, though I’d like to know if you at least have the same vision as me.”
When we last skirted around the topic of getting married, I was still leading a double-life, working days at Tomo, and killing assholes by night. Back then, I’d said no, still too traumatized by my past experience, and unable to imagine marriage with the secrets I needed to keep. How would I have snuck out of the house to kill people? What would I have said about the VW bus? That’s my secret lair, don’t get any DNA on it?
There’s no VW bus anymore, no sneaking out of the house, and while th
ere are secrets, they’re now about the past. If anything I’d done was going to be exposed, it would have happened by now.
There’s no reason not to marry Thomas except that I’m in the middle of starting a company, surrounded by venture capitalists and investors and hounded by my employees and work at all hours of the day and night. Damn it.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
I lean across the table to kiss Thomas.
“Excuse me, hot plates,” the waitress says just before our lips meet. She pushes her way in between us, setting food down on the table.
I laugh as we wait for her to leave, then come around the table to kiss Thomas. “I love you.”
CHAPTER 33
* * *
ON MONDAY morning, I stop at Coava for a pour-over on my way into work. I’m in the office crazy early and spend a couple of hours catching up on emails and code commits. Between our night on the mountain and investor calls yesterday, I’m way behind on the actual running of the company. Still, I’ve reviewed every git pull request since I brought Amber on board, and I’m committed (pun intended) to continuing. I start off by approving an expansion of the beta program from five hundred to a thousand users, then get into code changes.
My eyes glaze over when I review the presentation layer changes, a mess of Javascript in what passes for one of the new presentation frameworks the kids like these days.
I scrutinize the ORM commits twice as hard to make up for my cursory skimming of the Javascript. There are countless queries I know could be written better in pure SQL, but I hold myself back from recommending changes. I’ll drive my engineers crazy with that level of attention. I single out one schema change I know will come back to bite us later, and comment on it. Otherwise I settle for merely reading the changes.
Shit. When was the last time I actually wrote code? I check my own git history. It’s been six weeks and two days since I pushed code, and that was a mere fifty-line Python script to query cloud server usage and predict future costs.
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