by Robin Cain
Used to be a person could go anywhere in this town and feel safe, he mused to himself, but times had changed. Drugs were responsible for a lot of it. Junkies wanting their next fix; no money, no sense. Do just about anything nowadays to get that next high. Theft, muggings, domestic violence, knife fights, gun fights, desperate users willing to maim over an ounce of high—yep, he’d seen it all. What was the story this time? Suicide? Jilted lover? Ah, it’ll all come soon enough, he thought.
Minutes later, as Johns approached the park, he saw a woman in a wetsuit running toward his squad car frantically waving her arms in the air.
Here we go.
“Lincoln 324. 10-23,” he said into his microphone, alerting Dispatch he was now on scene. He took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. He grabbed the crime scene tape from the trunk of his car and headed toward the rapidly approaching woman.
“Officer, she’s over here. She’s in the lake. Dead,” Laura said, out of breath and frantic as she approached him. “Down this path.” She motioned toward where her husband waited.
“Calm down, m’am. Everything is going to be fine. I’m Officer Johns. And you are?”
“I’m Laura Caston. My husband and I found the body. Come this way.” Johns followed her down the path. When they reached the spot where Tom had pulled up the boat, Johns began to ask questions and make notes.
Dead body underwater. Three hundred feet offshore. Female. Found at approximately 08:30 hours.
With a protocol to follow, Johns began to methodically tape off the shoreline to prevent the destruction of possible evidence. Tying the tape to trees or whatever he could find, he marked a wide swath of twenty to twenty-five feet and then continued up to the parking lot to keep people away. He radioed Dispatch to tell them who to send and, within minutes, the park and beach began to fill with cops and technicians. Shortly after, TV station crews began to arrive, followed by a news chopper that flew overhead. The call, intercepted with police scanners, alerted the media that something newsworthy was happening in Big Bear Park. They were all there to get breaking footage for their next broadcast.
A small, well-behaved crowd had slowly gathered, drawn to the scene by the commotion that had disturbed their quiet morning. Though increasing in size, the crowd spoke in hushed tones, trying to ascertain what had happened. It wasn’t until later, when the big black government van arrived on scene, parting and silencing them as it passed, that the majority finally figured out what was going on. This somber arrival of the medical examiner’s van meant that someone was dead.
The van pulled into the parking lot, quickly followed by an unmarked, nondescript brown sedan, with its normally discreet dashboard lights now rapidly flashing. Both vehicles screeched to a dead stop in the parking lot and Detective Frost, a tall slender man outfitted in an even less descript brown suit, climbed out of the undercover police car. At forty-three, Frost already had eighteen years on the force. His eyes trained on the crowd as he walked over to talk to the guy in the ME van, Frost had only been radioed in on this case thirty minutes ago. He needed to get all information available before jumping in. As he and the ME van driver traded information, a reporter and cameraman from one of the local TV stations approached.
“Detective! Anything you can give us? What’s happening here?”
“No comment. Didn’t you notice that I just now got here as well?” he said, his trademark sarcasm rearing its head.
Frost brushed the reporter aside and headed behind the police tape and down to where the other group of officers gathered at the shoreline. He approached the medical examiner’s technician who was already on scene.
“Got it yet?” Frost asked.
“Hey, Bill. Uh, no. The divers are retrieving it now. We know it’s female; appears to have been in the water awhile. Head wound.”
They stood at the water’s edge, observing the activity in the distance. The body had been located by divers after a widespread twenty-minute search in the murky water at a depth of forty-five feet below. Though it would be awhile before they got it to shore, loaded in the van and sent to Sullivan General Hospital, it would now be an expedited autopsy. The presence of a head wound indicated it had been murder, not suicide.
Frost thanked him and turned to go up the hill. He walked over to a group of idle cops congregated on scene. “Looks like we have a Jane Doe at this point,” he told them. “Any Missing Persons reports lately?”
The officers all shook their heads.
“Well, someone will start missing her soon enough.” Turning to the rookie cop in the group, he added, “Wilson, stay on scene with the coroner’s unit until he’s ready to go. And keep all these LookieLou’s behind the tape, would ya?
“10-4, detective.”
“Who was first on scene?” Frost asked.
“Johns. He’s over talking to the couple that found her,” the rookie answered, motioning up the trail to where the Castons stood. Frost walked over. Johns was asking the Castons additional questions.
“So, you didn’t see anyone around?” Johns turned to acknowledge the higher ranking office.
“Detective.”
“Johns.”
“This is Laura and Tom Caston. They were the ones diving who found her.”
“It’s just so awful. I’ve never seen a dead body before,” Laura said. “What happened to her?” Eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, Laura couldn’t hide the fact that she had been crying.
“Well, Mrs. Caston, we don’t really know anything yet. Could be a drowning, but we’ll know more once the ME does his thing. We’d like to leave your boat where it is until we have covered the entire area for any possible evidence. Would it be okay if one of our officers gave you a ride back home?”
“Uh, sure, I guess,” Tom said, glancing at his dazed wife. She had begun to cry again. “When can we get it back?”
“Soon.” Frost turned to address Johns. “Do we have everything we need from these folks?”
Johns nodded and closed his notebook. The Castons, now both badly shaken up, wouldn’t be able to provide anything more of value. They had just caught an unlucky break. Hell of a way to start a day, he thought.
twenty-four
IT HAD TAKEN CITRA longer than she’d anticipated to pull her plan together. Her contact at APEX had some trouble getting his hands on enough cash but, to make up the difference, Citra agreed to a future percentage of the deal as payment. The plan was once Citra was able to get her hands on the program, her contact would be in charge of locating the right person to bootleg and make subtle adjustments. APEX would then integrate this altered code into its software prior to any merger arrangements.
Citra had been told that the APEX legal team had determined that, by simply changing the code, MineWare had made itself vulnerable and unprotected from competitors. In making the decision to rework the program and not get it to market, MineWare would be a good year behind schedule and, by then, it would be too late. Though it was a real stretch of intellectual property and copyright laws—lawyers interpreting laws to suit their own needs—APEX felt it could successfully defend itself and its actions should it become an issue down the road. To them, it was worth any risk. Citra didn’t care what happened afterwards. She had plans to disappear once she had enough money anyway. Convinced her tracks would be covered and nothing could incriminate her, she felt all systems were now go.
No one else would have ever dreamed of using Frank’s own ID to gain access to restricted areas. Simply because they’d have thought all the data would be tracked by MineWare’s security system, they’d have never tried to get away with it. Citra now knew that, by using Frank’s special ID, someone could get in and out without anyone ever knowing they were there. This priceless bit of information was worth its weight in gold.
Citra sat, parked in her neighbor’s borrowed car, a block away from MineWare in an unmetered spot down a poorly lit side street, congratulating herself on exceptional foresight. Dressed in a pair of black jeans, black running shoes
and her favorite black DKNY T-shirt, she thought she had done a first-rate job looking the part of a cat burglar.
She had reviewed the plan a thousand times. Get in, get the files downloaded and get out. If anyone stopped her, she’d tell them she had been working from home and needed something from the office. Having to retrieve a client file, discreetly left on a shelf in Frank’s office last week, would be her completely plausible alibi should the need arise. Coming in a side entrance, her ID had just not registered on the system. No big deal. Her relationship with Frank had always provided her certain freedoms and special considerations. She could bluff her way through anything if necessary.
Citra got out of the borrowed car, making sure to lock it up behind her. Carrying her black briefcase in one hand, she held Frank’s ID tightly in the other. She double-checked to be sure she had her employee ID with her, though she had no intention of using it. If everything went as planned, no one would even know she had been there.
Building A loomed in the distance. As Citra walked quickly to the private door on the east side of the building, she noticed that her heart had begun to pound. The cooler night air was doing nothing to prevent the sweat beginning to trickle down the middle of her forehead. With the back of her hand, she mopped her forehead, stopping in the shadow of the door to scan its frame for a place to insert the security card. There was no reader.
Fuck! Where does this go?
Fighting the fear that was beginning to get the best of her, Citra tried to calmly reason out the facts. There was a way to do this. There had to be. She just wasn’t thinking clearly. She ran her hand along the entire side frame of the door and, just when she was about nearly out of door frame, she came across the opening. Holding her breath, she slid the card into the discretely hidden slot.
Click.
She exhaled. Step One complete. She quickly pulled the door open—barely enough to just slip in—and then just as quickly shut the door behind her. Standing very still, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Though she had been in Frank’s office a million times, she had never used this private back entrance. It took a second to get her bearings.
Citra saw the short hallway ahead of her and assumed it led to Frank’s office and private restroom. She visually scanned all of the security cameras before taking a step. The cameras, placed in various locations near the ceiling, should have been instantly disabled when she had inserted Frank’s card. She didn’t know what she’d do if they hadn’t turned off. That was one contingency she hadn’t planned for. She had relied completely on the accuracy of Frank’s information, trusting he had blindly, and drunkenly, taken her into his confidence. It appeared all the years of their relationship were now finally paying off. Once she was certain their individual ON lights were not blinking, she took a deep breath and moved forward.
This all had to be accomplished quickly if she was going to get away with it. Opening the door to Frank’s office, Citra hesitated briefly, listening for any unexpected sounds. Now certain everything was as it should be, she approached Frank’s massive mahogany desk and computer. Grabbing one of the heavy guest chairs that sat along the wall, she maneuvered it into place behind Frank’s desk and sat down. There was no reason to risk detection by turning on any unnecessary lights. The streetlights and full moon shining through the window behind Frank’s desk provided just enough light to be able to retrieve the thumb drive from her briefcase.
She pulled out the keyboard, tapped a key and waited for the computer screen to come to life. Its glow now provided just enough light for typing. After inputting Frank’s user name, she hit the tab key. The blinking cursor now patiently waited for the input of his password.
Pausing to wipe her clammy hands on her jeans, Citra said a silent prayer, hoping the “oh-so-clever” password Frank assumed she would never guess was still valid. She then began to type.
Y-B-2-S-E-C-U-R-E. The irony of it didn’t escape her.
The machine processed her request and, within seconds, MineWare’s server sprang to life. Citra now had access to the company’s entire data system.
“YES!” she loudly declared to the empty room.
She scanned the long list of entries while plugging her thumb drive into one of the available USB ports. Once the new drive was recognized, Citra saw that there were numerous alphabetically-labeled drives through which she would have to search. With hundreds of files inside each one of those, it was going to take some time.
She eventually located the correct drive, but she still had to find the necessary files. The amount of information was mind-boggling. Similar to the structure of information stored for the Sales department, with which she was familiar, these files were grouped together by department, then by project leader and then by project. Citra decided she better take everything that looked even remotely related to OurWare. There was not going to be any coming back for seconds.
It took just a little under an hour, but Citra believed she now had everything she needed saved onto her removable drive. Just as she was closing the last file, she saw that Frank’s e-mail program was located on the same drive.
Ah, what the hell...
She double-clicked on the Outlook icon and watched as it updated. As she would have expected, Frank’s inbox was flooded with Read messages. She quickly scanned the list and opened the first one that caught her eye. Sent from Sadie last Friday afternoon, the subject line read:
No News.
Unable to reach you by phone. Got here too late to get pregnancy test results. Sorry—have to try again on Monday.
What the hell? Citra couldn’t comprehend the words. Pregnancy test? Frank can’t possibly... he couldn’t possibly... could he?
Shocked and confused, Citra read and reread the e-mail before finally closing it and the program. Though she wracked her brain for possible explanations and asked herself the same questions over and over, she found no answers that made sense. Frank had never expressed any desire to have children and, the last time she checked, Frank was paralyzed. What the hell?
The longer she thought about it, the angrier she got. How could that son-of-a-bitch have gone and done this to her?
“Well, good fucking luck with that one, Frank. Now you truly deserve what you’re getting,” she said to his computer screen.
Citra hadn’t been paying attention to the time and, now realizing this, she hastily logged off and removed her thumb drive. Setting Frank’s computer back to standby, she grabbed her briefcase, put the chair back where she had found it and quietly left the way she had come in. After pulling the last door tight until it locked behind her, Citra took one last look around. Opting for this late hour on a Monday night had proven to be wise. The streets were deserted. Now breathing a bit easier, she headed back to her car as quickly as she could without running.
Once back inside the small sedan, Citra let herself relax. A satisfied smile crossed her face as she imagined the extraordinary monetary gains she would reap from this single solitary act. And she felt not an ounce of remorse. Frank had asked for this the minute he had decided to end their relationship. Besides, he was definitely useless to her now.
Citra put the key in the ignition and looked up to the rearview mirror to address her reflection.
“Checkmate.”
Now in drive, she headed back home. The borrowed car could wait until morning to be returned.
At nearly the same moment, in the security office of the main building, the night guard looked down at the new pager he wore on his wide black belt and saw the message from the boss’ computer’s auto-dialer. He reached for the phone and, as he had been instructed to do weeks ago, he quickly dialed Mr. Campelletti’s private number. Frank answered after a single ring.
“Yes?”
“Uh, yes, sir... This is Hank, down in Security. You told me to call if this happened and, well, sir, your computer paged me thirty seconds ago. Uh... the message reads “Fifty-eight minutes.”
“Okay, Hank. Now I need you to go do exactly
what we discussed. Go make a copy of the video from my office for the last hour-and-a-half and grab the recorder from my computer. Personally deliver it to my assistant, Janie, in the morning before you leave. And, as I mentioned before, please don’t discuss this with anyone. Are we clear?” Frank’s voice was eerily calm.
“You got it, sir.”
“Thanks, Hank, I appreciate your discretion and your loyalty.”
“Frankie?” As a lifelong friend of Frank’s father, Tony, Hank figured it was okay use Frank’s nickname this once.
“Yes, Hank?”
“I heard today about your wife missing. I’m awful sorry. I sure hope she turns up safe and sound.”
“Thanks, Hank. That’s kind of you to say. I’m sure she’ll turn up just fine. Good night. And thanks. Thanks again.”
Hank hung up and directed another security guard to take over the desk for awhile. He had work to do for the boss and he didn’t want anything to screw it up. That poor man had enough to think about today. Frankie had given him a part-time job when he’d grown bored from early retirement and he had greatly appreciated it—owed him, in fact. He couldn’t let him down now. Frankie had been darn good to him over the years.
Late one night several weeks ago, Frankie had approached him, requesting this special favor. Frankie had told him just what would happen and showed him exactly how to handle what he needed to do if it occurred. And, Frankie had been adamant they keep this between the two of them. Hank didn’t understand the secrecy, but it wasn’t his job to question the boss. All the technology in this place about drove him nuts anyway. He didn’t think Fort Knox was protected nearly as well as Frankie’s MineWare. Real cameras, fake cameras, hidden cameras, computers that dialed numbers by themselves—he didn’t understand any of it. But he didn’t have to. He just had to man the front desk at night and make sure everything was on the up and up. Let all the computer geeks have the rest of this craziness.