by KG MacGregor
* * *
Off and on all day, Spencer studied the printouts, still not sure of the paper trail her partner had created. Why would he post two copies of the same document? The answer was that he wouldn’t. Something was different in these two sets of twenty-six pages; she just had to find it.
In the meantime, she examined the program Henry had appended. It was amateurish at best, but still, James was incapable of writing it. Either he had subbed it out, or another person was involved in this conspiracy.
"You making any progress?" Ruth asked, returning with Jessie from a tour around town with Viv.
"A little, but not much," Spencer conceded. "I know the key is in here somewhere. I’m going to have to go through all this line by line."
"Can I help?"
"Karen? Spencer?" Viv was calling them from the back porch.
The blonde woman went to the door as Spencer rolled her eyes.
"Can you two help me with something?"
With Jessie in tow, both women walked over to the house, where their landlady promptly directed them to the burned out overhead light in the kitchen.
"It just popped when I turned it on," she explained.
Ruth and Spencer retrieved the ladder from the shed, the taller of the two climbing up to disassemble the dirty fixture. That started Viv on a crusade to clean all the fixtures, and before they knew it, their afternoon was gone.
"She’s a slave driver," Ruth moaned as she dropped onto the couch.
"Yeah, but I’ve got no complaints. I’ll do whatever I can to help her, considering what she’s doing for me." Spencer took the recliner and leaned forward. "And that goes double for you, Ruth."
The blonde woman managed a small smile. Spencer Rollins had literally forced her way into their lives, and something told Ruth already that she would stay there. Though she knew nearly nothing about this woman, she felt close to her; closer in fact than she had to anyone for a long time. A shared sense of urgency bonded them, sort of "us against the world."
"Stop calling me Ruth," she laughed.
"I’m sorry. You just don’t look like a Karen." Spencer looked at the blonde woman intently. It was presumptuous, but she got the feeling that she knew Ruth Ferguson as well as anyone.
"You don’t owe me anything, Spence. I’ve liked having you here. I know it wasn’t like that at first, but now that I see what you’re up against, I want to help."
"Thank you. And I meant what I said about trying to help you too."
"If you do, that’ll be great. But even if you don’t, you’re going to get out of this mess, and when you do, I hope we’ll still be friends."
"Me too," she said sincerely. "So you think you’ll stay in Manassas?"
"It’s as good a place as any, I guess. Where’s your home?"
"I have an apartment in Fairfax, not far from here, actually. But I’m originally from North Carolina."
"How’d you end up here?"
"A job. Right after college, I took a job in McLean. That’s where I first met Henry. That company went under, and we applied as a team to Margadon. Been there ever since."
"Is your family still in North Carolina?"
Spencer’s eyes went far away with the simple question. "No," she answered quietly. "My parents died in a fire about four years ago."
"Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be asking so many questions." Ruth stood up and patted her new friend’s shoulder. She felt awful for stirring up the memories. "I should check on Jessie."
As she looked in on her napping daughter, Ruth’s stomach clenched with anxiety at the thought of something so horrific happening to those she loved. Now, she understood why Spencer had no place to go, no one to turn to but the friend she’d tried to call. And she knew too what a loss Spencer must feel for the friend who’d been murdered.
"You want some coffee or something?" she offered, returning to the kitchen, where the programmer was once again poring over her code.
"Yeah, that’d be nice." Spencer was amazed at how comfortable she felt with Ruth, so much so that she’d been ready to talk about losing her mom and dad, something she’d done with only Henry and Elena. Her two closest friends were the only reason she’d gotten through the tragedy.
"So what about your family? Where are they?"
"Oh, you don’t want to hear about my family, I promise. My own father stood up at Jessie’s custody hearing and told the judge he thought she’d be better off with Skip because I had always been difficult to control."
"Were you? Difficult, I mean. I know the part about Jessie is a crock."
"I wasn’t difficult compared to most teenagers. But my parents had rules out of the Dark Ages, and the consequence of even bending those rules was more and more distance between us. It was like they didn’t even want me to be their daughter anymore if I couldn’t be perfect."
"So they were strict."
"They were way past strict. If they’d had their way, I’d still be in a chastity belt at twenty-five years old."
"Wow, how’d they feel when you got married? Were they okay with that?"
"Hardly," she scoffed. "See, I did the getting married-getting pregnant thing out of order."
"And that just added to what they already believed about you." Though her loss was tremendous, Spencer doubted that it was even half the void this woman had felt.
"I guess. All I know is I won’t miss them. You can’t miss what you never had."
Spencer put her papers down and went into the kitchen, where Ruth was gathering a stack of vegetables from the refrigerator. "Can I help with dinner tonight?"
"I’m just going to make some soup. You can...," she pulled a pound of hamburger from the meat tender, "brown this in that pan while I chop these. Or if you want, you can just stand there and keep me company."
The tall woman smiled, ripping open the package. "I think I can handle this without doing too much damage."
"So tell me about your friend, the one you tried to call the other day."
"You mean Elena? Gosh, what can I tell you about Elena that wouldn’t send you running and screaming?" she joked. "I told you she was an IRS agent, right? Mostly she investigates ill-gotten gains. She looks for people who seem to have more money than they should."
"Like drug dealers?"
"Exactly. They’re the easiest to find, because most of them don’t have jobs. The tougher ones are money-launderers, white-collar criminals, government officials on the take. They all go to work every day, so they have to do something really stupid to get tripped up."
"It sounds like an interesting job."
"She likes it. She gets to carry a gun. She says it helps her pick up…chicks." The last word she said tenuously, realizing too late where the conversation would go from there.
"She’s a lesbian?" Her question was surprisingly matter-of-fact.
"Yeah. And…so am I."
Ruth felt the words as much as she heard them, a shudder traveling through her body like a strong wind. It was as though in that instant Spencer Rollins had been fully revealed, and the result was utter fascination. Miraculously, she managed not to cut her thumb off.
"So…you and Elena…?"
"No. We were, but that was a long time ago. We’re just friends now. Well, not ‘just’ friends. We’re good friends. Even without talking to Elena, I know that she knows this is all bullshit. And even without me telling her what to do, she’s already trying like hell to find out why these guys are after me."
"She knows you that well?"
"Yeah, that well."
Ruth had calmed the butterflies, though she had no idea where they’d come from. It didn’t make sense that Spencer’s disclosure would have unnerved her like that.
"So what happened with you two? How come you’re not still…?"
"Lovers?"
Ruth nodded. A soft tremor rippled through her again.
"Basically, she dumped me."
"Dumped you? Why would she dump you?"
"That’s what I sai
d!" Spencer said haughtily, and they both laughed. More seriously, she explained, "Elena’s just a really unique person, and she’s a great friend to have. But she’s one of those people who has to be in control of everything all the time. And she knows she can’t control other people, so she keeps them at arm’s length. I think I may have scared her, though, you know, threatened her independence. I know she loved me, but she couldn’t go forward, and I couldn’t stay put."
"I don’t really understand why people want to be alone. Of course, I might understand it better now, though, since I’ve got all this baggage. I know I don’t ever want to take a chance on losing my child again."
"I don’t think Elena really wants to be alone. I think she’s just afraid that she’ll hurt somebody who loves her, and she doesn’t want to risk it."
"What about you, Spencer? What do you want?"
The dark-haired woman sighed. "I want to find love someday. I want to find somebody who makes me want to stay and stay."
Ruth smiled in understanding. Whoever won Spencer Rollins’ heart would know love, she was sure. This woman was definitely a "giver" and, Ruth believed, a person who was capable of fierce loyalty. Those were things that she wanted from a partner, and things she was willing to give. And just where the hell did that thought come from?
* * *
Ruth and Jessie were long asleep, while Spencer waded through the pages, line by line. She found what she was looking for on page fourteen of the second copy. It was a single line, and it simply redirected the process to a different global file. So every Friday, Spencer or Henry would run their global, unaware of the switch. It was pretty fucking clever.
Henry followed the redirect to a new global, which called an unfamiliar macro as it processed the Kryfex data. The new macro stood out like a sore thumb because it was written in a totally different style. Coding style was unique, like handwriting. Programmers like Spencer and Henry relied heavily on loops and macros to minimize not only the processing time for the computer, but also the keystrokes used in the commands. It was a favorite game for both of them to see who could write a particular program using the fewest lines of code. Invariably, the final product would be a combination of their best efforts.
Other programmers were more rigid, repetitive in their detailed logic so that each routine was clearly delineated on the page. Such programs typically took longer to run, and were, to Spencer, a royal pain in the ass to patch, because each routine had to be addressed individually. It was an example of the latter style that leapt out from the stack of papers she held. Neither she nor Henry would have written a command in such longhand.
So there it was, the evidence that had gotten Henry killed. Someone at Margadon — most likely someone contracted by James — had toyed with the original global module, redirecting the process to a new global, one they didn’t even know existed. This second global file was a carbon copy of their own, but an additional routine was included to inflate the number of cytokine units by twenty-five percent. Another macro contained a few lines of code that reduced the order for the Kryfex cytokines, but the cost was unaffected. And in the final program, one she didn’t recognize at all, the additional payment was then redirected off the books, presumably into a third-party account. The accountants and auditors would never know because the net profits were unaffected. And from what Spencer knew about cost per unit for the cytokines, someone was pocketing about sixty thousand a week.
In the notebook Ruth had brought her, she began to put the pieces together.
* * *
Ruth awoke in the night, surprised to see the light still streaming under the door. It was almost 3 a.m. Getting up to check it out, she found Spencer slumped forward at the kitchen counter, her papers scattered and the notebook marked in red.
Gently, she shook the broad shoulders. "Hey, you need to go to bed."
Spencer lifted her head and looked around. She couldn’t have been asleep more than a minute or two. "I have to clean this up."
"I’ll do it. Go on back to the bedroom."
"No, I’ll get the–"
"Go on. It’s okay," she quietly insisted, gathering the papers and moving the coffee cup to the sink.
Spencer complied, and within minutes, she was sound asleep. She never even noticed when Ruth got back in bed beside her.
CHAPTER 18
THE SOUND OF cartoons — and the equally unmistakable smell of coffee — wafted down the hall and into the back bedroom, where Spencer Rollins had just enjoyed her best night’s sleep in a week. That the covers were thrown back on the opposite side of the bed was evidence that she hadn’t spent the night alone, but she might as well have, given her near-comatose state.
But it was definitely interesting that she’d been invited to share the bed, especially in light of yesterday’s revelation. Immediately, she chastised herself for any leap of logic she was tempted to make, but the warm and fuzzy feeling lingered nonetheless.
Spencer stared at the ceiling as she went over in her mind the proof that Henry had found. A second global program included a routine that inflated the number of cytokines for both the executive reports and the accountants. The full bill was paid to the supplier, who carved out the extra dollars for all of the players. Best she could tell, the players were James, Stacy Eagleton, the cytokines supplier, and the line producer in Little Rock. James was obviously expendable once the program was in place, and when he participated in Henry’s murder, he became a liability. The missing link was to the feds, the guys who wanted her dead. The only connection she could think of was that this was a federal contract.
"So you’re awake." Ruth appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand.
"Yeah." Spencer pushed herself up in the bed. She was still in last night’s t-shirt, but her jeans lay in the floor.
"Did you figure things out last night?" Ruth sat on the edge of the bed and handed her the mug.
"Thanks. I think so. I still don’t know why the feds are involved, though. I mean, it’s a federal contract, but that doesn’t explain those guys being on the take too."
"Isn’t that what your friend does? Didn’t you say she tried to find people with…what was it…ill-gotten gains?"
Spencer nodded pensively. Elena would have access to all kinds of information. She could probably figure out exactly who was involved in this.
"I need to find a way to get this stuff to her."
"Can’t you just mail it?"
Spencer shook her head. "No, these guys are probably watching her and checking her mail. I know they were tapping her phone. They’re waiting for me to contact her again, and they can’t afford to have me tell her what I know."
"Maybe…," Ruth couldn’t believe she was really going to say this, "I could take it to her."
"No way. I don’t want you involved in this." Spencer was adamant. It was too big a risk.
"Hello! I’m already involved. If these guys find you, they’re going to find you here. You think they’re just going to let me tell everybody what you told me?"
For the first time, the programmer realized with alarm the position she’d put them all in. No one was safe here, thanks to her.
"Then I need to get out of here." Quickly, she threw back the covers and grabbed her jeans.
"No! Listen to me."
Slowly, Spencer sat back down, surprised at the forcefulness of the smaller woman’s voice.
"They don’t know me. Elena doesn’t know me. Why can’t I just make an appointment with her to talk about my taxes or something and give her your stuff?"
Spencer shook her head. "She doesn’t do that kind of thing. The only people who talk to her about taxes are looking for a plea bargain."
"Well think of something else, then. But you’re not leaving, not until I know you’re going to walk out of here to someplace safe."
And that was that.
* * *
Special Agent Calvin Akers winced when he saw the lighted number on his cell phone. He dreaded the tirade that would sta
rt the instant he answered the call.
"This is Akers."
"It’s about goddamned time you took my call!"
"I’ve been in meetings," he lied.
Stacy Eagleton recognized a lie when she heard it, but she had more important nuts to squeeze. "What’s the status of Spencer Rollins?"
"We’ve got her picture out there. I just got the okay to throw in a reward, so unless she’s hiding under a rock, we’re a big step closer." He hoped that would placate the bitch.
"You better hope so! You and Pollard have a hell of a lot more at stake here than the rest of us."
Akers clicked off the phone when Eagleton ended the call. He didn’t need her reminder of what was at stake. Two people were dead at his hand, and every day that Spencer Rollins ran free, he and Pollard were more at risk.
But he was pretty sure they could stand up to scrutiny if she started making accusations. They’d put together a pretty good case: Eagleton’s commentary on her paranoia and temper; video of her fleeing the scene; they’d even managed to tamper with the gate log, showing her arriving that night before James. And speaking of James, Pollard had even thought to use one of the kitchen knives from Rollins’ apartment.
Yep, she was guilty, and they could prove it if they had to.
* * *
"This is all clear to me, Spencer. Really, I understand every word…well, except for the part about calling globals and macros. You might want to spell that out a little bit." Ruth read all six pages of Spencer’s typed account, stopping when she got to the attached sheets of code.
Spencer had worked all afternoon at Viv’s computer writing down her account of events and her theories about the players. The only link she could imagine that involved federal agents was that they had possibly done background checks for the key personnel executing the contract.
The programmer made some notes in the margin and reread the difficult section.