by Lee Winter
“He’s useless,” Catherine said in resignation, throwing her phone down. “He said there was no clue the order wasn’t legitimate. No clue? Twenty pizzas, all with identically weird toppings? I give up. People used to be smarter. I’m certain of it.”
“The Internet age has dumbed everyone down,” Lauren agreed, picking the anchovy and pineapple off her pie, then taking a tentative bite.
With a moody look, Catherine asked: “How can you eat that? It’ll still taste of the base ingredients.”
“It beats starving while we find out what fresh hell Lionel’s putting us through.” She wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “I take it your credit cards are still good?”
“Yes. No change. I have alerted the bank to be aware though, just in case.”
“Good.” Lauren studied her. “You doing okay? You’re not going to spiral into a catatonic state of despair on me, are you?” she teased. “I know the assholes in the human race can invoke that in you.”
“Not right now.” Catherine waved at the pizza. “The smell of garlic will keep me conscious.”
Lauren was laughing when her phone rang yet again. She checked the name on her screen. “It’s my boss, Theo,” she said, hitting the Accept button.
“King? Some reason I have a large number of concerned members of the public up in my ear today suggesting you be fired? Something about you being a streetwalker, a dope dealer, and a corrupter of children?”
Corrupter of children? That was a new one. Lauren grimaced. “Someone’s trying to harass me.”
“I gathered. I know a call-in campaign when I see it,” Theo said. “So, who are you pissing off?”
“It’s connected to something I’m working on. A story sort of fell in my lap. Things have been going crazy ever since. My cards have been canceled. Bills that I’ve paid are being emailed to me again. My Facebook page has been hacked.”
“Sorry, kid, you’ve obviously been doxed. Someone, somewhere, is getting people online to make your life hell.” He paused, and then his voice lifted in obvious interest when he said, “Must be big if this is the response. Look, I’m gonna put you in contact with one of our in-house lawyers. She’ll explain your options and will wave a few lawyer letters around to hurry up with content takedowns on social media. You can fill her in on the story, too. I’d ask for the details now, but my staff news briefing’s about to start. Oh, and remember the best way to make this go away is to write your story. The spotlight shifting to the harasser usually results in them getting too busy with the fallout to continue a smear campaign.”
“Thanks, Theo. But my story isn’t nearly ready yet.”
“Then make it ready. G’bye.”
Lauren sighed and dropped her phone on the bed. What if there never was anything to file? They had nothing. A few screenshots about a secret business? So what? It wasn’t exactly illegal to offer dodgy suggestions to companies wanting to screw over competitors.
Fake Mexican illegal immigrants? And?
How did that even fit anything?
The worst part was that Lauren could hear the hope leaking from Theo’s voice, like his bet on hiring her was about to pay off.
Great. No pressure.
It took another hour, but the social media accounts were fixed, thanks to the Washington Post’s lawyer. But for every mess sorted, a new one took its place.
Raised voices were coming from the workshop. Catherine glanced around to see Lauren already bolting down the stairs. She headed to the window. An unfamiliar luxury car was parked in the driveway. Walking back to it from the workshop was a squat, balding man in an expensive suit.
She was sure she’d seen him on the news somewhere.
When Lauren burst outside, his step faltered, expression unreadable.
Catherine took off down the stairs at a fast clip. She reached Lauren’s side just as the man drew level with her.
“So, the prodigal daughter returns,” he said to Lauren, reaching his car. “I remember when you came up to my knee.”
“And I remember when you and Dad were friends, Mayor Wilcox. And that was only a few days ago,” Lauren countered. “What was all the shouting about?”
“Your boys seemed to take a poor view of a decision I made. I’ve just explained to Owen that I’ll send someone around to pick up my other car that he’s been fixing, ready or not. For… reasons.”
Lauren gave him a hard look. “Political reasons?”
“It’s all over the Internet this morning that your dad’s running a drug den. And you…” His face darkened. “Well, I suppose you know what they’re saying about you. It’s unfair, I know, but I can’t be seen to be supporting anything like that.”
“Dad’s serviced your car for years! Come on, you know the truth about us. You know this is all bull. Someone’s smearing us.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Lauren, it’s not personal.”
“I’d say it’s pretty personal when you turn your back on Dad like this. Take the side of liars over him.”
“I know it’s baloney, but come on, you know the deal. Perception beats truth. That goes double for politicians. I don’t make the rules, but they’re a fact of life. With my approval ratings being what they are right now, I can’t afford the risk the other side will use this against me.” He looked pained as he opened his car door. “I really am sorry. I hope your father will see it from my side when things are all a bit calmer.”
“That’s so weak.”
He spun around to face Catherine, the source of the cutting line.
“Excuse me?” He glared.
“Mayor Wilcox,” she said, her voice deceptively soft. “Owen King is far too polite to do anything about this, so let me pass along a promise. If anyone in your team implies there’s any truth to these lies, or does anything other than suggest that it’s a smear campaign, then I know a lot of overcharging DC lawyers who’ll hang you out to dry. And I’d make it happen on the national news.”
He peered at her in disbelief. “And you are?”
“Catherine Ayers.”
His face paled. “The Caustic…ah, White House reporter lady?”
Catherine folded her arms. “Yes. Are we clear? You’ll stand by this family?”
The mayor scowled before gritting his teeth and giving a faint nod. He climbed into the car and slammed the door with the mutter of bitch under his breath. After starting the engine, he burned back up the drive with a squeal of tires.
“You know,” Lauren said quietly, “I must have missed something in Journalism 101, but why would the national media give two hoots about some mayor in Iowa and a bunch of gossip about a mechanic?”
“They wouldn’t.” Catherine looked suddenly sheepish. “I was just banking on the fact the mayor wasn’t aware of that.”
“You were bluffing? You nearly had me convinced.”
“That was the point.”
Owen appeared at the door of the garage and ambled slowly over. He flicked his eyes up at Lauren. “Apparently, I’m running a drug ring,” he said when he got within earshot. “And am of immoral fiber. I don’t suppose you two know anything about that?”
Lauren sneaked a glimpse at Catherine.
“That’s what I thought.” He sighed. “Politics, huh?” He shook his head. “Don’t bother explaining, I see what’s going on.” He turned and made his way back to the workshop, shoulders slumped.
Catherine eyed Lauren, who looked ill, watching him go. “It’s not your fault,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” She gave Catherine a grim look. “I’m the one who tried to play with fire and pissed off your dad this much. He did exactly what he said he would.”
“Then that makes this his fault, not yours.”
Lauren bit her lip. “Seriously, I’ve never seen my father that mad. I think we should steer clear of him for a little bit.” Her phone ping
ed. She pulled it from her pocket and scrolled through the new messages. “Oh, awesome. I’ve been signed up for the Scientologists’ newsletter.” She scrolled down her inbox and stopped dead. “Oh no!” She flipped the screen around to Catherine. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Catherine’s eyes tightened as she read.
Dear Ms. King and Ms. Ayers,
Thank you for your email canceling your wedding at the Jumping Frog on November 18. We understand plans change, and we appreciate the notice. However, be advised, your deposit is non-refundable as per the paperwork you signed earlier this week. Thank you.
Evelyn Reid,
Manager
The Jumping Frog
“No!” Lauren said, stabbing out the number on her phone. “They can’t do this!”
“Maybe it’s not too late?” Catherine frowned. “When did she send the email?”
“A couple of hours ago!”
Lauren began talking to the manager, her wide eyes fixed on Catherine. She ended the call, expression dropping.
“Not good?” Catherine asked.
“They’ve already given our booking away to another couple. But, because this wasn’t our choice and they’ve filled the slot already, she’s agreed to give us our deposit back. She says she’s sorry.” Lauren frowned. “How is someone doing all this? How can anyone know who we booked with?”
Catherine studied Lauren, then glanced at her phone. Then back at her. “Lauren, it’s your cell.”
“What?”
“It all started after we went to the Fixers site, using your phone.”
“Yes…but we didn’t do anything there…” She stopped. “Oh. We downloaded a PDF.”
“Mm. I’m thinking it wasn’t just a PDF. Maybe it contains some sort of embedded hacking software?”
“Or spying software?” Lauren stared at her phone in dismay. “That means everything on this is compromised…every personal email.” She swallowed. “My bank details… I’ve done banking on this since we hit the Fixers’ site.”
“I’ve heard of this… It’s some sort of keylogger program? It records everything you type. That’s how they learn passwords, gain access to email accounts, everything.”
A note-writing app suddenly opened on Lauren’s phone screen.
Slow clap. I was wondering how long it would take you, Lauren King.
They stared at the message. Hesitantly, Lauren bent over her phone and wrote a reply.
Who is this?
This level of cluelessness I suppose I should expect from the mainstream media. Heads well and truly up their asses. I had to laugh at you suspecting poor Lionel. I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out by now. Rome is burning. Wake up.
Rome? Lauren typed back.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Try to learn a little history every now and then.
“You know, that’s actually a myth about Nero,” Catherine noted in the interest of accuracy. “It’s impossible because the violin wasn’t invented for another 1,500 years after the fire.”
Lauren’s exasperated look made Catherine clap her mouth shut. Lauren typed a reply.
What do you want?
You touch my things, I break your things. And not just your things. Give my regards to Cat. I know how much she loves that name.
Catherine’s breath caught at that last line. Who knew that? A better question was: Who didn’t? She told everyone not to call her that.
“What do we do now?” Lauren’s voice rose.
Catherine grabbed Lauren’s phone and whipped out the battery. For good measure, she removed the SIM card, too, and tossed it on the ground. They both stared at the phone parts, as though waiting for them to sprout wings.
“He had to have been listening in on our conversations,” Catherine said. “We only ever spoke of suspecting Lionel, never wrote anything in an email. There’s no other explanation.”
“He’s been spying using the phone’s microphone?” Lauren blinked. “Or maybe even watching us. On the phone camera?”
“Yes.” Distaste filled Catherine. “Our cyber stalker always seemed to know exactly what we were up to. That’s how.”
“Shit.”
She said it with such venom that Catherine’s head snapped up. “Lauren, we’ve found the source of our problems; they won’t recur.”
“Not that.” Lauren’s expression was bleak. “Where the hell are we going to get married now?”
Catherine headed out to the wooden bench facing the backyard, bearing the iPad as well as a notepad and pen—“old school,” she joked when Lauren joined her.
Lauren brought out a pair of coffees, a frown, and a sinking feeling. “What do we know?” she asked after a sip. “I mean, we’ve pissed off someone who’s accusing us of touching his things. So, he means when we hacked the Fixers’ site, yes?”
“Most likely.” Catherine opened the screenshot of the PDF on her phone of the Fixers staff list. “And only two people on the staff list know us. Michelle, a political expert, and Lesser, an IT expert.” She tapped his entry.
“I feel a bit stupid. Lesser is right to mock us. Sorry I jumped to conclusions about your dad.”
“He’s only innocent this time. It’s not unreasonable to assume he might show off his power.”
“He does love to brag about breaking the rules.” Lauren peered at her willow tree in the distance. “So why is Lesser warning us off? Or is it just about punishment because we trespassed?”
“The latter does seem to fit with what you’ve said about him.”
“Yeah. So, what now?” Lauren asked.
“We ask ourselves, yet again, how does everyone link together? Hickory, Ansom, Lesser, Michelle, the FBI.”
“Michelle and Lesser work together at the Fixers,” Lauren said, ticking off a mental list. “Michelle knew ahead of time what was happening with the Mexican stunt—a stunt which clearly helps Ansom and its chip—so Ansom’s probably a client. That fits with the fact its CEO loves to break rules. The Mexican thing, hell—now we’ve seen what the Fixers get up to, it was probably Michelle’s idea all along to get publicity for the chip.”
Catherine nodded. “Agreed. It’s sneaky enough. And the FBI’s connection?”
“No idea. Maybe they’re really just interested observers like it said in that story.”
“Diane thinks otherwise, though. But we can’t just ask the director what he’s really up to,” Catherine said. “So that just leaves Senator Hickory, A low-tech politician who promotes Ansom’s high-tech gear but isn’t getting anything we can see for it. Why do I find that so hard to believe? Everyone else is up to their necks in this, all interconnected. What is the deal he made?”
“We could just up and ask him? ‘Hey, Hicks, what’s the dirt on you and Ansom? Oh, hey, are you in with the Fixers, too?’”
“Well, why don’t we?” Catherine suddenly said. “The man’s as transparent as a tapeworm and about as smart. One look at his face and we’ll know the truth.”
“Right. We do it in person, then.” Lauren flicked through her notes. “His home address came up in the pecuniary interests search I did on him earlier. His place isn’t even that far from here.” She mentally flicked through which brother’s truck they’d borrow. Maybe Matty’s. Good suspension. Or Kitten? She did love that old restored Chevy.
Catherine gazed at her, an odd expression on her face.
“What?” Lauren asked, still distracted.
“It occurs to me that we’re not doing a whole lot in the way of planning a wedding,” she said quietly. “Or looking at any new venues.”
“Oh. No, we’re not.” Lauren met her gaze, wondering if that meant something terrible. “Are you thinking it’s a sign or something?”
A laugh slipped from Catherine. “It’s a sign we’re more excited about pursuing our story than figuring out the place
settings, or whether to go with chicken or fish. That’s not too terrible for a pair of news reporters, surely.”
Lauren grinned. “No. And it’s not like we’re out of time to wedding plan—it’s just, you know, this is happening right now. So maybe let’s just procrastinate a little longer and see what Hickory has to say.”
Catherine’s smile widened. “I approve that plan.”
“Maybe it’ll go better now that Lesser’s done messing with us. I mean, once the bad guy gloats, that’s supposed to be the end of it, right?” Lauren’s eyes were hopeful.
“True. In movies. I’m just grateful he hasn’t found his way into my gadgets. Nonetheless, it can’t get any worse than losing the only wedding venue we both really liked.”
“Are you insane?” Lauren looked at her in horror. “Touch wood when you tempt the Fates like that!” She pointed at their wooden bench.
With a spectacular eye roll, Catherine dutifully knocked on wood. “I swear you have more eccentricities than a Vegas millionaire.”
“I can’t help it. All athletes are superstitious—it’s how we win games. Besides, you love me anyway.” She offered her a baleful stare.
With a tiny quirk of her lips, Catherine said, “That is true. And I trust you know why now.”
Lauren leaned against her and smiled. “Yes. I do.”
Chapter 18 –
The Woman at the Lake
“What if Hickory’s already back in DC?” Catherine asked as they pulled up at the senator’s property with a bounce and a squeak in Owen’s inglorious death machine, Kitten.
“You only just thought to ask that now?” Lauren turned off the motor. She jumped out, slammed the door, and twirled the keys around her finger.