LOVER COME HACK

by Diane Vallere

  “Good hackers? Like Robin Hood? He’s a thief, but he’s a good thief because he stole from the rich and gave to the poor?”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “Is there a way to tell which type hacked me?”

  She tipped her head and assessed me. Her glossy brown hair swung down to the side. She reached one hand up and fed it between her hair and her neck, and then swung the sheath of it to the front of her shoulder. It was the kind of gesture that gave her the subtle air of Victoria’s Secret Model she maintained, though it was wasted on me. As soon as she did it, she seemed to realize the same thing. She pulled a gold and silver braided elastic band off her left wrist, pulled her hair back, and knotted it into a ponytail. “Let’s see if we can find out.”

  Once I got past the unease of having Nasty in my office, I found myself oddly interested in watching her work. In the time we’d known each other, she’d annoyed the heck out of me more than once, and not always by accident. Despite that, I’d never known her to be incompetent. She’d told me once that leaving the police force and starting her own security business was the best decision she’d ever made, and, frankly, in that way, we were a lot alike.

  Nasty’s fingers danced over my keyboard like a concert pianist might play a well-rehearsed concerto. I had no idea what she was doing, but I could tell she was confident about whatever it was. The screen to my computer was black with white words aligned on the left side, much like the screens that flashed on the monitor when I first booted it up. Text scrolled over the screen as she typed new commands. To me, the words were gibberish. I had an urge to enroll in a computer class myself just to prove what she was doing wasn’t all that hard. The mature part of me already knew any plan rooted in pettiness was probably a waste of time.

  “What’s this?” Nasty asked. I glanced at the screen. “Not the screen. Those sketches.” She cut her eyes away from the screen and looked at the sketchpad I’d left open on the desk.

  “Concepts for a local design competition.”

  “Where’s the property?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Kinda risky entering a competition when you don’t have a building, isn’t it?”

  Something about Nasty’s questions seemed more on point than I’d expected. The decorating and design community was close knit, and if one of my colleagues had asked the same question, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But Nasty wasn’t part of this world. I felt the same as I’d felt when Tex had brought up his familiarity with the VIP competition—like outsiders were infiltrating my life.

  “I guess this VIP competition has gotten a lot of press already,” I said. “First Tex mentioned it, and now you. I’m not used to anybody outside the design community paying attention to my work.”

  She looked up at me. “Tex told you about VIP?”

  “Tex didn’t have to tell me about VIP, but I thought I’d have to explain it to him. Turns out he already knew about it.”

  She studied me for a moment but didn’t say anything. A moment later, she turned her attention back to the screen and started clicking the keys again. She was holding something back and it bothered me, but I wasn’t going to let her know that. I’d gone the past twenty minutes without getting into a verbal sparring match with her. I didn’t need to break down now.

  I refreshed my coffee and this time added a healthy dollop of half-and-half to cut the bitterness. Effie had branched out from my usual cannister of Chock full o’ Nuts and talked me into a dark roast and my taste buds were still adjusting.

  “Madison?” Effie said from the doorway. “There’s a man here to talk to you.”

  I looked up from Nasty’s work. “A walk-in? Are we already open?” I glanced at the clock.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “His name is Detective Henning.”

  Prickles rose up along my arms and the back of my neck. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the visit from the detective, but the hacking crisis had made Jane’s murder seem like it had happened weeks ago, not yesterday. Expecting a reaction from Nasty, I looked at her.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ve got enough here to keep me distracted from whatever you’re involved in this time.” She fed her earbuds back into her ears.

  I followed Effie out front. Detective Henning stood by a wall of red kitchen appliances I’d acquired from a local bakery that had recently closed for good. The owner had kept the oven, range, stove, and broiler in use for fifty years, and while the functionality was A+, the appearance was about what you’d expect after fifty years of cupcakes and pies. After taking possession of the various pieces, I’d consulted with a local powder coater who agreed that sandblasting and paint would bring the units back to life.

  Not wanting to damage the equipment, we disassembled the units and protected the electrical and gas hookups with industrial grade plastic. I arranged to pick up the completed pieces a week later and hadn’t even recognized them when I returned to the showroom. The dull metal had been replaced with glossy red dry powder, applied electrostatically in a sealed room and then cured under hot temperatures. What I rarely admitted to clients was that I’d first learned of the technique during an episode of American Choppers.

  “Hi, Detective Henning,” I greeted the man in front of me. Today he wore a modest, forest green plaid blazer and dark trousers, white shirt, green tie. There was neither style nor sloppiness evident in his choice of clothes. I guess that’s why the department enforced a dress code—to keep citizens from judging the order of the law by ill-fitting low-rise jeans.

  “Ms. Night,” he said.

  “Call me Madison.”

  “Okay, Madison. I have a few follow-up questions about yesterday. Is there a place we can talk? Your office?”

  “I’m having some work done on my computer this morning,” I said. “Why don’t we get a cup of coffee? My employee can watch the studio.”

  “I think we’d better stay right here,” Henning said.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Follow me.” I led the way toward a small love seat and club chair arranged around an Adrian Pearsall coffee table.

  Henning surveyed the contents of my showroom. “My wife’s into IKEA,” he said. “Everything we own is square and white.” He leaned to the side and looked at the walnut table base under the thick slab of tempered glass. “She wouldn’t know where to begin with something like that.”

  “It’s a coffee table, Detective, not a Mensa quiz.”

  “Right. It’s just—those pieces fit together, but they don’t. How do you know when you did it the right way?”

  I couldn’t tell if the detective was honestly curious or if he was playing me in his version of Columbo. I was in no mood to humor him. I smiled. “I really do have pressing issues, Detective. You said you had questions about yesterday?”

  Henning nodded. “I have your statement, but there are a couple of things that don’t add up. What were you doing at Republic Tower?”

  “Yesterday was the deadline for entry in a design competition. I was there to turn in my application.”

  “Do you usually cut things so close?”

  “No. I thought my submission had already been filed, but it wasn’t. I worked on a proposal offsite and delivered it by hand to make sure it was accepted.”

  He nodded along with me as I spoke, as if our conversation was a technicality. “I thought maybe it was something like that.” He scanned the studio. “This is your only studio? You don’t have a satellite office anywhere?”

  “This is it,” I said.

  “You live near here?”

  “I used to.”

  “What about storage? You have more than what I see in here, right?”

  I felt my eyebrows draw together and forced my features to relax. These weren’t questions about what had happened yesterday. They were questions about me. I knew enough about h
ow the police worked to know they needed to establish a rapport to get a sense of what a witness was like when they were telling the truth so they had a frame of reference against someone they suspected was lying. A truth baseline, I think it was called. What I didn’t know was why Henning was treating me like I had something to hide.

  “I have a storage locker out back, additional storage in my garage, and an off-site unit.”

  “How do you manage all that inventory?”

  “Detective Henning, not that I don’t enjoy talking about my work, but what do these questions have to do with the Jane Strong murder?”

  He stared me straight in the eyes. “You claim to have spent your day working on a proposal for the VIP competition. What would that involve?”

  “My employee, Effie Jones, has been working tirelessly to get my inventory entered into an online database, which turned out to be very good for my circumstances. I spent my day working on a proposal at the Dallas Public Library and returned to Republic Tower to deliver it in person. No, it’s not ideal, but in this case, it worked.”

  “Did it?”

  “I’m not one to beat around the bush, Detective, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t either.”

  He looked down at his tie and smoothed the fabric with his hand before looking up at me again. “I’m trying to understand why you say you left Republic Tower for several hours, but the security log shows you never left the building.”

  “What about the security cameras? Surely they show me leaving.”

  “The building security is hooked up to a network and it was offline yesterday. We asked the security guard and he said he couldn’t say for sure if you’d left the premises. You claimed Ms. Strong was ill, but an early analysis of her blood and stomach contents indicate there was nothing unusual in her system. You left her alone to get help, but a witness places you in the powder room with her when she died. Do you see where I’m headed with this, Ms. Night?”

  I saw exactly where he was headed, and I wanted off the train right now. Because while the facts Detective Henning was working from weren’t inaccurate, they painted a picture that put me in a position I hadn’t experienced before.

  The position of Person of Interest.

  TEN

  Detective Henning watched me while I processed what his line of questions meant. I had left Republic Tower to work at the library, but Delbert hadn’t signed me out. He knew I’d left but instead of backing me up and admitting he’d let me leave and come back without enforcing protocol, he stood by the visitor log which said I’d been there the whole time. I’d used my phone as a hotspot while at the library, so I hadn’t needed login credentials to sign onto their internet. I’d printed and picked up my application from the librarian station, which had been vacant.

  And then there was Jane. My friend. Who was no longer my friend. And while the majority of the world didn’t know that, a few people did: Vonda, her assistant. Effie, my employee. Delbert, the security guard for Republic Tower. Anybody else who had heard us argue in the lobby of the building. That was just the people I knew. Why had she been to DIDI when she claimed to have already turned in her application? She must have had other business, and that business may have included badmouthing me.

  It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Jane’s email, but an entirely different one to realize our dirty laundry might have been aired publicly without my knowledge. And if someone else had murdered Jane in the bathroom of Republic Tower like I suspected, had they seen how easy it would have been to pin the crime on me after Jane’s and my public argument? I had to remain calm. I’d done nothing wrong, even if Henning was making me analyze my own actions as if I had.

  Before I could think of the proper way to proceed, Nasty came looking for me. She’d removed the metallic ponytail holder from her hair and the long brown locks now hung over her shoulder. I’d never imagined a situation when I’d be happy to have her hijack the male attention in the room, but there’s a first time for everything.

  “Madison,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I have another appointment and I was hoping we could finish up with that consultation.”

  Consultation? “Of course. I’ll be in my office in a moment.” I turned to Henning. “Detective, I don’t want to rush you, but I’d rather not keep my client waiting any longer.” I looked back at Nasty and she gave me the tiniest nod.

  Henning stood. “I didn’t realize I took you away from a client meeting.” He pulled out his card. “Call me if you remember anything else.”

  “And if you have any other questions?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I walked the detective to the front door. The Bickners, the elderly couple who was selling off their belongings to fund their anniversary cruise, entered as the detective left.

  “Such attractive suitors,” Mrs. Bickner said after the detective passed her. “I wouldn’t want to pick one either.” She winked.

  “You don’t have to pick one,” Mr. Bickner said. “You have me.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and they entered. Effie came into the hallway and directed them toward the same sofa where the detective and I had been seated, and Nasty followed me to my office. When we arrived, she pointed to my computer.

  “You’re back up and running,” she said.

  “You really called me back here to talk about my computer?”

  “That’s why I’m here, right?”

  “Sure.”

  Nasty picked up her phone and wound her rose gold earbuds around it. “I uploaded some malicious software removal code that restored your hard drive. The problem was a temporary virus that distracts you while a hacker gains back door access to your files.”

  “Effie told me it was like a hacker stole my key and made a copy so he could steal from my computer when I wasn’t around.”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “Can you tell where the virus came from? I’ve started using an online inventory database—”

  “It came from an email attachment. These things always do. Haven’t you ever heard not to click links in emails?”

  “I don’t click links in emails. Not unless I trust the sender.”

  That’s when I realized the last time I’d clicked a link in an email. Last night when I’d received the second email from Jane—moments before my computer had frozen. She’d returned the files we’d been working on and I’d opened them before changing my mind and trying to shut down for the night.

  “What do I owe you?” I asked.

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I’m not looking for a handout, Donna. You provided a service and I’m prepared to pay you for it.”

  “Consider it a gift. That call I just got was a city job. Same problem as you, so because you were my guinea pig, I now know my antivirus code works. Besides, you’ve got more to worry about than my bill.”

  “I thought you said my computer was fixed.”

  “It is.” She pointed to the back of my computer. “This thing hit a bunch of other people today. You were my practice run. The way the jobs are coming in, I’ll bill ten thou before six.” She flung her hair over her shoulder and left through the back door.

  Rocky chased her halfway down the hall and then came back to the office. I sat down at my desk and tapped the space bar to wake up the computer. I assumed Nasty had closed out of the active windows she’d opened to test my computer, but I’d assumed wrong. Not only had she left the internet open, she’d opened my email and left that up as well.

  And the email in question was the one from Jane Strong—the very one I suspected contained the virus that had infected my computer. Nasty now joined the short list of people who knew the truth about Jane’s and my friendship.

  Despite Nasty’s reassurances that my computer was back to normal, I spent my day working with clients in the studio. Effie’s
online inventory management system was part of a long-term plan to shift my focus from small jobs—a kitchen here, a rec room there—to bigger ones like houses, furnished apartment rentals, and quirky business offices. I didn’t expect the executive set of Dallas to suddenly flip for mid-century modern design, but the recent success of shows like The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel had made people hungry for the style without knowing what it was they wanted. It was a fine line, and I much preferred working with clients who were motivated by passion and not trend, but if I could contribute to the retro-ification of my corner of Dallas, then by golly, I was going to do it.

  Shortly after, my consultation with a couple looking to convert their newly married son’s basement apartment to a Polynesian paradise was interrupted by a phone call. Effie took and delivered the message.

  “Captain Allen just called. He’s getting caught up on paperwork at the station, and if you wanted to repaint his townhouse, now’s a good time to do it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The man acts like a proximity to lilac is going to counter his testosterone.”

  Effie looked up at me. “You painted Captain Allen’s spare bedroom lilac?”

  “What’s wrong with lilac? My living room is lilac.”

  “Yes, but most people aren’t as colorful as you.”

  I rolled my eyes, clipped on Rocky’s leash, and we left.

  Tex’s townhouse was in the Uptown neighborhood of Dallas. It was on the end of a six-unit building with three floors plus a rooftop deck. He’d lucked into the last available unit when the builders were looking to close out their sales and offered him a special price with a ten-thousand-dollar deposit. Tex, being a lifelong bachelor whose biggest monthly expenses were the dinners he bought while wooing potential female companions, had built up a tidy savings account, and he wrote out a check. I’d known Tex for three years, yet he’d only recently invited me into his home. That was the day he laid his cards on the table and told me he was interested in a relationship.