The Red Files

by Lee Winter

  Lauren and Ayers stared at it.

  “Okay, so this particular dongle is an authentication device we call a SmartKey.”

  He dropped it back on the production line and led them into an office with a computer, a stack of papers, and motivational posters lining the walls about inspiration and perspiration.

  Reese sat down, opened a locked drawer, and pulled out another dongle. “This is my own SmartKey dongle. So what does it do, you ask? Let’s say you’ve just been paid your wages into your SmartPay account, and you want to use our optional extra services to pay your bills securely. This little guy means you can do that and cannot be hacked. Impossible.”

  He held up the dongle to the light.

  “This end plugs into any home computer or mobile device—you just use the correct attachment.” He plugged it into his laptop. “And the slot at the other end reads the chip in the corner of your SmartPay employee card.”

  Lauren said, “Let me guess, is it called SmartCard?”

  He flashed her a delighted smile. “Well now, have you been reading our informational material? As it so happens, it is.”

  He opened his wallet and pulled out a plastic card with his SmartPay ID on it. In one corner was a hologram with the company logo.

  He slid his employee card into the dongle’s slot. A tiny green light came on.

  “Now my payroll card and the dongle have just given each other a little electronic handshake, so all I have to do is log into SmartPay’s banking site using my unique password.”

  He tapped some keys, hit enter, and added cheerfully, “There. We’re now all set to pay our bills.” He smiled proudly. “Cannot be hacked,” he repeated, tapping the SmartKey gadget.

  “So far we have 35,000 SmartPay USA users on our system, and not one has ever been hacked or had their identities fraudulently used.” He looked at them expectantly. “Did you want to write that down? 35,000.” He waited.

  Lauren twitched her pen listlessly over her notepad which seemed to satisfy him.

  “Any questions?” he asked hopefully.

  “Aren’t you just a bank in disguise?” Lauren suggested.

  “Oh no, not at all,” Reese said as he logged off and locked away his dongle. “We primarily do payroll systems with a few optional financial perks for members. Think of us as payroll friends with benefits.” He looked at them expectantly. “Now—would you like our media pack? What am I thinking? Of course you would!”

  “Sure,” Ayers said, the sarcasm lost on him. She dutifully accepted the hefty folder, stamped with SmartPay USA: Paying The Future Today.

  Lauren peered over Ayers’s shoulder. “Some light reading for tonight,” she said.

  Reese nodded. “Oh indeed.”

  “By the way, what if SmartPay users want some cash?” Lauren asked.

  “Oh that’s easy. At every site using SmartPay, we install an ATM and service it. It’s part of the contract. And we install at least one in any city or town center that is located near a SmartPay affiliated business.”

  “You don’t share ATMs with other banking institutions?” Lauren said.

  “Absolutely not. It’s part of our security promise to customers. We’re not like the rest—our ATMs are unique. Want to see?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but led them outside to a vast manicured grassy square and pointed to a cash machine on the far side.

  “An added security feature is that only the person whose photo is on their SmartCard can withdraw money,” Reese said. “There is a small camera on each ATM that will scan the user and compare it to its database of employee photos. It’s ingenious. It can ‘see’ through sunglasses, bandages, and different hair styles and hats. Oh and the best part—who needs a PIN to remember? Not us! Just slot your card in and say cheese!

  “We’ve had enquiries from security companies all over the world to purchase the standalone recognition technology, and LAX is particularly interested because it sees through disguises and could help them spot the bad guys. It’s quite a coup.”

  As they got closer, Lauren could see the small eye of a camera at nose level jutting out from the machine. She leaned in to look at it and heard a mechanical whir as it focused on her features. She scowled at it. A red cross appeared on screen with the words User Not Recognized. Try Again.

  A wailing siren sounded behind her which made Lauren leap back in fright. Her heart rate rocketed to dizzying speeds, and she swallowed a curse. Reese gave her a curious look.

  “Whoa! Steady on there, Ms. King. It’s just the lunch horn. But I’d step back if I were you. Today’s payday.”

  The trio stood aside and watched as workers from all parts of the building swarmed on their location like yellow and blue ants. Men and women in overalls with plastic protective boot coverings spilled out from the factory floor, and many headed for the machine.

  Lauren watched the line of employees shuffling forward; each waited for facial recognition, inserted a card, then withdrew cash.

  “Creatures of habit,” Reese sighed, watching the line inch forward. “Our online payment and e-services are so much more convenient and efficient, but people are people. There’s always a stubborn group unwilling to embrace all the benefits of the future.”

  He suddenly grinned. “But, hey, that reminds me—let me show you the staff cafeteria. That’s cutting edge, too. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with what they’ve done with the state of the art condiment dispensers. We’ve had queries about these from every major fast-food chain in the nation.”

  * * *

  “Thank god that’s over,” Lauren sighed an hour later as she gratefully sank into her car seat. “That man’s excitement over condiments and dongles was insane.”

  “Oh I don’t know—automated sauce dispensers could be the future, King,” Ayers said and suppressed a yawn. “I swear, though, used car lots have more soul than that place. And that dumbed-down PowerPoint presentation with the singing cartoon employees sucked a year out of my life.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren agreed and started the engine. “I’ve got that damned jingle stuck in my brain.”

  As they hit the outskirts of town, she nudged Ayers who seemed barely awake.

  “Hey. It’s almost four. Where to now?”

  Ayers sat up straighter.

  “We may as well head back to the hotel. I have to update Neil on how we’re doing. You should probably check in with Frank, too, just to keep you on his good side. And let’s split the SmartPay material in half and read up on all the fine print.”

  Lauren nodded. “Good idea. Why don’t we find somewhere halfway decent for dinner tonight and compare notes.”

  “All right,” Ayers said. “I’ll leave the restaurant choice up to you.” She closed her eyes again.

  Lauren nodded. “Right. Can do.”

  * * *

  Dinner was at Mamma’s, a cosy Italian place opposite a small casino. But Lauren didn’t hold that against it. All two online reviewers had given it four stars, and she was sold on the fact there were no plastic tablecloths. All class.

  Small red jars with candles inside and the delicious smell of garlic greeted them as they entered and headed for a booth.

  “Not bad, King,” Ayers said as they settled in. Her lips twitched. “I must admit, I half expected you to choose somewhere with all three courses served on the same tray.”

  “I don’t like to be a cliché all the time,” Lauren said. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

  After they’d ordered, Lauren and Ayers compared notes.

  “I’ve been studying all the numbers on that Booze, Booze, Booze purchase order,” Lauren said. She tapped the page. “I think this line is the government account that the payment was made from. What else could it be?”

  “I agree.”

  “And there’s a code there, too. RF814. No clue what that means. I’d love to find out.”

  “I’m fairly certain that’s exactly what the thugs are trying to prevent. Why else go after the paper tr
ail?” Ayers asked. “I don’t suppose your Nevada government friend Jonathan Sands could explain that code number for us?”

  “He’d probably mock the question as sensationalist journalism or something, and remind me again of our incompetence. But I guess I could ask.”

  She shuffled through more of her notes.

  “Okay, I also read SmartPay’s fineprint,” Lauren said. “That’s an hour off my life I’ll never get back. And it was all pretty straightforward, but the stuff about their bank was confusing.”

  “How so?”

  “The interest rates are good on the saving account. There are no fees at all that I could find. They offer mortgages and personal loans at a rate so competitive I kept looking for the asterisk. I never found it. So…uh…why?”

  “Well, well,” Ayers said. “How shrewd.”

  “What?”

  “Only SmartPay businesses and employees can use that bank and access all those bonuses; is that correct?”

  “Yeah. It’s a perk of being with them.”

  “So it’s a double-pronged assault—it means they’ll crush any competitors in the payroll market who only offer payroll services. Who’ll want only payroll services when they can get dirt-cheap banking thrown in? And it also seems likes an attempted takeover of the financial sector by stealth.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well everyone gets paid. So if SmartPay’s bank retains even half of all wages in its accounts because people either can’t be bothered to transfer their wages into other banks or they like the deals on offer, then they will be the country’s top financial titan in short order. This start-up has the potential to transform the entire banking landscape.”

  “So it’s going to be huge in no time?” Lauren bit into some garlic bread and chewed, thinking. “Should we be afraid?”

  “So much power in one corporation? And it’s growing so rapidly? When has that ever been a good idea?”

  “Hell,” Lauren said quietly. “I think we’ve just met a corporate T-Rex, disguised as a friendly nanny goat.”

  Ayers smirked. “You and your goats.”

  Lauren glared, but without any real menace. Which only made Ayers laugh that low husky laugh that did weird things to Lauren’s stomach. She quickly changed the subject.

  They spent the next half hour going back and forth on the ramifications of SmartPay’s business methods. Was it a story?

  Lauren suggested that an employer forcing all of its staff to have an account with SmartPay’s bank just to receive their wages sounded illegal even if they could transfer all their pay out to their preferred bank or just take it out in cash. What if they didn’t want to do that?

  “Tell that to Walmart,” Ayers said. “It was in the news recently—they now automatically sign up any staff member who has no bank account to the financial institution of Walmart’s choosing, and they issue them a debit card with their wages on it. There is a precedent.”

  “So this isn’t a story then,” Lauren said. “Besides, SmartPay cornering the banking sector is not nearly as exciting as its weird launch involving a room full of prostitutes and some missing booze.”

  “Sad but true. By the way, Neil loves that we’ve got Dan willing to talk about a busload of working girls dressed up to party,” Ayers said of their editor. “That impressed him more than getting the invoice.”

  “Great,” Lauren said. “Well Frank wanted to know, and I quote, ‘What the hell are you two doing at the Grand Millennium?’ He may have said some other things—I was holding the phone away from my ear at the time.”

  “Well, tell him to talk to me after our exclusive appears,” Ayers said, unperturbed.

  They moved onto the main course. Lauren worked her way through her spaghetti marinara, using the opportunity to study Ayers.

  She was classy, it was true. Dignified. Refined. A blue blood, exactly as Athena had noted. She really couldn’t hide that. Lauren’s mind shifted back to the night of the SmartPay launch. She had been breathtaking in that emerald dress, with diamonds dripping from her ears. But then there was her celebrity accessory for the evening. On her arm was a no-name actor, all jaw and beach tan, who liked to pick up random men for a quickie.

  Lauren would expect Ayers to be dating someone in the same league as her at least. What had those two even found to talk about?

  “How long were you dating Tad?” she blurted.

  Ayers’s eyes became hooded. “Why do you ask?”

  Lauren shrugged. “We’re just talking.”

  “Then no comment.”

  Lauren sighed. “You’re really lousy at friendly conversation, you know that, right?”

  “Who says we’re friends?” Ayers replied.

  “Geez. Ouch.”

  Lauren grimly planted her fork in her spaghetti and began to twirl. There was a heavy silence.

  “I didn’t mean it quite that way,” Ayers said uneasily after a moment.

  “There’s a nice way to tell someone they’re not friend material?”

  “It’s not that. I just think what’s the point?” Ayers said, studying her salad intently. She glanced at Lauren. “I’ll be free of my contract soon. Why bother making friends here when I’ll be gone soon enough?”

  “How very practical of you,” Lauren countered, “forcing yourself not to get friendly with anyone in LA for the eighteen months you had left on your contract. Come on, that’s just ridiculous. Who does that?”

  “I have friends.” Ayers folded her arms. The room temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. “Not at the Daily Sentinel, true. Most are back in Washington.”

  “I thought no one wanted anything to do with you after your career went ass up.”

  “Charming.” Ayers’s cool gaze latched onto Lauren’s in the shadowy candle light. “Well come on—you’ve been dying to ask. Everyone is. Get it off your chest.”

  “I know about that big story you wrote,” Lauren studied her pensively. “The crooked judges and politicians. It was incredible.” She paused. “Until it was all revealed to be a lie.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was harsh and cold. “A lie.”

  Lauren felt pinned under the gaze and decided it was too late now to back out.

  “I was told everyone you knew immediately ditched you as toxic.”

  “No,” Ayers said, lips thinning. “Not everyone. I admit it was a curious exercise discovering who would stand by me behind the scenes and who would instantly throw me to the wolves.”

  “But no one openly supported you?”

  Ayers regarded her. She looked at her meal and pushed her plate away with a sour look. “No,” she said finally. “None openly.”

  “Right,” Lauren said. “So they’re not really your friends.”

  Ayers leaned forward. “You don’t understand all that happened. Or why.”

  “No I don’t. But does that make me wrong?”

  Ayers said nothing. Finally she picked up her fork and played with the food on the plate she’d pushed aside, expression flat.

  “So is the real reason you don’t make friends anymore is that you don’t trust friendship now?”

  Ayers nailed her with a sharp look. “Now you’re making assumptions. It causes problems.”

  “Is that what happened with your story? Did you make assumptions about something? Or someone?”

  “I’m not going to discuss how it happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t push it, King. I mean it.”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “No, you’re not,” Ayers said and dropped her fork onto her plate. “You’re just like the rest of them. You want your curiosity sated. You want to know how the high-and-mighty Caustic Queen could fuck things up so badly.”

  “I—”

  “I’m a cautionary tale, or an object of scorn. Or worse, someone to pity. And I’m over it. Then and now. This topic is closed.”

  Lauren took a steadying sip of her wine, then placed it gently on the tabl
e. “I’m not just curious,” she said. “And I’m not them. I also think you got completely screwed.”

  “Of course I did,” Ayers snapped. “When was the last time you saw a male bureau chief publicly humiliated the way I was? Put on gossip writing for god’s sake! Given that mocking column name—Ayers and Graces. Name one man treated like that in the history of journalism!

  “I’ll save you the trouble, King. There isn’t one. Anyone in the good ol’ boys club, their paper would have had their back. Would have issued a statement saying it was my first significant mistake in an exemplary career and that they supported me a hundred percent.”

  Her eyes flashed with indignation. “You wanted to know why I never resigned? Why I didn’t just crawl away somewhere else and do any job but this?”

  “Yes,” Lauren whispered.

  “Because it’s their shame, not mine. Theirs. My mere existence in that job rubs their noses in what they did and tells everyone in the industry what sort of man our new publisher is. His misogyny and cruelty are on display to the entire industry every time my byline appears on some shallow party story.

  “And even if he doesn’t care how it looks, and even if the entire industry doesn’t judge him for it, there’s another reason. I know what the Boy King really wants, and I’m damn well not going to give it to him.

  “Harrington wants me to resign so he won’t have to be remembered as the imbecile who fired the journalist who broke more stories than all his other reporters combined. My demotion was designed to force me to break my contract—the extra humiliation was just a bonus for the bastard. Well to hell with that. I won’t give him the easy out. And I go when I say. Not before.”

  She glared, daring Lauren to challenge her.

  “I get it,” Lauren said quietly. “And good for fucking you.”

  Ayers started.

  “I mean it,” Lauren said. “Screw all the ungrateful bastards who loved you when you were bringing in scoop after scoop and selling tens of thousands more papers on the back of your award-winning scandal series.