Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 04 - A Deadly Change of Power

by Gina Cresse

  Uncle Doug watched with guarded curiosity as I logged into the Internet and began navigating to the web sites of most of the major oil companies. I looked for links to contact names, or better yet, e-mail addresses of employees within the companies.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  “I’m compiling a list of e-mail addresses. As many as I can.”

  “Why?”

  I continued clicking on the links, writing down names. “I’m going to send them a message.”

  “A message?” he asked, confused.

  “Yes. And attached to the message will be a special program. A Trojan horse. I’ll disguise it as something else, so they won’t be afraid of it.”

  “Disguise it?” he continued, taking a seat next to me.

  “Yes. I’ll make it look like a harmless text file. Maybe some warning not to lick envelopes, or sit in movie theater seats, or talk to strangers in shopping-mall parking lots. Doesn’t matter. I just need them to open it.”

  “What happens once they open it?” he asked.

  “The Trojan horse will install itself on their computer. It’ll give me backdoor access to their system. I’ll hunt around for the files I need, download what I want, then remove the Trojan so they’ll never even know they’ve been hacked.”

  “Won’t a virus checker stop it?” Uncle Doug asked, looking more concerned than ever.

  “Not this one. It’s a scrap file. Most virus checkers don’t scan for these,” I explained.

  I finished compiling my list of e-mail addresses and began my fishing expedition—casting out the message and hoping a good percentage of the recipients would take the bait by double-clicking on the file attachment. I used the name of the United States Surgeon General as the sender, and the subject line read: Urgent warning about health risks and exposure to petroleum products.

  Employees from four of the major companies were curious enough to at least open the file attachment I sent. I was able to gain access to General Oil, Chevport, Extan, and Shoal. Once in their systems, I simply had to locate the accounts payable and payroll tables. Since all the companies I’d targeted used one of three major software packages available for large process manufacturing plants, locating the tables was not difficult. The table names were intuitive, to make system maintenance manageable. I copied the vendor master tables, accounts payable history tables, employee tables and payroll history tables to my laptop.

  The whole process took most of the day. I checked my watch as I packed up my laptop. “I better hurry. Craig will be waiting for me at the marina.”

  “I’ll give you a lift. I’m ready to close up shop here. Just let me lock up,” Uncle Doug offered.

  This time, it was Ronnie and Jake’s turn to fix dinner. They’d spent the morning fishing, so their catch became our meal. Craig stood by in the kitchen to help direct them to the utensils they’d need.

  I got busy transferring the data I’d downloaded from the oil companies’ servers into my own database. I converted the data from the various formats into common schemas so I could perform comparisons on each of the columns.

  After dinner, Craig took Ronnie and Jake out on the deck to look at the stars. I went back to work on my project. I started by comparing the employee tables from all the companies. I wanted to know if any of them shared a common employee—someone on the payroll to do their dirty work. I compared names, addresses, birth dates, and social security numbers. I found a few employees who’d worked for several of the oil companies over the years, but their employment dates didn’t overlap. It looked like they left one company to work for another. Not unusual, I thought.

  Ronnie, Jake, and Craig came in from outside when their jackets were no longer able to fend off the chill.

  “Any luck?” Ronnie asked as she plopped down in a chair next to me and gazed at the computer screen.

  “Not yet,” I answered. “But I still have to check the vendor and accounts payable tables.”

  “What are you looking for?” Jake asked.

  “A common denominator. Something they all share,” I explained.

  “How do you do that?” Ronnie asked.

  I felt somehow proud that I actually knew something that Ronnie didn’t. She was a genius in my eyes, and up until now, I felt rather dim in her presence.

  “Here. I’ll show you.” I executed a query to compare vendor names from all the companies. Whenever it found the same name in more than one table, it would return a row to the screen.

  Craig and Jake moved around to get a better look.

  Craig read the names as they displayed on the screen. “A T and T, Airborne, Fed Ex, Federal Express, United Airlines, United Parcel Service, UPS. Why are some listed more than once?”

  “Because these companies spell the names out, and those companies use acronyms or abbreviations. Any variations will produce separate results,” I explained.

  Ronnie studied the list. “Those weren’t UPS delivery men the other night at your house.”

  “I know,” I said. “You would expect to see these vendors being used for most American companies. There’s nothing surprising here.”

  “So that’s it? You’re done?” Jake asked.

  “Not hardly. We still have to compare contact names, phone numbers, vendor addresses, remit to addresses, deliver from addresses, and tax ID numbers,” I said.

  “How long will that take?” Ronnie asked.

  “Not long, providing I enter my query correctly.”

  There were no surprises when I queried the contact names. I also specifically looked for Charlie Johnston, Jack Pearle, Pianalto, and Hollers. No matches were found.

  I didn’t get any hits comparing the vendor addresses, the deliver from addresses or the tax IDs. I saved the remit to addresses for last, because that’s where I felt we had the best chance of finding something. That’s where the money goes. I started first by including two addresses, city, state, and zip code in my comparison. There were no results returned. Then, I dropped one of the addresses. Still no results. When I excluded both addresses, as I suspected, hundreds of rows were returned. Every vendor in every major city in the country came up in the list. I sorted the results by city and began the tedious task of looking for a common thread.

  Atlanta—nothing. Austin—nothing. Baltimore—nothing. Boston—nothing. Chicago—nothing. Dallas—nothing. Denver—nothing. Then, we all read the next city name aloud. “Graeagle?”

  “Where’s Graeagle?” Jake asked.

  “California. Up north,” I said. “It’s a little retirement community in the Sierras. Golf courses, country clubs, lots of rich old geezers.”

  “And rich young yuppies,” Craig added.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Ronnie said.

  “I only know about it because my Uncle Doug owns a house up there. He rents it out most of the year. He lets me use it whenever I feel like I want to escape the congestion of the big city. It’s a beautiful place.”

  Craig studied the list closer. “Seems a little strange that all these big oil companies would have business with different entities in such a secluded little place.”

  “I agree,” I said. I reprocessed the query, limiting the results to include only Graeagle, and then printed the list. All the company addresses were post-office boxes. No physical addresses were recorded.

  “All four oil companies had relationships with four different businesses in Graeagle. Let’s see what kind of money we’re talking about,” I said as I formulated another query to search the accounts payable history table for total dollar amounts paid to each of the four businesses in the tiny town. I pressed the “GO” button and waited for the results.

  “Holy cow,” I said as the amounts scrolled up the screen. “Look at this. In the last fiscal year, each of these outfits received over five million dollars from their respective oil company. What in the world do they do for that kind of money?”

  Craig read down the list. “CCI? IMI? Elite Incorporated? Power Makers Corporatio
n? I can’t tell from the company names what sort of businesses they are.”

  I typed in another query. “I think I can take care of that. We’ll look at individual checks. Hopefully, they put some sort of notations on the ledger distribution. The accountants hate it when they don’t document things.”

  I submitted the query and hundreds of rows scrolled up the screen. I found the column I’d named “Comments” and began reading down the list. “Television shoots? Magazine interviews? Ads? Commercials? These are all public relations companies, I think.”

  Jake pounded his fist down on the arm of the chair. “That’s it! That’s where I’ve seen Hollers before,” he exclaimed. “They’d been filming.”

  “Who was filming?” Ronnie asked.

  “Extan Oil. After that big oil spill fiasco. They had to do something to improve their image—remember?” Jake continued, excited.

  “I remember. Who could forget? All those poor animals killed because of the oil slick,” Craig said.

  “I had a meeting with the Extan CEO. Gosh, it’s been about seven years ago,” Jake said.

  “What sort of meeting?” I asked.

  “Who can remember? They’re always the same. They buy me an expensive lunch, give me a bunch of expensive gifts, thank me for keeping their interests at the forefront of my decision making. You know, the same old bull.”

  Craig scratched his head. “Where does Hollers come into the picture?”

  “He delayed my meeting. I cooled my heels in some assistant’s office while he had an impromptu session with the CEO. Hollers never saw me, but I saw him. He had to deliver a video his company had just completed. They wanted to get it on the air right away, but the CEO had to approve it first. After Hollers left, I got to see the video for myself.”

  “It was Hollers?” I asked.

  “I’m sure of it. That lightning-bolt scar on the side of his neck stuck in my mind,” Jake said.

  “What was on the video?” Ronnie asked.

  Jake shook his head and gave a half-hearted chuckle. “You know that commercial that shows a dumping ground at the bottom of the ocean where Extan had discarded a bunch of used pipe and equipment they could no longer use?”

  I nodded. “The one where an eco-system had developed and a whole little community of fish and other sea life had set up house in the junk?”

  “That’s the one,” Jake said, pointing at me. “As if the ecosystem developed because of the garbage they dumped rather than in spite of it.”

  I nodded. “I remember that commercial. I thought it was kind of weird that they’d admit to dumping the stuff in the first place.”

  “I think they got caught and someone was going to go public with it. They put every resource they had into damage control. They scrambled to get that commercial on the air before the whistle-blowers could,” Jake said.

  I scrolled across the screen to the company name listed for Extan’s check. “CII. So Hollers works for this company?”

  “He did then. As I recall, CII is an acronym for Corporate Images, Incorporated,” Jake said.

  I powered down the laptop and started packing it back in its case. “I wonder how Mr. Hollers’ job description reads. Job skill requirements: deliveries, impersonations, bombs, arson, kidnapping—murder?”

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Craig and I climbed onto the Sea Ray and headed for another day on the mainland. We pulled up to Mr. Cartwright’s slip and cut the engine. I spotted Craig’s colleague waiting for him in the marina parking lot.

  “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked as he tied the line to a ring on the dock.

  “I thought I’d go by the house and check the mail and our phone messages. I want to visit the puppy—give Aunt Arlene a break. He hasn’t been a perfect angel.”

  Craig frowned. “He’s just a puppy. He’ll grow up to be a good dog. We really have to come up with a name for him.”

  “I know. I’m working on it.”

  “I want you to be careful if you’re going by the house. No telling who might be watching the place,” Craig warned.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “I mean it, Dev. Why don’t you just wait? We can check the answering machine remotely. The mail can wait a couple days.”

  “When did you become such a worrywart?” I asked as I climbed over the edge of the boat onto the wet dock. My foot slipped and I started to fall.

  “Whoa there,” Craig said as he grabbed me to save me from plunging into the water. “I became a worrywart the day I met you. I discovered your obvious knack for finding trouble and decided someone had to keep an eye on you.”

  His arms were still wrapped around me, even though I’d regained my balance and was no longer in danger of falling. I smiled at him. “Don’t worry about me too much. I wouldn’t want your hair to turn prematurely gray. People might think you’re a cradle robber.”

  I gave him a kiss and sent him on his way.

  My friend Jason agreed to give me a ride to our house before he opened up his shop. I waited in the marina office for twenty minutes before his pickup rattled into the parking lot. I pointed to my watch as his truck rolled to a stop next to the sidewalk.

  “You’re late,” I complained.

  “Nag, nag, nag. You don’t know how glad I am that Craig’s the one who got stuck with you.”

  “Good morning to you too,” I replied.

  He picked up a brown bag, soaked with spots of grease, and held it out to me. “I brought breakfast.”

  I crinkled my nose at the oily sack. “I ate. Thanks.”

  “You sure? It’s really good,” he coaxed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “’What is it?’ Beggars can’t be choosers. I had to stop at three places to get the right food groups. I’d hoped you be a little appreciative.”

  “I’m not a beggar. I told you I already ate. I’m just curious what you’re subjecting your poor arteries to this fine morning.”

  “It’s spicy deep-fried potato wedges, bacon-wrapped cocktail weenies and apple turnovers. That’s fruit, you know.”

  I grimaced. “Fruit? Right. And grease and sugar and preservatives and nitrates and artificial colors and artificial flavors and—”

  “Hey. You know what I always say. Eat well. Stay fit. Die anyway.”

  I shook my head. Time to change the subject. I’ve grown tired of harping at Jason about his eating habits. It’s his body, I’ve decided. I’m not his keeper. “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Booming. I might have to hire a third repairman. People are opting to fix their washers and dryers these days instead of throwing them out to buy new ones. Good for me, but I’m working too many hours.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes telling Jason about Ronnie’s predicament. When I described her inventions to him, he nearly called me a liar.

  “Impossible. Take if from me. I know motors. What you’re describing is impossible. It defies all the laws of physics,” he proclaimed.

  “I’ve seen it. I’m telling you, she’s done it,” I argued.

  “She’s tricked you. Believe me. It can’t be done.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Right. And how many years was the earth flat? And remember when the universe revolved around the earth? And it was impossible for man to fly. That was a gift only given to birds. Heaven forbid anyone ever set foot on the moon.”

  “That’s different,” he defended.

  “How so?” I demanded.

  Jason was silent.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “I’m thinking. I’m thinking,” he insisted.

  “No, you’re not. That’s the problem.”

  The argument continued until we pulled to a stop in front of Uncle Doug’s house. As soon as Jason set his parking brake, the dispute ended. He gave me the same concerned look he always does when he learns of my latest escapade.

  “You got a ride back to the marina?” Jason asked.
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  “I’ll get one. Thanks,” I said, letting myself out of his truck.

  I can’t describe the feeling I had when Aunt Arlene opened the door for me and let me into her house. The puppy stopped playing with the chew toy for a moment to see who the new person in the house was. When he saw me, he dropped everything and bounded across the living room at breakneck speed to greet me. My heart leaped in my chest. He actually recognized me and seemed to be elated. Then, he nearly knocked me down when he jumped on me.

  I told Aunt Arlene I’d take him for a walk and keep him with me until I had to return to the marina. She didn’t say so, but I think she was relieved for the break. She had some shopping to do and was happy she didn’t have to lock him in his crate while she was out.

  I did my best to wear the puppy out on our walk. I took him down to the water to see if he’d take any interest in swimming. I tossed a stick into the water a few feet, but he wouldn’t go in after it. I didn’t push it.

  I tossed the stack of mail and my house keys on the kitchen table. After giving the puppy a couple of doggie cookies, I strolled into the den. It felt so good to have room to move around. I never noticed feeling overly confined when I lived on my boat, but now that I live in a house, I don’t think I could go back to living in that small space again. I checked the answering machine. We had two messages. I pressed the playback button and listened.

  The first message was from Bo Rawlings, the patent holder I tried to contact days before. His attorney must have gotten my message to him. He left a number where he could be reached. I replayed the message and wrote the number down. He’d called last night, around eight.

  The next message was from Rick Caper. “Hi. This is Rick from Caper and Lawless. Anyone there? I think we got something here, but I need to talk to you. I’ll try one of the other numbers you gave us. Bye.” He’d called this morning, not long before I’d arrived home. I checked my watch. If I’d spent less time trying to convince the puppy that the water was perfectly safe, I probably wouldn’t have missed the call.