by Julie Miller
He couldn’t even honor her memory with that.
“So what are you going to do about it, Doc?” he asked aloud, breathing deeply and talking to himself in a way that had always cleared his thoughts and enabled him to concentrate. “For starters, I’m going to see if that persistent bastard has made any progress breaking into SinPharm’s restricted files.”
With something new to engage his brain, Damon was a happier man. He rolled a stool over to his computer and logged in to his company’s database. In just a few keystrokes, he located the illegal activity and grinned. The nosy SOB was back. “Welcome, Mr. Black Hole of the Universe.” Catchy online name. Appropriate since the hacker had tried a dozen different ways to download his research codes. In the middle of the night, when SinPharm’s corporate offices were closed and the satellite labs and production facilities had been secured, someone was trying to hack into Damon’s private files.
It had been another restless night a couple weeks back when he’d first detected the unknown computer geek trying to access his research through online channels. The hacker had broken in three different times to download codes that were misdirecting fakes to begin with. Once the false codes were applied to the data that had been stolen from his lab eighteen months ago, the thieves would realize that they’d been duped. Again. They’d wind up with cotton candy or a laxative—not any of his patented medicines or experimental drugs.
Though he’d had no luck tracing either the location or the identity of Black Hole yet, Damon had led the intruder on a merry chase. He sat and watched the screen as his opponent peeled away layer after layer of security protocols, getting closer to the translation codes that could turn Damon’s equations from gibberish into millions of dollars.
And just when the perp was about to reach the innermost level, Damon pushed a button and scrambled the codes all over again.
His laughter was rare, a rusty sound that stretched the scarred muscles of his throat. SinPharm’s security firm had their way of preventing industrial espionage, and Damon had his.
“That should keep you busy for a few more days.” Hell, if the enemy wanted to reproduce his formulas and market competitive medical treatments without doing their own research, then they were damn well gonna have to get past him. Unless he tracked them down first and introduced them to the FDA, the FCC and any other government organization whose laws they’d violated.
And if Damon discovered the hacker was in any way responsible for the theft and fire that led to Miranda’s suicide, then he would personally put him out of business.
Permanently.
While he relished the image of the unknown spy throwing up his hands and cursing at the computer screen, Damon knew he had problems closer to home he needed to deal with. He glanced at the broken glass and dissipating chemical on the floor. “Like you.”
Damon rolled his stool over to another desk, where two rows of monitors helped him keep an eye on the Sinclair Tower through adjustable interior and exterior security cameras. He typed in a command and brought up a view of the main rooms in the penthouse upstairs. Good. All was quiet. His housekeeper’s seemingly intuitive ability to know when he’d screwed up and needed a little extra help hadn’t awakened her from her sleep.
But by morning, if he didn’t clean it up tonight, then she’d somehow know. She’d be down here at first light, cleaning and tutting herself into a worried state until she verified for herself that he hadn’t been cut or injured in any way.
Corporate spies he could handle. But it was funny how such a tiny little woman, who’d once changed his diapers and sent him to his room, could transform six feet, three inches of brains and testosterone into a guilty little boy, as eager to please as he was to cover his tracks and stay out of trouble with her.
But the bonded cleaning crew he hired to sterilize the lab once a week brought their own supplies, and if there was a broom to be had, he wasn’t finding it.
Mental note: buy cleaning supplies for the lab.
In the meantime, he could raid his housekeeper’s private stash. Damon draped his lab coat over a hook beside the rear exit, swiped his key card through the lock and hurried up the back stairs to the penthouse where they lived on the top two floors.
His plan was simple: sneak into her unguarded kitchen to borrow a broom and dustpan, then dispose of the evidence and hide the fact that he’d spent yet another sleep-deprived night working in his lab.
Yet as he tiptoed past the darkened hallway that led to her quarters, something made Damon stop. Everything was as neat and tidy as it had appeared on the monitor downstairs. But something was off. Perhaps it was the absence of any familiar sound that pricked his senses and put him on alert. There was no humidifier running, no television chattering on after his housekeeper had fallen asleep. He heard no soft, denasal snore. Damon leaned the broom and dustpan against the wall, turned the corner and gently knocked on her door.
There was no answer. The woman had raised him after his mother’s death, had stayed on after his marriage. She’d been there through his father’s passing. Had remained with him past her own retirement, the accident and Miranda’s suicide. They were as close to being a family as two people who shared no bloodline could be. Squashing a flare of panic beneath cold, rational purpose, Damon opened the bedroom door to check on her.
“Helen?”
“MISS SNOW?” A nurse joined Kit at the ICU window, looking through the criss-crossed steel filaments inside the glass to the fragile, wan woman in the hospital bed on the other side.
“There’s no change, is there.” Kit had stayed as close as the hospital staff would allow while surgical and neurological teams stitched up the elderly woman’s head wound, monitored cranial pressure and vital signs, and tucked her into the sterile room for observation. Until she regained consciousness, there was no way for the doctors to completely assess how much damage the three attackers had done. No way for the police to get any more information on the mugging beyond Kit’s concise—but all too incomplete—statement.
“We’re doing everything we can.” The plump nurse shrugged. “The rest is up to her.”
The mysterious Helen didn’t look strong enough to fight off a pesky fly, much less fight for her life. We’re all dead?
Where was the hope in that? Was that going to be Helen’s last, despairing thought? Kit splayed her fingers at the edge of the cool glass, wishing she could hold Helen’s thin, bony hand again, and share whatever warmth and encouragement the woman needed to survive. Truman Medical Center was already a dim, ominously quiet tomb at three in the morning. Walking away and leaving the elderly woman in the care of staff who knew even less about her than Kit did felt like abandonment.
Kit’s parents had been found holding hands when their bodies were discovered after the fire, with debris from the explosion blocking their escape. According to the arson team who’d combed through the diner afterward, Matthew and Phyllis Snow had most likely succumbed to the toxic smoke long before they’d been burned or crushed by the collapsing ceiling. But they’d had each other—they’d known love and a hopeful connection to something outside themselves—right until the end of their lives.
Kit curled her fingers into a fist. Someone should be in there, holding Helen’s hand, giving her hope. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
But the nurse hadn’t come to give a medical report, and she had no clue about Kit’s frustrated sense of justice for all. “It’s long past visiting hours. And since you’re not family, well…I’m sorry.” Her apologetic frown didn’t ease the sting of dismissal. “Our Jane Doe needs her rest.”
“She’s not a Jane Doe,” Kit insisted, fighting for her neighbor the only way she could. “Her name’s Helen. She lives in the Sinclair Building. You put Helen on her charts, didn’t you? I can’t imagine how disoriented she’d feel if she woke up and you started calling her by someone else’s name.”
“Yes. We have her listed as Helen Doe. Sorry to alarm you. We passed along all the information you gave
us to the police. I’m sure they’re checking their missing persons files right now.” The nurse’s rueful sigh recaptured Kit’s attention. “Go home. It’s late. You’ve already done more for her than most Good Samaritans would.”
“Someone had to be here to answer questions.” That was the practical excuse she’d given for climbing into the ambulance while the paramedics worked on Helen.
“I heard you chased away her attackers. It’s all over the hospital. She might be dead if it wasn’t for you.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Kit had left Germane back at the diner to wait until Matt showed up. She intended to call him before she left, to see if her brother had gotten home safely. In the meantime, Helen’s needs had been more pressing. Kit had held the older woman’s chilly hand until the staff chased her away. Now all she could do was keep her distance and watch and wait. “People shouldn’t be alone. Especially when they’re hurting or afraid. Someone needs to be here for her.”
Her brother might not appreciate her vigilance. The neighborhood might think her more busybody than philanthropist. But the unconscious Helen couldn’t stop her from caring.
The nurse nudged her toward the lobby. “One of the staff will check her regularly throughout the night. But until we get word from her family, or visiting hours resume at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait someplace else.”
Kit exhaled a deep breath and finally acknowledged the aches and fatigue of her own banged-up body. “I should have lied and said I was her granddaughter, shouldn’t I?”
The nurse offered a sympathetic smile. “Come back in the morning. You need your rest as much as she does.”
Without further argument, Kit nodded and dragged her feet toward the deserted lobby. Since she hadn’t paused to grab her purse before climbing into the ambulance, Kit’s cell phone was still back at the diner. Posted signs warned her she wasn’t allowed to use her cell on the ICU floor, anyway, but out here she could access a bank of landline telephones to call Germane and Matt.
Maybe she should phone for a cab instead, and head on home as the nurse had suggested. After a few hours’ sleep, she could search out which apartments above her were occupied, and start knocking on doors. Other than the model apartments, the rooms above the fifth floor weren’t finished. But someone had to know Helen. Maybe one of the construction workers had met her and could provide some information. Kit would ask them when they came in for lunch the next day.
But the cops were probably already going through the building tonight. Hopefully, they’d have better luck getting hold of her landlord at Sinclair Pharmaceuticals than she’d ever had, as well. Though she’d never had any contact with the man beyond letters and leases and rent checks, Easting Davitz, Esq., had her entire financial history on file. Chances were he’d have files on the other tenants, as well.
And, if the cops and Mr. Davitz couldn’t find out anything more about Helen, Kit would still have plenty of time to come back to the hospital to visit in the morning. She could spend a couple of hours holding the woman’s hand—maybe read a book or just talk—before she had to get the ovens fired up and the diner opened for lunch at eleven.
With that much of a plan giving her legs a reason to move, Kit picked up the receiver on the first wall phone and deposited fifty cents. When Germane’s cell number kicked her over to his voice mail, she hung up and called Matt directly. When his voice mail answered, Kit spoke the familiar words. “Matt? It’s way past curfew. If you’re there, pick up. I just need to know you’re okay. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Right?” If she was lucky. “I just need you to answer me and let me know you’re safe.”
Of course no one answered. Matt didn’t seem to answer to anyone these days. When the recorder beeped, Kit hung up.
Maybe Matt had gotten home and Germane was hanging out with him at the apartment until she returned. Maybe he hadn’t shown up at all and Germane had gone out to look for him. Matt was her brother. She should be the one out searching—not her sixty-year-old Dutch uncle with arthritic knees.
Buzzing her lips to dispel a gathering tension, Kit dipped into her jeans pockets to find more change. She pulled out several folded dollar bills from the tips she’d jammed inside. But change for a single phone call? She found one quarter.
“Come on.” Fatigue made her easily frustrated. All she wanted was to ensure Matt was okay and that Germane wasn’t doing anything foolish. Kit set the coin on the counter and dug for more. A measly dime. A movie ticket stub that had gone through the laundry. A penny. “I thought you were supposed to be lucky.”
Kit swallowed hard, squelching the sarcastic thought. The Snows made their own luck. They took care of what needed to be taken care of without some random flip of a coin to make their lives easier or not. But she was getting a little tired of being stuck in the “or not” category. She glanced toward the nurses’ station, wondering if they could make some change for her. But the desk had been deserted by the skeleton staff out making their rounds.
With her pockets practically empty and her patience wearing thin, Kit decided she was just going to have to hike downstairs to the main lobby. If she couldn’t make a call there, then she’d hail a cab. Of course, the pitiful sum lying on the counter beneath the phone wouldn’t get her two city blocks, much less back to the heart of downtown. And without the coat she’d left back at the diner, it would be a mighty cold walk home. Maybe Tariq would do her a favor and let her ride for free. But she couldn’t even make that call without another quarter for the phone.
Her shoulders stiffened with an unconscious bracing that was almost as second nature as breathing. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to find her way home at night. Alone. On foot. She’d spent too many nights out looking for a brother who just couldn’t seem to forgive the world and grow up. “Be there, Matty,” she prayed, scraping the cash back into her pocket and pulling the receiver from her ear. “Please be there.”
“Operator. May I help you?”
“What?” Hallelujah! Kit quickly drew the friendly voice back to her ear. “Yes. I have an emergency. Of sorts. I’m at Truman Medical Center, and I need to call home to make sure everyone’s all right. At the very least, I need to call for a ride, but I don’t have the right change. I know it’s late…”
The operator didn’t need to hear any more excuses. “In the event of an emergency, you can reach the phone company by dialing zero. No charge for a limited call. What number are you trying to reach?”
Kit recited the number for her apartment, thanked the operator and tapped an anxious foot in time with the ringing of the phone. It was hard to block the unsettling images that were half memory, half imagination. Her waiting at the police station to post bail. Matt turning his back on her and walking away when she wanted to hug him in her arms and keep him close. The three muggers returning to the scene of the crime and breaking into the diner. Meeting Matt on the street. Forcing him to join their little crime spree. Or worse—making him their next victim.
Kit shifted on her feet, hating how easy it had become to imagine the worst. “C’mon, guys. Pick up.”
Her home number rang three times. Four.
A crackle of static buzzed in her ear, and the line went dead.
“Limited call, my ass.” Kit jiggled the disconnect button, trying to get a dial tone again. “Operator? Op—?”
Every light on the floor went out, plunging her into darkness. Kit grabbed the edge of the counter, anchoring herself in the sudden, disorienting abyss. “What the heck?”
Almost instantly, a hum of disembodied voices and quick movement rolled down the hallways from the patients’ rooms. But they sounded far away from the bubble of black silence that engulfed her in the lobby.
An uneasy fear quickly replaced her frustration. “Hello?”
She’d welcome any answer from the phone or the nurses’ station. But, blinded by the instant night, Kit didn’t know where to turn. Which distant voice to call to.
“Where
’s that backup?”
“Ten-second delay.”
“Check every patient.”
“Why does this always happen at night?”
“Critical systems are still online.”
Kit curled her toes into her boots, staying put out of the staff’s way. She clutched the dead receiver to her chest and held on, counting off an eternity until those ten seconds passed and the backup generators kicked on.
…two one-thousand, three one-thousand…
A breeze swept across the back of her neck, raising goose bumps beneath her ponytail. Someone was right here.
Before she could turn around, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth. In the same instant a strong arm looped around her waist and dragged her back against an unyielding chest. Kit screamed behind the muzzle and twisted in her assailant’s grasp.
“Shh. Be still,” a deep voice grated against her ear.
Still? Like hell.
Kit threw down the phone and clawed at the glove. The leather was soft, supple, warm. But the hand inside wouldn’t budge. Protests rang inside her ears but found no outlet. Had the mugger in the Chiefs parka followed her to the hospital? Was this surprise attack his way of keeping her from saying anything to the police?
Man, had he picked the wrong cookie to mess with.
She kicked at an instep, braced her foot against the wall and tried to shove him off balance. His arm slipped, then grabbed again, hooking beneath the swell of her breasts. When he fought to regain his hold on her, he palmed one feminine mound and squeezed. Even through layers of a sweater and glove, Kit lurched at the contact, alarmed as heat bloomed beneath his way too personal grasp. The man cursed and jerked his hand away. A surer grip tightened around her jaw, stifling any cry for help. Then, just as she thought she might wiggle her way free, the vise of hard arm and harder body lifted her clear off the floor. He carried her forward a step, pinning her between the counter and the wall of his chest.