“You mean they wrote software as part of a plea deal?” I asked, considering the possibility. I knew from Steve how deals were made for less time in exchange for rolling on someone. In this case, it wasn’t someone—it was software.
“It is my software, though, no doubt about that. But it’s old. Might even be beta or alpha old.”
“You wrote this?” I asked, my earlier concern growing.
“Most of this is mine, but the hack added a few tweaks,” he answered, his attention waning as he clicked through the application. “Might be worth taking it apart to see what’s new . . . maybe.”
“But how did your software get into their hands?”
“I posted it,” he mumbled, distracted by his investigating.
“Brian!” I said, raising my voice. “Focus for a minute. What do you mean, you posted it?”
“In trade. Nothing uncommon—we do it all the time,” he said while clicking furiously on the column headers, changing the sorts and forcing new queries. “Watch this. I’ve got a very quick confirmation.”
I leaned in closer as he continued his mouse-clicking barrage, jabbing each column with an assault, changing from ascending to descending and back, filtering on the posted dates and prices. The application stopped responding, freezing the screen and throwing his mouse pointer into a spinning-wait cursor. He leaned back in his chair, picked up his caramel treat, and sucked on the straw, mumbling, “Old bug. None of the new filtering or fixes are in.”
“So that’s good? We’re safe?”
“We should be,” he confirmed with a slow smile. “The cops will see stuff, but they’ve seen stuff for a while. They just won’t be seeing the same stuff.”
“Good,” I answered, letting out a shaky laugh and feeling relieved.
“I fixed that bug a long time ago,” he added, pointing to the screen. “Didn’t know what I was doing and tried too many queries—” Nerd’s voice changed midsentence, and his shoulders slumped. After a moment, he sat up and rolled his chair closer to the desk. The wait cursor had disappeared, refreshing the screen with a new listing of content. “Someone’s been updating more than the user interface. They’ve updated my search code . . . not just little tweaks either.”
I read through the list, matching up some of the line items with what was showing on our application. And while the sorting was different, the links were the same. Steve was seeing the same listings. My heart dropped, realizing we couldn’t trust the software.
Nerd remained wide-eyed, his fingers brushing over the keys as he coded a script in a new window. He slammed his finger on the Enter key, and we watched the screen roll upward in a green flash. His lips moved without a sound as he compared the two listings. The sight was unsettling, and what it would mean to suspend our work began to register, to take hold like the dreadful feeling in your gut when receiving bad news.
“Talk to me,” I demanded, the suspense causing pins and needles. I cleared my throat to hide my nerves.
“A little over thirty percent,” he answered with a shake of his head. “The cops are seeing approximately thirty percent of what we’re seeing.”
“Can you fix it?” I asked, talking fast and desperate. “I mean, since you can identify what they see, we could drop those from our list?”
He shrugged, answering, “Fix what?” He looked up at me with severe concern.
“Fix the list,” I insisted.
“The list is compromised,” he continued, talking more to himself than to me. “Need to get the word out.”
“But we know what they are seeing, right?” I repeated, believing we could cull the list of the suspect links. He slowed, taking his hands from the keyboard. The change in his expression told me he understood where I was going. “Understand? So we know what not to pick.”
“That’s true. I get it, but we won’t know if the hack who made a deal with the cops is updating the software.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, rushing my words again. I tapped the screen, adding, “We can see what the old app is producing.”
Nerd shook his head. “That app was old—posted before the dude got himself pinched and made a deal. For all we know, he could be a half dozen feature releases ahead by now. Might even be better than what we’re using.”
“Better? So could be more than thirty percent?”
“Could be much more,” he answered, sounding grave. But more than that, Nerd sounded defeated, as though he’d lost. And maybe to him, maybe to all the nerds like him, this was a game. “The real risk is not knowing if a link that’s posted is a sting. You know, bait. They could manipulate a post so that it doesn’t show on their list. How will we know if it’s legitimate?”
“We’ll need to vet the post,” I suggested without knowing if it was possible. I patted his back, hesitating, uncertain if he’d take to the gesture. He remained still, concentrating on the code scrolling up his screen. “I’ll dig around,” he began. “Dig in and see what’s what and what I can do. Maybe they left something for me to key off of.”
“There you go,” I said, assuring him, wanting to see him work his magic.
“Might take some time. I mean, a lot of time.”
“How long?”
“No new cases.”
Slowing down was out of the question. “We need something else, then,” I stated, feeling frustrated, clenching my jaw as I struggled for something to come to my mind. “We have to see what they know, to see what they are seeing. That’ll help us confirm which cases are clean.”
“A spy,” he offered with a laugh. “You could just check your computer every night. Quietly sneak on, load the software, export the day’s listing the station is working, and bring it in for me to cross-check.”
I shook my head in answer. “Too slow. Would be dated too. Need something live, something online all the time.”
“Could rat the station’s computers,” he answered, raising his brow briefly to the idea. “Nah. Could never get on one of their computers to load it.” I heard the doubt in his voice, but wanted to learn more. To me a rat meant a snitch.
Does that mean we’d have a snitch working in the station?
“What do you mean by a rat?” I asked, intrigued.
“Name sounds funny, doesn’t it?” I waved my hands, agreeing, but encouraged him to get on with it. “A rat is a tiny bit of software that lets you control another computer. Remote access terminal. RAT. It’s an acronym. If we could somehow load one at the station, then we’d see everything they see. It’d be like having a virtual spy working for us.”
“Didn’t you say you had software that acted like a virus? Is that the same as a rat? I mean, couldn’t you use the virus to infect their computers, load the rat?”
He shook his head, but I could see in his face that he was thinking about it. “That was just an experiment, a challenge with some friends to see who’d come up with the fastest infection rates,” he answered. “Beyond spreading, the virus doesn’t do anything. I left the action empty—blank.”
“Did you win?”
“Please. What do you think?” he answered sounding surprised that I’d even ask. “I always win.”
“Just wondering . . .” I began. I was glad to hear the confidence back in his voice.
His face lit up with an idea.
“I left the action blank,” he repeated. “I could add a rat to my virus and . . . but we’re still missing a piece. I can’t just walk into the police station and ask to borrow a computer.”
“But I can,” I blurted. “Well, not exactly. But I can walk in. I’m going there this afternoon. Bought my husband a present for his new desk.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, his face twisting as he continued thinking through what he’d proposed. His fingers were moving again, typing more code, working the idea.
“You’re adding the rat to your code, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, mumbling in a way that told me I’d lost him to his work. “The present. What did you get him?”
“A picture frame for his desk,” I answered. “One of those digital ones. I loaded our family album on it.”
“USB?” he asked and lifted his hands from his keyboard. “I mean, is it the kind you can plug into the computer?”
“Sure,” I answered, confused by the question. “That’s how I loaded the pictures on it.”
“Dude, we can use that!” he said more to himself than to me. He jumped up from his seat and went to my desk with his hands extended. “They’re cheap, but most have a decent processor. I only need to load my kernel, and then add a rat to my virus.”
“How?” I asked, confused but following his lead. I dug Steve’s gift from my bag.
“It’s a simple deal. Plug the picture frame into his station’s computer. The rat will load as a background process, and the virus will seek out any connected computers and spread. I’ll rat the whole place!”
I missed most of what he said, but loved the enthusiasm and handed the packaged gift to him. “But what about the pictures?” I asked. “It’s got to show the pictures.”
“It will,” he assured me. “If it didn’t, your husband wouldn’t leave it on his desk, would he?”
“True,” I answered while Nerd dug into the wrapping. “Whoa! No need to do that. I can’t rewrap here if you tear into it.”
He handed the gift back to me, “Could you do it? I’m too excited.”
I’d become an expert at unwrapping and rewrapping presents in the second grade. From then on, I’d find hidden holiday and birthday gifts, ease up the clear tape, keep the folds, and rewrap after discovering what was inside. I demonstrated this for Nerd, pulling up the clear tape smoothly after blowing warm breath over it briefly.
“It’s like steaming an envelope,” I told him. Then I shook my head at the perplexed look he gave me. He was too young to understand the concept of steaming envelopes open when report cards and other official documents were mailed to your house. These days, everything was online. When the digital picture frame was clear of the wrapping, I handed it to him and carefully set aside the colorful paper. “There. And remember, the pictures are already loaded. Don’t lose them.”
“I’ll back up the rendering software and your pictures before loading my kernel,” he said, removing the picture frame from the box and carefully flipping it over to study the back.
“Can we use it?” I asked when seeing him hesitate.
He dug through the box, pulled its power adapter from the cardboard. “Ditch this,” he instructed, tossing the adapter to me. “Throw it away, or put it in your drawer if you want to save it.”
“But the frame won’t work without it.”
“Ahh, but it will,” he said, lifting a USB cable. “You got lucky buying this model. The picture frame powers over USB so he’ll have to plug it into his computer. Once it’s plugged in my software will load, and we’ll be in business.”
“That’s it?” I asked, uncertain. “No power cord?”
“Just tell him to plug it into his computer—no plug. Tell him it’s green or something environmental. People love that shit.”
“And that’s when your software will gain access,” I added to indicate that I understood the plan. “So how will you get your software on there?”
He lifted a small computer from his desk, no bigger than a credit card, and placed it on the back of the digital picture frame, “I’m going to sister the boards up for the extra memory, pair them off the USB port. Just need an hour.” And like that he was gone, flying up the stairs to the loft. He’d built out a small workshop up there already. With a half dozen computers and a spaghetti mess of wires, he was in his element.
THIRTEEN
BEFORE I KNEW IT, I was standing in front of Steve, my insides shaking and my palms sweaty. I handed him the rewrapped gift. The box shook, and I quickly laid it down on his desk to hide how terrified I was.
“For this morning?” he asked and met my eyes with the kind of lingering smile I’d find after we’d made love. “I know I’m good, but really, you shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, stop,” I joked with him. “It’s for your new desk.”
“Great,” he answered, picking up the present and twirling it around.
Open it! I screamed in my head. Get on with it. The anxiety was eating me up inside, and I jumped at the first chance to help him tear the wrapping paper away and reveal the picture frame. Steve leaned back, avoiding my abrupt motions.
“Already loaded for you too.”
“You okay, babe?” he asked, reaching out to take my hand. My hands were clammy, and I could see he noticed. “Not getting sick, are you?”
Sick! That was a good idea.
“Maybe a little morning sickness? Or could be a bug going around Michael’s school,” I said, trying to slow my words and not sound as rushed as I felt. “Want to plug it in?”
“You bet,” he answered, his voice filled with enthusiasm. He swiped his hands over the desk’s surface, clearing a place. “I’ll make the room, and you get it ready.”
The remaining paper tore from the box in a single sheet, revealing what Nerd and I had enclosed just an hour earlier. Steve placed the digital picture frame on his desk then reached down to grab a power strip with two open plugs.
“Won’t be needing that,” I told him, just as Nerd had instructed. “Got a green one—whatever that means.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” he answered, excited by the idea. “How? Solar with a rechargeable battery?”
I had no idea what to say so I blurted the only thing that came to mind: “USB?” I sounded like I was asking rather than telling and handed the end of the USB cable to him.
He put the end of the plug down and shook his head. “I’m not supposed to do that,” he said, looking past me to the other desks. “Security.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew, though. I knew now exactly why the station wouldn’t allow outside devices to be used. “But it’s a gift, Steve.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, snaking the USB cable from the picture frame and around his computer. “Not like it’s a drive or something—just for juice. Would you do the honors, babe?”
“I will,” I answered, taking the other end and fishing it through a jumble of computer cables until I could reach an open USB port. I stood up to stand next to my husband and we both stared at the blank picture frame.
“Here we go,” he said happily. “Hope you didn’t include that picture of me wearing nothing but a sombrero.”
“No pictures of you and the sombrero,” I assured him. “I put that one on my phone. You look cute, even if you’re not wearing it on your head.” We laughed and found each other’s hands, wove our fingers together.
“Takes a while I guess, huh?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t,” I answered, feeling nervous again, wondering if our plan had backfired. I leaned away from Steve, across his desk, to lift up the picture frame—knowing that picking it up would do little to help, but I felt the urge to do something. The screen flashed a brilliant rainbow of colors, and the company picture frame’s logo ran across in a tidy parade of letters. “There it goes.”
As I leaned back to watch the first photos show up, I remembered Nerd saying it would take a minute to load, that his software would need a little time to transfer. He’d also said that once we saw our family photos on the screen, that would mean his software was running. A second and third picture zoomed in, flying across the screen in a slow-motion animation, showing us Snacks and Michael holding giant turkey drumsticks the size of their heads.
Steve’s computer chirped and the fans ticked on while the front panel flashed green and amber and red, blinking on and off like traffic lights at a busy intersection. I held my breath when Steve’s monitor went off momentarily and then flashed back on. He didn’t notice. He squeezed my hand, pulled me toward him to give me a kiss.
“This is great,” he said brushing my hair back. “I love it.”
“Steve!” I heard Charlie�
��s voice from his corner office. “Meeting. Sorry, Amy. I got to take your husband for a few.”
“Have to run, babe.”
“Glad you like the picture frame.”
“It’s wonderful, love it!”
I helped Steve to his feet, handed him his cane, and began to walk him toward Charlie’s office, his arm in mine. We took slow steps, and all the while I glanced from monitor to monitor. One by one, I saw the station screens go blank and then flash back on. And it wasn’t just the monitors. I heard moans and groans caused by the short disruptions, followed by sighs and mouse clicks once the computers were working again.
It was Nerd’s virus, infecting the station like he said it would. The rat will install and load in the background, Nerd had said. And then the virus will seek out other computers.
I wondered if it was supposed to work so fast. By the time we reached Charlie’s office, his bearish hands were rapping against the top of his monitor, his face aglow with a fiery complexion beneath a crop of snow-white hair.
“What’s the matter, old man?” Steve joked. “Break your computer?”
“Hey now, watch who you’re calling old!” he laughed. “It’s good to see you, Amy. Yup, there it goes. Damn computers. Hate the things.”
“It’s good to see you too, Charlie,” I answered. I felt an overwhelming urgency to flee, to run from the station. His computer was back on. I scanned the office, seeing more computers flick a wink—Nerd’s digital fingers spying on the station. I couldn’t help but wonder where else Nerd’s software would go.
What other systems are connected to the station?
The low murmur of annoyance and creaking seats faded like thunder and was replaced by regular office sounds. Nerd had secured the station. I ran then. I said a simple good-bye, gave my husband a kiss, and made my way to the door in a near jog. I just wanted to get to my car.
We’re in, I texted on the burner phone. The words scrolled up the small screen, and the status “read” appeared just beneath it. Can you see anything? I bit my upper lip, eager for him to text a response.
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 32