by J. A. Jance
“My dad, you mean?” he asked.
“Exactly,” Manning replied. “As far as our investigation is concerned, the case is closed. Now that the ME is ready to release the remains, we need to know what your wishes are.”
“Do I have to decide about a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Harvey began. “I’m in the army and stationed in Germany right now.”
Since the call had come in on his commanding officer’s phone, Colonel Glenn had been listening in on the entire conversation. At that point he held up his hand. “Not to worry, son,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you get home for your mother’s funeral. You have my word on that.”
Harvey’s trip down memory lane ended as he pulled in to the parking lot at the Cowpoke. He went inside and took his customary stool at the bar, glad to be out of his complicated past and back in the straightforward present.
“What’ll it be?” Joe asked.
“I’ll have a beer,” Harvey said, “a Coors draft and an order of chicken wings.”
“No hair of the dog?” Joe wanted to know.
“Not on your life,” Harvey answered. “Learned my lesson. From here on out, I’m sticking with beer.”
|CHAPTER 11|
RENTON, WASHINGTON
Mateo Vega had been blown away by his late-afternoon phone conversation with Stuart Ramey. Stu had sounded just the way Mateo remembered him—slightly reticent and clearly uncomfortable having to speak on the phone. Stu had always seemed to be more at ease interacting via texts or e-mails than he was in spoken communication. At the end of the call, Stu hadn’t come right out and said he’d write a letter of recommendation but said he’d at least consider it. That was such good news that when Mateo went to bed that night, he couldn’t fall asleep.
He was still tossing and turning at eleven when he heard the ding on his computer announcing the arrival of an e-mail. Curious, Mateo scrambled over to his computer and was thrilled to see a message from Stuart Ramey. Mateo opened it immediately, read the message itself, and then opened the attached PDF. He read the words written there, and Mateo’s eyes brimmed with tears. Stu had done exactly as he’d asked. He’d mentioned Mateo’s work skills and dependability without making any reference to or about the long pause between his employment with VGI and now.
For the first time in a long time, Mateo felt the faintest glimmer of hope that things might be better. Maybe, when he sent out another round of job applications, he’d make it as far as the interview stage. That would count as huge forward progress. He went to work on the loading dock the next morning with a happy heart.
Even so, it was unseasonably hot that day, and by the time Mateo got home, he was beat. His first instinct was to give up on his trip to the library that evening, but because he had some books that needed to be returned that day, he went immediately after work, without bothering to check his e-mail before he left. As a consequence he was seated at one of the library computers when he discovered there were six new messages from Stuart Ramey sitting in his in-box. He opened the first one and read:
Dear Mateo,
As requested, I sent you a letter of recommendation. It occurred to me after I sent it, however, that I could probably write a more effective one if I had some idea of your current job-skill level.
High Noon specializes in cybersecurity. When we’re vetting applicants, we like to put them through their paces. I’m attaching simulated versions of five separate hacking problems High Noon has isolated and countered over the years. I’d like you to try your hand at these to see if you can identify each separate hack, isolate it, and effectively counter it. We’ll be able to keep track of the amount of time it takes for you to either solve the problem or give up on it.
Because the files are too large to send as a group, I’m sending each one separately.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Stu
Mateo stared at the list. Each of the remaining e-mails had a different subject line: Badger, Wolf, Shark, Scorpion, and Cheetah. When he looked at Badger, the number of megabytes in the file gave him second thoughts about attempting to open that file or any of them on a public computer. Instead he packed up his goods and headed home.
As he walked along, Mateo felt a spring in his step. The hard hours working on the loading dock were forgotten. Stuart had taken his request seriously and had written the letter of recommendation, but he’d gone one step further. He wanted to evaluate Mateo’s current job-skill level. If Mateo could manage to deliver the goods on these hypothetical problems, maybe Stuart would be willing to give him a second letter of recommendation, one that was more in keeping with what was currently out in the marketplace. That being the case, Mateo couldn’t wait to get started.
Back at the house, he put his latest thrift-shop trophy to work, blocking out the racket from his drunken housemates by donning the pair of noise-canceling Bose headphones that he’d purchased for a mere seven bucks. They hadn’t been functional when he brought them home, but all that was needed to fix them was a tiny bit of solder to repair a broken connection.
Slightly uneasy that someone would be keeping track of his times, Mateo started with the file called Badger. At first glance he was sure he’d be in over his head and that finding the required solutions would be virtually impossible. Except it wasn’t. The materials Mrs. Ancell had obtained for him over the years and all the solitary reading he’d done meant he’d kept pace with what was going on in the tech world outside the Monroe Correctional Facility. That realization left him energized and focused. He opened each file in turn, working his way through them one at a time, in order of appearance, noting as he did so that each succeeding problem was more challenging than the preceding one. It was ten past three in the morning when he successfully completed isolating the hack named Cheetah and began working on countering it.
An hour later, after double-checking his work, Mateo e-mailed all five solution files back to Stu. Once they were sent, Mateo went to bed. He was exhausted, yes, but still far too elated to go to sleep. Stuart Ramey had given him a challenge, and he’d risen to it. Not only had he delivered, but Mateo also felt as though he might even have redeemed himself.
A few hours later he went to work on the loading dock without having slept a wink, but he worked all day with a happy heart and without a word of complaint either. The next time he sent out a job application, Mateo was pretty sure Stuart Ramey would have his back.
|CHAPTER 12|
SEDONA, ARIZONA
Ali and B. spent a long time on the phone that night. But though it was nighttime for her in Arizona, it was early morning for him. She longed for him to be there in person so she could lean on his shoulder while she spilled out her worries and concerns—the blind panic she felt about her father’s mental and physical decline, to say nothing of the despair brought on by the fact that he had failed to recognize his own daughter.
B. waited for the storm of emotion to abate before he spoke, and when he did, his calm and measured responses were a balm to her soul.
“First thing is,” B. said, “we all owe Betsy a huge debt of gratitude here. Without her insisting on getting your mom out of the house today, we’d still have no idea about the real state of affairs with your dad. From the sound of things, the situation is far more serious than anyone would have guessed. You’re going to have to have a no-holds-barred talk with your mom. Going forward, your mother’s proposed strategy of not taking Bob to the doctor because she doesn’t want to hear the diagnosis is simply not an option.
“I’ve spent some time on the phone today with a few of my Big Pharma contacts, folks who are very familiar with what’s going on in terms of Alzheimer’s research—not that we know for sure Alzheimer’s is what we’re dealing with as far as your dad is concerned. Obviously, there’s no cure, not yet, but there are medications out there that may help deal with some of the symptoms and may even slow the progression of th
e disease. Without having a physician do a thorough evaluation and write prescriptions, however, those potentially helpful meds won’t be available to him.”
“But how do I get Mom to see reason here?” Ali asked.
“Ask her what Bob would want,” B. replied, “not Bob as he is now but Bob as he’s been for most of the more than sixty-five years they’ve been married. He wouldn’t want your mom to be shouldering this burden alone. He wouldn’t want her to risk actual physical harm, because at your mother’s age even a minor shove could result in lasting damage.”
B. paused before changing the subject slightly. “How did your dad seem? Was he angry? Upset?”
Ali thought about that for a time. “More melancholy than anything else,” she admitted. “It’s as though he’s aware that something’s wrong—that he’s lost track of things—but doesn’t know why or what to do about it either.”
“He has lost track of something,” B. asserted. “He’s lost track of himself. He may realize that he has serious deficits, but not knowing what those deficits are or how to deal with them has to be terrifying. If there were medications available, that might make him feel better—relieve those symptoms and make him less sad—doesn’t he deserve to have access to them? Wouldn’t that be the loving thing for your mom to do, for her to stop pretending nothing’s wrong and face up to it instead?”
“You’re right, but—” Ali began.
“There is no but,” B. interjected. “Your mother’s like that frog swimming in a pot of gradually heating water. The only way to fix it is to slap her with a bucket of cold water. As her only child, you’re the one who has to do it.”
“Still…”
“There’s one other thing you need to know,” B. continued. “According to one study from Stanford, forty-one percent of Alzheimer’s caregivers die before the patient does. Your mother’s healthy right now, but she won’t be for long if we don’t get her the help and respite she needs.”
“So I have to talk to her.”
“Yes,” B. said, “and the sooner the better.”
Ali was ready to change the subject. “When I left the office this afternoon, it was all hands on deck dealing with that coordinated cyberattack.”
“I know,” B. said. “Stu kept me updated. It was a pretty big deal, but it looks as though every one of our customers came through unscathed. Two of them were specifically targeted, but our firewalls repelled the attackers. However, today’s attack only underscored the fact that we need more people. Cami tells me she’s got the job applicants lined up to fly in for personal interviews late next week and the week after. We’ve already got good people on board, but it isn’t a smart idea to overwork those we have to death.”
They talked a while longer after that. When Ali went to bed, she worried for a time about how and when she’d tackle her mother, but finally she fell asleep.
She woke up the next morning to find a text from B. sitting on her phone.
Don’t like the idea of your having to handle all this on your own. I’ve rearranged some appointments. I’ll be home this afternoon rather than tomorrow. Plane should land in Phoenix around three.
Ali breathed a sigh of relief. Over breakfast she gave Alonzo the news that there would be two for dinner. Then, with a much happier heart, she headed for the office in a timely fashion. She had barely put her purse away in a file drawer when Cami charged into the room and plunked her iPad down on Ali’s desk. Peering at the device, Ali could tell she was looking at what appeared to be a still photo of a long corridor. A time stamp in the corner of the screen said “11:59:56 p.m., April 5, 2018.” Ali pressed the arrow in the middle of the screen, and the still photograph became a video with blurry movements showing some distance away. There was no way to discern any features, since the figure was totally out of focus.
Ali looked up at Cami. “From the new security system?”
Cami nodded.
“Can you focus it better?”
Cami called up the flat-screen and tapped in a command. Suddenly the blurred shape reconfigured itself and was completely recognizable. A barefoot Harvey McCluskey, wearing only a T-shirt and sweats, disappeared into a restroom.
“Harvey McCluskey?” Ali asked unnecessarily. “What’s he doing in the building at that hour of the night?”
“And more to the point,” Cami added, “why isn’t he dressed?”
“He’s sleeping here?” Ali asked in dismay. “In his office?”
“That’s how it looks.”
High Noon had a zoning variance that allowed for sleeping arrangements inside their corporate offices, but that wasn’t true for the other units in the Mingus Mountain Business Park complex. So not only was McCluskey violating the terms of his lease agreement by not paying rent, he was also using his office space as an unauthorized dwelling unit.
“How long do you think this has been going on?” Ali asked.
“Probably a lot longer than we’d like to think,” Cami replied. “What say we go down and give him a surprise wake-up call?”
“What say indeed,” Ali said, rising from her chair, “and I’ll give him a piece of my mind while I’m at it.”
The two women set out together, noticing as they went that McCluskey’s Silverado was parked in his designated spot, next to the building. As they walked, their two shadows—one short and one tall—showed in sharp relief on the pavement. Seeing them together, Ali couldn’t help but smile. Cami Lee was of Chinese extraction, and though her petite frame might have made her appear to be small and harmless, anyone who came to that erroneous conclusion would be dead wrong. Cami was a serious devotee of Krav Maga and could wipe the floor with people twice her size. With Cami along as Ali’s backup, Harvey McCluskey would be smart to realize he was totally outgunned.
Cami was the one who pounded on the door to Harvey’s office. The resemblance to a cop knock was hardly coincidental. “Anybody home?” she shouted.
Naturally, there was no reply. As landlord, Ali had a passkey that opened all the doors in the complex, one that allowed her access in case of emergencies. As far as she was concerned, this counted as an emergency.
“We’re coming in, Mr. McCluskey,” Ali announced.
When the door opened, a cloud of musky male cologne wafted through the air. Harvey himself was behind the desk, hurriedly trying to pull on his pants. A khaki-colored bedroll and a grungy pillow lay on an inflatable mattress on the floor next to the far wall.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “You can’t come barging in like you own the place.”
“As it happens, I do own the place,” Ali replied. “Not only that, this is a commercial building. It’s a place for doing business, not a private residence.”
Still in his stockinged feet, McCluskey rounded the desk and barreled in their direction as if preparing to take a swing at them. Next to Ali, Cami stiffened just as McCluskey seemed to change his mind about getting physical. He stopped, snorting like an enraged bull, as Cami calmly continued holding her iPad in a manner that Ali knew enabled her to record every moment of the confrontation.
“What are you going to do about it?” McCluskey bristled, sounding more like a recalcitrant kindergartner than an adult. “You can’t evict me. My five days aren’t up.”
“True,” Ali agreed, “they’re not. I may not be able to start the eviction proceedings at this time, but I can sure as hell call the cops and have your sorry ass hauled out of here for violating the occupancy requirements in the building code. I’m here to advise you that we have a new surveillance system that notifies us of any unauthorized movements inside our buildings. If you happen to turn up in the building during overnight hours, be advised that law enforcement will be summoned.” She turned to Cami. “Now, let’s get out of here so Mr. McCluskey can finish getting dressed.”
With that, Ali turned on her heel. She waited for Cami to pass before pulling the door shut behind them.
“If he’d followed through on that first b
low, he would have been in for one hell of a surprise,” Cami muttered darkly. “A swift kick to the balls would have had him crying like a baby.”
Still pumped full of adrenaline, Ali laughed aloud at that. “I’m almost sorry it didn’t come to that,” she said.
Back in the office, she had barely settled in at her desk when Stuart came rushing into the office. “You’re not going to believe it!” he exclaimed.
“Believe what?”
“Mateo got ’em all.”
Ali was mystified. “All what?”
“Out of curiosity’s sake, I sent him the hack-simulation problems we gave to the other applicants.”
“The hacks with names that sound like they stepped out of a zoo?” Ali asked.
She meant her question as a joke, but Stu was in no mood for humor. “I sent them to him yesterday evening. I thought having a chance to assess his current skill level might make it possible for me to revise my letter of recommendation to something more applicable to today’s market. According to Frigg, he started on the first simulation at six forty-five last night and mailed me all five completed solutions just after four o’clock this morning. He nailed all five of them, Ali, every last one! Believe me, none of our final-cut applicants did nearly that well.”
“But if he’s been in prison for sixteen years, how’s that even possible?” Ali asked.
“I had Frigg do some digging through his prison records. While Mateo was there, he worked in the prison library. In her analysis Frigg discovered that the librarian had been supplying him with all kinds of technical materials that she borrowed from libraries across the country. What he had to work with was just theory, but the way he performed on these hacking problems was outstanding. Believe me, it takes real smarts to turn written tech theory into practice.”
Ali was seated behind her desk. Stu was still standing in front of her, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, like a kid being hauled before the principal.