I called the same sequence of phone numbers as yesterday, and with each failed attempt I felt a little more of my newfound enthusiasm drain away, only to be replaced with frustration and anger. The final straw was the conversation I had with an idiot on the IT helpdesk who insisted my things had already been delivered. I didn’t actually beat my head on the desk at the end of the call, but believe me, I was close.
I really wasn’t looking forward to schlepping all the way to the city, parking, and dealing with the crowds and the salespeople and everything else that computer shopping entails, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. Not unless I wanted to be unemployed for the rest of my life, or remain trapped in the AmeriTel/police department’s telephonic equivalent of Groundhog Day.
I grabbed my jacket and made my way back down the hallway, but stopped when I drew level with the dining room door. A tempting thought had popped into my head. I didn’t need to go to a store to buy a computer. Why not just order one on my phone? And if I didn’t have to drive anywhere, it wouldn’t matter if I had a little something to drink. You could argue it was a little early in the afternoon to really cut loose, but these were special circumstances. And it had to be after five somewhere in the world …
I crossed to the liquor cabinet and reached for the Patrón. A second bottle of tequila. A second day without Carolyn. That seemed like a reasonable ratio. Until I started wondering where she was. Because that opened the floodgates to a cascade of darker questions. Who was she with? What she was doing? And had she only betrayed me for a paycheck? Or for personal reasons, too?
I pulled the fancy presentation box from its shelf, but when I tried to open it I saw the seal at the top had already been broken. It had been hacked through, clumsily, by a small, thin blade. And inside I heard something rattle, metal against glass.
I carried the box to the table, holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode at any second, and cautiously opened the lid. The bottle of tequila was still there. It was still full. And, lying next to its neck, jammed up against the cardboard wall, was my key ring. The door key was still attached. So was the second memory stick. And so was the little Swiss Army knife Carolyn had given me two nights ago at the restaurant, before she disappeared.
Seeing the knife triggered a few other memories. I’d done more than just think about this second bottle, after Carolyn had left. I’d gone as far as opening the box, using the new penknife to cut my way in. Not the most efficient tool for the job, judging by the result. And having struggled through such a simple task, discretion had proved the better part of valor. I’d decided on an honorable retreat. I’d closed the box and shoved it back in the cupboard, where it belonged. But, it would seem, without realizing I’d dropped my keys inside.
For what must have been the second time, I returned the box to its shelf without opening the bottle. On this occasion, though, I held on to the key ring. I let it swing from my index finger for a moment, like a hypnotist’s charm. Then I closed my fist around it while I thought things through. Its presence seemed significant. It meant I’d lied—albeit unintentionally—to the police, because it clearly hadn’t been stolen, after all. And I’d lied to Homeland Security. It meant I’d suffered the expense and inconvenience of changing the front door lock for no good reason. But it also meant I still had test data to work with. On the memory stick. Only half as much as I’d originally had, but enough for the time being.
The next question was, what to do about it? Should I call the detectives, and set the record straight? I could. But what would be the point? They hadn’t been burning much rubber since they’d interviewed me. If they heard that the only tangible item I’d claimed to have lost in the break-in wasn’t missing, after all, they’d take it as vindication for their low-energy approach to the investigation. Plus, the way they’d treated me so far, they’d probably arrest me for wasting their time.
I could try Agent McKenna, at Homeland Security. He’d said he was above the detectives in the pecking order. He’d been more dynamic, grabbing me off the street and sweeping my house clean of bugs. He had more manpower on display. And he’d made me promise to tell him if any more data came to light. Something to do with his ongoing investigation into AmeriTel. Which meant calling McKenna could conceivably derail some kind of terrorist activity. It could possibly save lives. And, perhaps, land Roger LeBrock and his backstabbing cronies in hot water.
Maybe calling McKenna was the way to go?
The payback would be sweet. Especially in LeBrock’s moment of triumph. But don’t they say the best revenge is massive success? And Homeland Security would confiscate the data. McKenna would take the memory stick away for examination. I was stymied without it. Losing it the first time was a blow. I couldn’t face it a second time, especially if I was the one handing it over and watching it being taken away in an evidence bag. I didn’t want to undermine the government’s case, whatever it might be, but I honestly couldn’t see what information was on that memory stick that McKenna wouldn’t be able to get his hands on from somewhere else.
Plus there was my second Lichtenstein to think about. The one I wouldn’t be able to buy if I didn’t finish my new product ahead of whoever had stolen my prototype.
What about a compromise? McKenna needed the data. I needed the data. Why not share it? He wouldn’t agree—if he knew. So why not share it without him knowing? All I’d have to do was copy the files, then call him and volunteer to hand over the original memory stick. Everyone would win. Except perhaps that bastard LeBrock. And I wasn’t about to shed any tears over him. Or Carolyn. Perhaps the experience would help her. Show her that picking her job over her husband hadn’t been her smartest move. Assuming that was all she’d done …
The afternoon was shaping up much more productively than if I’d dived into that bottle of tequila. A plan was coming into focus. First, hide the memory stick. I didn’t want it lying around in plain sight in case the detectives showed their faces again. That would be embarrassing, not to mention hard to explain. Second, order a new computer. I couldn’t copy the data files without one. And finally, put the rest of the day to good use. Call a few of the people I’d need on board further down the line, as the project built momentum. Finance guys. Marketing. Public relations. And Intellectual Property lawyers, given that the prototype had been stolen.
My so-called friends had been reluctant to be associated with me recently.
But it would be different with the people whose pockets I crammed with cash.
Wednesday. Afternoon.
I’D KEPT THE PHONE PRESSED TO MY EAR FOR MORE THAN THREE hours, whetting people’s appetites and furthering my plans for world domination. But when I heard tires on the gravel outside, I was on my feet in an instant.
Carolyn?
I ran to the window and saw—a UPS van. A guy in a brown uniform climbed out and after ducking into the cargo bay for a couple of minutes he started toward the front of the house, wheeling a heavily taped movers’ box behind him on a little trolley. I opened the door for him and he asked me to confirm my name, and that I was expecting a delivery from AmeriTel. Satisfied, he held out a little touch-screen device and gestured for me to sign. But when I reached out to take it he grabbed my hand and bent it back on itself, twisting my wrist and forcing me to spin around. Then he bundled me along the hallway and into the living room. Red-hot needles shot through my shoulder and into my neck. I pushed back and yelled for him to stop but he just wrenched my arm harder and kept on shoving until he had me down on my knees.