Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Read online

  “Gessler is a local firm,” said Tank. “They don’t have ops in Silicon Valley. Scratch them off our list.”

  “We’re down to two, then. Should we flip a coin?”

  “I have something better.” Tank removed a gold wristwatch from his pocket. “Picked this up at my friend Carlos’s house.”

  Mary examined the watch. “This is his?”

  “Turns out Carlos was a thief. He took stuff from work and sold it. The evidence tag shows that Carlos stole the watch from the morgue two days ago. The day after your husband was killed.”

  “You mean he stole personal effects from the deceased?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Nice friend.”

  Tank pointed at the watch. “Turn it over.”

  Mary flipped the watch in her palm and read the inscription. “ ‘To H.S. Thanks, I.’ ”

  “My guess is that H.S. is your husband’s informant.”

  “And I?”

  “I is Ian Prince.”

  “The Ian Prince?”

  “Only one, as far as I know.”

  “So Joe was investigating ONE Technologies?”

  “It fits. ONE was the target of Keefe’s investigation last year. He and your husband were investigating wrongdoing in the tech industry, dealing with a company that has offices in Silicon Valley and Austin. ONE controls at least part of the cable systems in Cedar Valley.”

  “Then who is H.S?”

  “Move over,” said Tank. “You’re not the only one who knows how to find someone.”

  Mary scooted her chair to the side as Tank accessed the ONE Technologies website and pulled down the page listing the names and bios of the managers, beginning with Ian Prince. Tank scrolled down the page, past photographs of the executive chairman, the chief business officer, the senior vice president corporate development, and the chief legal counsel. None of the executives’ names bore the initials H.S.

  Mary pointed out a secondary tab. “What about ‘Senior Leadership’?”

  Tank double-clicked on the tab. More pictures of executives. Senior vice president knowledge, senior vice president advertising and commerce…

  “Stop.” She was looking at a head-and-shoulders portrait of a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and crazed salt-and-pepper hair that stood from his scalp as if he’d just stuck his finger in a socket. “ ‘Harold J. Stark. Senior vice president special projects and infrastructure.’ ”

  “H.S.,” said Tank. “Who works for I. Has a ring to it.”

  “Is there a bio?”

  Tank double-clicked on the photograph and read the condensed biography aloud. “ ‘Harold Stark is senior vice president of special projects and technical infrastructure and a ONE fellow at ONE Technologies. Before joining ONE, he was an associate professor of computer science at the University of Texas at Austin. He received a PhD in computer science from Stanford University, where his research focused on large-scale, energy-efficient data collection networks.”

  “Is that it?”

  “About Stark?” Tank typed Stark’s name into the search bar. “Are twenty-five thousand hits enough?”

  Among the links to Stark were articles titled “How We’re Making the Web Faster,” “The Ability to Store Unlimited Amounts of Data,” “Open Networking Summit.” And then something that really caught her eye: “ ‘Hal Stark,’ ” she said aloud. “ ‘The Genius Behind Ian Prince.’ ”

  “Your husband had himself a heck of an informant,” said Tank. “Stark was Prince’s right-hand man, like Nathan Myrhvold was to Bill Gates.”

  “Nathan who?”

  “Never mind. Just think of it like getting Judas to snitch on his boss back in the day.” He opened Stark’s Wikipedia page and read aloud. “ ‘As ONE’s twenty-first employee and its first VP engineering, Stark has shaped much of ONE’s infrastructure. For the past four years he has worked closely with Ian Prince to map out the company’s foray into supercomputing, and he was instrumental in the company’s acquisition of Merriweather Systems.”

  “There’s that company again,” said Mary. “What do they do?”

  “John Merriweather created really fast computers. Supercomputers. The most powerful in the world.”

  “We’re still just guessing that Joe was looking into ONE.”

  “You really believe that?”

  At the bottom of the first page was a link to Stark’s ONE X page, a compendium of pictures and events that Stark found interesting. Halfway down was a photograph of Stark standing in front of a red sports car. A caption read, “Me and my million-dollar baby.”

  “Stark drove that car to the meet with my husband.”

  “A LaFerrari? How do you know?”

  “You could see it in the photograph of the crime scene on the front page of your paper.”

  “Satisfied now?”

  Mary nodded. “But why did they have to meet so far out of town? Why didn’t Stark just e-mail him whatever he was giving him?”

  Tank smiled ruefully. “All tech corporations spy on their own execs. As director of special projects, Stark would know about all the products being developed—what worked, what didn’t, what was going to be the next big thing. Ian Prince is legendary for his paranoia. I heard that he makes employees go through a metal detector and empty their pockets each time they exit the building. Whatever evidence of wrongdoing Stark was giving your husband, he couldn’t e-mail it to him. He had to deliver it in person. Joe needed hard evidence. That’s the key.”

  “But we’ll never—” Mary bit her tongue. The key. Joe had used those words in his message to her, hadn’t he? She was no longer sure of exactly what he’d said, only that the word brought to mind something she’d seen much too recently, something that reminded her of Hal Stark’s “million-dollar baby.” “Bring up the picture of the car again.”

  Tank double-clicked on the photo, and there was Stark standing in front of his new sports car, staring right back at them with his best shit-eating grin.

  “What is it…something about the car?” asked Tank.

  “Not the car. The horse.”

  “There’s no horse in the picture.”

  “On the hood. The Ferrari insignia.” Mary zoomed in on the black stallion rampant on a yellow field. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “So has everyone.”

  “I mean, I’ve seen it at my house.” Mary stood. “Stay here. I have to go get something.”

  73

  Peter Briggs parked his BMW in the shadows of a willow tree a hundred yards past the Grants’ house. Surveying the street, he slipped a pistol from his holster and affixed a noise suppressor. According to the Mole, Mary Grant and her younger daughter remained in the home while the older girl was out with a boyfriend. Briggs’s plan was to enter, gain access to the bedrooms, and execute both targets, leaving the weapon behind to create the appearance of a murder-suicide. Distraught widow takes her daughter’s life before taking her own. It happened every day. The older girl’s absence would only add to the mystery.

  Briggs chambered a round, then thumbed the safety on. He did not like disobeying Ian, but he had little choice. Men like Ian were divorced from the everyday nuts and bolts of a problem. They had forgotten that it takes a mower and a man pushing it to cut the grass. They only saw the result: an immaculately manicured lawn. It came down to a question of fundamental beliefs. Ian believed that technology could solve all his problems. Briggs knew better. Some things a man had to do with his own two hands.

  Briggs left the car and disappeared into the shadows. He advanced at a jog, keeping close to the homes. It had been a while since he’d been in the field, and the adrenaline was pumping. Once it had been for his country. Tonight it was for his company, but his allegiance was no less fierce. Maybe all that rot that Ian spilled about the source of a man’s loyalties wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe countries were obsolete.

  —

  Two minutes.

  Mary let go of the fence, landing awkw
ardly. She limped to the sliding door, let herself in, and collapsed on the first chair she saw. Her phone sat on the table, a decoy left behind on the chance their pursuers were tracking its location. A check of the screen showed that Jess had not called.

  “Two minutes,” Tank had said. “Get in, find what you have to find, and come back.”

  With an effort, she made it to Joe’s study. She sat at his desk, retrieved his gadget box, and upended it, sending the flash drives clattering everywhere. In the dark she spotted the phony pack of bubblegum, the heart-shaped pendant, and the car key. Not any car key, she knew now, but the key to a LaFerrari owned by Mr. Harold J. Stark, senior vice president special products of ONE Technologies. Or a replica thereof.

  She turned on the reading lamp. The key was fat and black, with the Ferrari insignia printed beneath a translucent orb in its center. She pressed her thumb against the stallion and out popped the flash drive.

  Joe’s plan came to her as if it were her own. She saw Harold Stark entering his office, inserting the flash drive into his computer, downloading the evidence Joe had asked him to procure. She saw him again at the end of the day, dumping the key into the plastic tray along with the rest of his personal effects and passing through the security checkpoint, no one the wiser.

  A noise interrupted her thoughts. The sound of one of her wooden chairs scooting an inch. Her eyes went to the desk lamp.

  The light…

  —

  The kitchen door was open an inch.

  Briggs stepped inside. His pistol was drawn, held low, finger brushing the trigger guard. Inadvertently he knocked one of the chairs. It squeaked like hell, and hurriedly he lifted it off the ground. He froze, listening, thinking that it had been too long since he’d been operational. He waited until he was satisfied that the house was still and everyone asleep, then set the chair down. He crossed the kitchen and went through the foyer into the garage, wanting to confirm that the car was there. He retraced his steps, noting that a television was on in the family room, muted, no one watching.

  Antennas bristling, Briggs raised his pistol and climbed the stairs. The doors to the girls’ rooms were closed, as was the door to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He stopped by the first door to the right. According to the Mole, it belonged to the younger girl. He steeled himself. It would be fast. He didn’t want things getting out of hand.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, activating the pistol’s laser sight, pointing the beam of red light at the pillow. He fired twice, advancing toward his target. The bed was empty, sheets and covers pulled back.

  Briggs turned on a heel, wary. He decided that it made sense that the girl wasn’t in her bed. She was a frightened lamb. She needed her mother. He moved rapidly to the end of the hall. A check of the knob confirmed that the door was unlocked. He drew a breath, pushed it open, and walked toward the bed, arm outstretched. This time he did not fire. The room was empty.

  He pushed his commo mike to his mouth and spoke to the Mole. “No one’s here.”

  “I saw her drive home. I’m still showing her phone on the premises.”

  “She’s smarter than we thought.”

  Briggs lowered the weapon. Mary Grant had done a runner on them. If she was really smart, she’d get as far away as possible. Not likely. Not her.

  Back downstairs, he noted a light burning in a room off the front entry. Had it been on before, or had he missed it?

  “Just checking one more thing,” he said, starting down the hall. “Keep the channel open.”

  —

  Tank stood at the curtain inside the Kramers’ living room, keeping an eye on Mary’s driveway. Five minutes had passed since she’d left—three more than he would have liked. He didn’t see a reason to worry. No cars had driven past. He hadn’t spotted any figures in the shadows, no silhouettes slipping toward the Grants’ front door. Still, he was unable to dispel his butterflies. It wasn’t Mary’s delayed return that worried him so much as the larger, hopeless predicament they found themselves in. They were in over their heads, and they had no one to turn to. Not the paper. Not the police. Certainly not the FBI. It was down to him and Mary. Alamo odds.

  “Tank?”

  The timid voice made him jump. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  Grace stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed animal. “Where’s my mom?”

  “She’ll be right back. She had to get something from your house.”

  “I already have Pink Pony.”

  “Something else.”

  Grace remained where she was, pale and fragile as Meissen china.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Grace shook her head.

  “Don’t worry about your sister. Jessie’s going to be just fine.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “Oh? Would you like to tell me, or do you want to sit down and wait for your mom?”

  “My leg hurts.”

  “Your leg? Did you sleep on it funny?”

  Grace shook her head again. Tank took another look at the Grants’ driveway. Nothing had changed. He had the window cracked a few inches. The neighborhood was silent as a grave.

  “Show me.”

  Carefully she peeled back the hem of her nightgown to reveal a bruise covering her lower thigh.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I fell on the trampoline.”

  “Looks like you were hit by a Mack truck.” Tank saw her eyes well up. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I was just joshing. I mean, it looks kind of bad.”

  “Jessie said it looked like grackle poo.”

  “One mighty big grackle.”

  For a moment a smile broke through the pain. “I’m scared.”

  “It’s just a bruise.”

  “You don’t understand. I might be getting sick again.”

  “The flu?”

  “ALL. It’s when your body doesn’t make enough white blood cells. The doctors are pretty sure I’ll be okay. Eight out of ten children under the age of fifteen who have it survive.”

  “That’s good.” Tank nodded understandingly, hoping that a smile would hide his shock. He knew what ALL was. “I’m sure you’re okay. Let’s go get some ice for that.”

  Tank took the child’s hand and together they walked into the kitchen. On the way he checked his watch.

  Eight minutes.

  Something was wrong.

  —

  Mary huddled at the rear of the desk’s kneehole, pasting her body to the wall as the man pounded down the stairs. Footsteps crossed the foyer. She’d had no choice but to leave the lamp burning. Anyone watching the house would surely catch the study going dark.

  A pair of boots appeared in the doorway, stopped for exactly three heartbeats, then came toward the desk.

  “What’s this, then?” the intruder said in a hushed voice.

  In her hurry, she’d left the flash drives on the desktop.

  The man sat down in Joe’s chair. His boot shot forward, cleaving the gap between her knees and her head. She sucked in a breath, her face inches from the man’s trousers.

  Something thudded onto the desk. For the second time that night she smelled gunpowder, and she knew that it came from the intruder’s pistol and that yes, those were shots she’d heard. He had come to kill her and the girls.

  “You check Stark for cached thumb drives?” This time the voice was stronger, and she waited for someone to respond, horrified that a second person might be in her home.

  “He must have had something,” the man continued after a pause. “He didn’t drive all the way out to Dripping Springs just to talk to Grant.”

  The accent was South African, and she knew he was speaking to someone over a phone or, more likely, a closed-circuit communications net.

  “Keefe didn’t know how Stark was bringing out the evidence. That bugger Grant didn’t tell anyone. He knew that Mason was with us. He was a cagey one.”

  At the mention of Fergus Keefe’s name, Mary nearly gasped. Now i
t made sense why she hadn’t seen him at the hospital. Keefe had betrayed Joe.

  “You’d better have checked the bodies.”

  The South African began swinging his boot like a pendulum, the laces brushing against Mary’s cheeks.

  “If any evidence does surface, your name is at the top of the list…I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian thought you sold him out. I might think it, too…I’m glad you’re sure. Then you have nothing to worry about. Because here’s what I’m sure about: Stark had the evidence on him and you rank amateurs missed it.”

  Just then Mary’s phone began to ring in the kitchen.

  The chair slid back. The boot swung past her nose one last time. “Hold on.”

  The South African hurried out of the room as the phone continued to ring.

  Jessie.

  Mary looked at her watch. It was two-thirty. Suppose Jessie was on her way home. Suppose she was coming down Pickfair right this instant. Even if she wasn’t, suppose the intruder managed to learn her location. He was a killer. Mary wouldn’t allow her daughter to fall into harm’s way.

  She scrambled out from beneath the desk. She didn’t try to move quietly. There wasn’t time. She felt for Joe’s pistol, but it was at Carrie’s with her jacket and her purse.

  “Hello,” said the South African into the phone. He’d flattened his accent and sounded like the admiral. Annapolis aristocracy.

  Mary picked up the bowl on the entry table. It was an iron cooking bowl from Thailand, heavy, with sloped sides and sharp edges, employed since their return to hold the family’s keys. She entered the kitchen. The intruder was tall and lean, dressed in black, his back to her. One hand held her phone, the other a pistol. If he turned, he could shoot her dead. By all rights he should have heard her approaching, but she knew he was more intent on listening to Jessie, and anyway, he didn’t think anyone else was in the house.

  Using both hands, she lifted the bowl high and brought it down on the crown of his skull. She grunted as it struck his cranium, like she grunted when she hit a double in softball, her wrists and forearms aching with the contact. The man buckled at the knee as she lost hold of the bowl and it clattered to the floor. He turned and she saw camouflage on his face, pale blue eyes that shone even in the dark. He blinked rapidly, raising the gun as he collapsed. It was a reflex. He was not trying to shoot but reaching for a handhold even as he lost consciousness. Mary jumped back. He landed hard, leading with his cheek, and lay still.