AHMM, July-August 2009 Read online

  Dawna watched her. “You tell Ed about your problem?"

  "I have not. To help, he'd need access to my hard drive. I can't allow that violation of client confidentiality. Besides, he has enough on his mind.” Bettijean pried a bottle of water loose from the six-pack on the counter and turned to face Dawna. “I can find out who's doing this.” Brave words, but her voice cracked the last one into two syllables.

  Her sister showed all the creeped-out stranger-pawing-through-my-underwear reactions Dawna recognized from real-world stalkees. Like them, Bettijean was fraying emotionally. And not thinking clearly.

  "You're looking too far afield,” Dawna told her. “Cases of technology theft by insiders far outnumber theft by outside hackers. Most likely, the thief is someone you see every day."

  Bettijean opened the water bottle and swallowed half of it. When she spoke again, her voice was steady. “Nobody near me has reason to do this."

  "Greed is a powerful motive.” Dawna brushed popcorn salt from her hand and went straight to the point. “Everyone who understands the value of WiZer's innovation is a suspect. The case is potentially a billion-dollar scandal for you and Garvin-McCarty. What's more, the thief has stepped up the pace. No longer waits for you to leave the house to raid. Your reports are shooting out of here minutes after you write them. Hell, your bad guy is so eager to read your stuff, could be parking across the street and watching for your office to go dark. Which tells me that WiZer must be close to finishing what they're working on."

  "Very close.” Bettijean glanced around nervously and lowered her voice. “Hope to submit their copyright application by Friday."

  "Someone nearby is using you to beat WiZer to the patent office,” Dawna concluded.

  "Someone twelve time zones away,” Bettijean argued.

  No point telling her that it was impossible to guess her bedtime from that distance. She was so heavily into denial, she'd likely claim that a skilled long-distance hacker could solve that problem too. Scary logic wouldn't persuade her stubbornly independent sister to take any help.

  So instead, Dawna let a huge grin take over her face. “Betcha I'm right,” she drawled, using the phrase that had earned her gamble-loving sister her pet name.

  Bettijean—Bettcha—blinked. “You want to turn this into a wager?"

  "Let me watch your back from now until Friday,” Dawna said. “I'll catch your bad guy."

  "Waste of your time."

  Dawna shrugged. “You're so sure you're right, give me a shot. Or are you afraid to lose?"

  "Never happen.” Bettijean's gaze grew calculating. “I'll take your bet, but I name the stakes. I win, you get Mom off my back about this wedding. Ed and I do not want me wearing Mom's old dress and holding our reception at Amity Grange Hall with every damn Shepherd in Texas on hand."

  Dawna grimaced. “Mom's been dreaming of that since you got engaged. She has nightmares that you two will run off to Necker Island and surround yourselves with so many rich nerds the rest of us can't get near you."

  Bettijean folded her arms. “You want her dreams to come true, take the wager. Or maybe you're not that sure you can win."

  "I'm sure,” Dawna said firmly. Their mother had ordered her to help Bettijean. To do that, Dawna had to put something big on the line. Mom would understand—maybe. “I win, you walk down the center aisle of the Baptist Church dressed like a Southern Belle."

  Bettijean faked a shudder.

  Dawna put out her hand. “Deal?"

  Bettijean grabbed hold and yanked their joined hands down. A bet-sealing shake. “Deal."

  Concocting their cover story to explain why Dawna would be shadowing her sister for the rest of the week proved easy. Ken Watson, the chief financial officer of Bettijean's client, WiZer, was a rabid basketball fan, and in his spare time he'd designed a software program he believed would improve player performance. In Bettijean's quick phone call to explain her late arrival, she also confirmed Ken would be available this morning and thrilled to have a former player and allegedly current coach run an in-house trial. Dawna didn't have to change out of her warm-ups.

  The two sisters worked out details of their story on the drive from the mansion to a Mountain View industrial park. At nine forty-five a.m., Bettijean parked her Mazda Miata in front of the one-story, white-painted cinder block building housing WiZer. Originally intended as a warehouse, it was now an open-plan development pod with fifteen employees scattered across the floor.

  Dawna's working theory was that one of them could be angling to get rich by selling WiZer's hot new idea elsewhere, hacking into Bettijean's computer to learn if she was close to uncovering the plot.

  From Ken Watson's conference table at midpoint in the building's rear wall, Dawna was perfectly positioned to spot anyone too interested in Bettijean. Or she would be when she found a way to stop six-foot-six-inch Ken from blocking her view.

  The man was typical techie, unable to do one task at a time. Coal black ponytail bouncing between his shoulder blades, long fingers stabbing the air, he kept leaping from his chair to chase down another illustration for his breathless explanation.

  "So fantastic having you as guinea pig,” he said to Dawna for the third time in five minutes. “You were so damn good on the boards. Like, I remember you at the Big Dance. March, 1992, right? You ended up at the Kodak All-American table, I'm sure of it."

  Wrong year, wrong award, but Dawna let it go. She didn't want him double-checking any facts and debunking her cover when he didn't find her name among the coaching staff listed on the Nacogdoches State University Web site.

  Ken rushed on. “You're trying to teach those skills to new players. You have to tell me if my program is any help."

  "Then you have to give me a low-tech explanation of what you're trying to achieve,” she warned him.

  As he talked, she monitored the manic activity in the room. The atmosphere was electric despite the dark-circled eyes and rumpled clothing on the exhausted staff. Crushed pizza boxes, half-rolled sleeping bags, and dozens of empty Jolt cola bottles littered the landscape, the detritus of twenty-four-hour days on the job. The staff was excited and talkative and Dawna overheard enough verbal clues to understand what she was seeing.

  WiZer specialized in something called ultra-wide-band technology and their innovation had to do with combining digital and analog signals on a single chip. Bettijean huddled with the four-person team feverishly writing nuts-and-bolts specifications for the copyright paperwork. Nearby, another quartet worked to correct a minor glitch. Two other trios were fine-tuning a pair of specialized applications—apparently with a military end-user in mind.

  She gave Ken only half her attention as he explained why he'd created what she dismissed as a computer game.

  "See, Dawna, we humans are hardwired to monitor the movements of other animals around us and predict what each will do next. Evolution selected for that skill. It's like we have a chip programmed for that behavior implanted in our brains at birth, though we no longer need it. For most people, it remains dormant, a sleeper chip. I'm guessing that something happened when you were a kid to wake up your chip. You've probably always been able to guess what another person's next move is likely to be. Very useful for a basketball player. But you don't remember learning that skill. Which makes it difficult to teach someone else. I hope playing against my superstar Elvira here will demonstrate how to wake up that sleeper chip in others."

  Ken's metaphor was from his world, not hers. “Let me try it out,” she said to halt the word flow. Ninety seconds later, she was wearing headphones, staring at a computer screen, and trying to stop Elvira from putting a basketball through the hoop. Easy enough, except that the Elvira figure looked like Bettijean. Dawna couldn't adapt fast enough to stop a well-coordinated clone of her baby sister, especially one who no longer telegraphed her moves.

  When Elvira/Bettijean scored, Ken paused the game. “You missed the subtler clues,” he said sadly.

  "Probably should have warmed up fir
st.” Acting casual, but mentally Dawna lasered in on Ken Watson. His loving depiction of her sister fit the characteristic stalker profile. Perhaps the computer break-in had nothing to do with corporate espionage. Instead, this man was dangerously obsessed with Bettijean and was making his first move on her by hacking into her system.

  Dawna muttered a few more words to distract him from her poor performance. “Didn't realize I'd be playing against Wonder Woman."

  He cheered up at the reference to his star. “Elvira's pretty wonderful, but she doesn't wear magic bracelets. No, my ideal player beat you fair and square. For me, that's a good thing. When Elvira explains what you should have seen, you'll be better able to tell me if the program works as a learning tool.” He un-paused the game and folded his arms.

  His ideal player. The phrase echoed in Dawna's brain, sending a chill down her spine, as she turned back to the screen. Elvira's slow-mo replay was enlightening. Ken might be a sicko, but he knew basketball. Dawna's praise for his concept was sincere and only her admiring tone was fake. Staying in her cover, she suggested a couple of improvements before moving on to the next sequence. She wished she had three eyes: one for the game, one for the other employees at WiZer, and one reserved for Ken Watson.

  By two thirty that afternoon, he was still her prime suspect. She'd run his program twice, taking frequent pauses to watch the ebb and flow of staff. Bettijean meshed well with all of them. Dawna allowed herself a moment of sisterly pride in the peppy but professional kid.

  Nobody seemed unusually focused on her. In fact, no staffer stood out from the others. The absence of an alpha-techie surprised her. “I thought startups depended on one or two geniuses,” she said to Ken. “Like the guys who created Google and PayPal. If WiZer has a superstar, I can't spot him."

  "Good eye,” he said appreciatively.

  His automatic reinforcement reminded Dawna of a good coach. She pushed the positive thought aside. The man's own eye landed too frequently on Bettijean. If he was breaking into her computer, he wasn't merely a shy geek hopelessly in love with a woman engaged to marry someone else. He was dangerous.

  "WiZer isn't typical,” he was saying. “No prima donnas. Fifteen equal partners. We grew up together and half of us played ball on the same team through high school."

  Dawna gestured at the crowded room. “You were jocks?"

  "Dumb jocks,” Ken amended. “How the brainiacs saw us. Combining our talents, we've done all right.” His expression turned serious. “Those geniuses are a different breed. They sell their startups for a gazillion bucks and discover they don't enjoy spending money. They could become angel investors, bankroll others trying to do the same thing. But they get no pleasure in nurturing newbies, either. Too competitive."

  "What do you mean?” Dawna asked, intrigued.

  "Giving another dude a hand wins no points in Silicon Valley. And what a guy did last year is old news. He has to be working on the hottest new technology, and always ahead of the curve. For a startup addict, beating everyone else is the only goal. And he wants all the glory for himself."

  "You're saying that's not true of the people at WiZer?"

  Ken shrugged. “We're a team is how I see it."

  "Look like a team to me too.” Dawna's voice was noncommittal. The fortune waiting for anyone who ripped off his or her co-workers made them all suspects. But identifying a rogue would be difficult, since not even old pal Ken had spotted a greedhead among them.

  Later that afternoon, she had an equally hard time assessing Bettijean's colleagues at Garvin-McCarty Ventures. Their domain was a thickly carpeted suite of keypad-protected offices, each climate controlled and obscured by sealed, smoked-glass windows.

  Bettijean was closeted first with the CEO, then with the legal team, while Dawna lounged on the backless settee in the reception area. The young redheaded female at the front desk answered the phone in tones too low to be overheard.

  This secretive environment would be reassuring to those fledgling businesses funded by the firm. It also suggested that few who worked there would be privy to the reports Bettijean had been e-mailing to the CEO. One of her fellow employees might be using the WiZer project as a front for an insider trading scam to loot investors. That person could be raiding Bettijean's computer to acquire vital information faster. But Dawna's cover wouldn't allow her to observe her sister's colleagues. The challenge was to force a skulking financial villain into the open before he or she absconded to Brazil with major coin.

  Bettijean looked worn out by the time they left Garvin-McCarty. She was silent on the drive to Los Altos, her meager energy focused on the heavy traffic. Riding shotgun, Dawna took advantage of the quiet to rethink her approach. She had too many suspects. Of course, Ken Watson was number one. If he was stalking Bettijean, her job was to keep her sister safe and expose him. A task made easier because Ken had begged Dawna to return and critique more of his programs.

  Protecting Bettijean from a corporate spy was tougher. And in many ways, the consequences were worse. Dawna continued to wrestle with her options while her sister hit an ATM for enough cash to pay her cleaning crew in the morning. She was looking so stressed that Dawna took over when they pulled into the adjacent discount gas station, even graciously giving in when Bettijean insisted on paying. Dawna pumped the fuel and carried her sister's stuffed wallet to the line of thrifty motorists waiting to push money through the slot in the bulletproof cashier window.

  While waiting, she reminded herself that she had one more suspect. Bettijean's billionaire fiancé might have no economic motive, but the FBI never ignored the victim's nearest and dearest.

  The sisters reached the mansion fifty minutes before the man himself arrived. They were in the cavernous kitchen unpacking the dinner delivered five minutes earlier from a Thai restaurant when Ed staggered in, toting a heavily loaded carton.

  Dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt with twinkl.com on the pocket, Ed was her sister's height—five-foot-seven—but sturdier by forty pounds. The reddish gold hairs adorning his pale arms and legs matched the thatch on his head.

  To Dawna, an ordinary looking guy who didn't spend much time in the sun. But Bettijean's eyes glowed at the sight of him, as if new power suddenly surged through her personal electrical system.

  He heaved his burden onto the butcher block counter and turned to pull Dawna into an enthusiastic hug. “I am so glad I get to meet one of Bettijean's family before the wedding.” He drew out his fiancée's name as though savoring its down-home flavor. Holding Dawna's hands, he stepped back and took a long look at her.

  His eyes were a startling blue green, like a tropical sea, and his grin made Dawna smile back. “Folks back home are waiting for my report,” she said.

  "Another wise guy.” He winked at Bettijean. “I see she's your tall sister. The jock—played basketball for the Lady Longhorns?"

  "A while back,” Dawna admitted.

  He dropped her hands to hug his intended. “Poor little you, missed out on the Shepherd family growth genes.” The embrace went on long enough to demonstrate that her lack of height pleased him as much as her name. He kissed the tip of her nose before returning to his carton.

  Dawna eyed the economy packs of frozen food he was unloading into the Subzero. “What, you guys do all your shopping at Costco?"

  "Twinkl's shopping,” Ed corrected. “My company buys in bulk, my accountant sorts out what's business and what's not, what's Bettijean's expense, what's mine.” He grabbed three cans of beer from the refrigerator side and joined them at the table. “You're gonna love this meal,” he said to Dawna. “Phuket Phantasy has excellent food.” Turning to Bettijean, he added, “As you're entertaining your sister, we won't count this."

  Bettijean laughed at Dawna's puzzled expression. “We're competing to see who can save the most money. He's so far ahead, one delivery from the area's priciest restaurant makes no difference at all."

  "Eat lots of those noodles, okay?” Ed pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and pretend
ed to be unable to squeeze any flesh at his waistline. “Your workouts won't cancel them out. No way your BMI will have gone down by more points than mine."

  Bettijean held up chopsticks forming a cross. “Peace, okay? Let's put aside our contests and celebrate Dawna being here."

  "Good plan.” Ed passed Dawna a beer. As they ate, he tried to interest her in his passion, the miniature software applications he called widgets. She pretended to understand what he meant by “itty-bitty televisions planted on Web sites making up the most powerful broadcasting system ever invented.” His being interrupted four times by his Blackberry was a relief.

  Bettijean filled the gaps in conversation when Ed left the table to respond to his crew. She automatically reached for him when he returned. After more than three years together, the couple was still in the gotta-touch-you phase of new love. Dawna figured they'd both been too busy working to wear it out. Ed's startup-addict personality didn't appeal to Dawna, but he seemed to suit her sister. She'd tell Mom how happy the two were with each other.

  She was happy to discover at ten o'clock that she didn't have to sleep on a bare floor, as she'd feared. The entire contents of Bettijean's pre-Ed condo filled the mansion's guest suite and Dawna spent a restful night.

  At seven the next morning she was back in the kitchen, sipping coffee brewed earlier by Ed, when Bettijean stepped out of the elevator, looking grim. “My computer did it again last night.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced at Dawna. “I want to track where the message went. Can you keep the cleaning crew away from Ed's office and pay them when they're done?"

  Dawna nodded. Bettijean handed her a wad of bills and disappeared into the elevator. The cleaning crew turned out to be six men, all apparently recent immigrants from India, most likely family members following the huge influx of software engineers from the subcontinent.

  She monitored them via motion detector readouts on the security panels placed in the kitchen and master bedroom, interspersed with randomly timed checks of the basement. Simultaneously, she formulated a plan to shrink her list of potential bad guys and phoned a buddy in the financial crimes unit of the San Francisco FBI office, setting up a meeting for the next afternoon.