Code of Conduct (Cipher Security Book 1) Page 2
I stood up to pull a twenty out of my back pocket, and Dane’s eyes widened as they followed me up and up and up. He scowled and covered the phone again. “Where are you going?”
I nodded toward the phone in his hand. “You’re busy, and I have to prep for a colonoscopy tomorrow.”
He made a face and spoke into the phone again. “Hang on,” he snarled. Then he covered the mouthpiece again. “When can I see you?”
I brightened. “Why don’t I find you on Tinder and we can look for men to share.”
He frowned. “To share? But I’m not gay.”
I put on my saddest face. “You’re not? Oh, that’s too bad, because I am.”
Before he could untangle that ridiculous parting shot, I handed Tiffani the twenty as I headed for the door. “Thanks, Tiffani,” I said brightly. “Keep the change.”
“What happened to your leg?” she asked. “You okay?”
She must have seen my limp, and she looked sweetly concerned. Dane was still on his phone, and I could hear his voice rising angrily in the background. “What do you mean you’ll be right here? Why?”
“Oh yeah, it’s nothing. Just a shark bite,” I said with a quick glance back at Dane before I stepped outside into the evening twilight.
I’d taken about five strides down the sidewalk when a big, black SUV barreled around the corner and screeched to a stop in front of the restaurant. The passenger shot out of his seat and stalked into the building so fast I barely caught a glimpse of a good suit and neck tattoos. The driver was still in his seat, and I could see his eyes on me in the side view mirror.
Something in those eyes locked my knees in place and forbade my legs to move.
Then the driver opened the car door and was out on the sidewalk facing me before I could exhale. I catalogued my options. Bond? Bond Girl? Or Bond Villain? I knew I looked good, and I could charm my way out of most situations, so Bond Girl was on the table. I’d worn a special knife holster on the titanium shaft of my prosthetic leg, invisible inside my boot, which gave me Bond powers of attack and defense. But I’d just emptied Dane’s private cootchie fund of half-a-million dollars and transferred it to his wife as payment for fifteen years of services rendered. So Bond Villain seemed appropriate too.
Then I took a breath and actually looked at the man on the sidewalk in front of me.
He wasn’t much taller or older than me, which made him about six-two or -three and put him in his early thirties. He wore a sharp, black suit tailored to make his shoulder-to-hip ratio look like an inverted triangle, which made me think quarterback instead of linebacker. He stood like a cop and dressed like a CEO, which made me think private security. If this was Cipher, I was in trouble.
An aura of power radiated from the man like wavy heat above a desert road. It didn’t help my temperature that the guy’s Idris Elba smolder threatened to set my skin and various articles of clothing on fire. For one insanity-filled moment, I imagined casually walking over and introducing myself.
I must have flinched, because his hand twitched toward a holster he wasn’t actually wearing. Then reality intruded on the fantasy. I was a Caucasian female alone in a predominantly Puerto Rican neighborhood in Logan Square, having just committed something akin to a felony, albeit justly deserved, standing in front of a guy who probably used to be in some form of law enforcement.
And perhaps because I must have truly gone insane, I smiled at him. It was pure reflex, like the sigh at a spectacular sunset or the grin at a child’s laughter. He very nearly took a step toward me, then seemed to come to his senses and halted in place. It was at this point that I compounded my idiocy by accidentally waving to him as I turned to hurry away down the street.
Who waves at the guy who could probably bust her butt ten ways from Tuesday?
Finally, cold logic, survival skills, and James Bond took over control of my hands. I powered down my phone, took out the battery, and tucked both into my back pockets as I walked. I also ducked down an alley and circled back on myself twice. I never carried a purse if I could help it – my phone, keys, a credit card, my Ventra card for the CTA, lip balm, and two twenties were all I ever had on me.
I half expected squealing tires and slamming doors to find me before I got to Fullerton, but remarkably, I made it onto my bus unimpeded. My heart still pounded uncomfortably in my chest as I dropped into a seat, and it annoyed me that I had reacted so strongly. Was it because the philandering asshat I’d just relieved of five hundred grand had connections to Cipher Security, or was it the Man in Black who had made my stomach clench in a way that was decidedly not like lactose intolerance or the flu? I was almost grateful for the two young hoods who sat down across from me and leered suggestively.
Seriously boys? That’s all you’ve got? I front-loaded disdain into my pointed glare until they got up and slid down the bus, leaving me alone with my slamming heart.
I’d just hijacked Dane Quimby’s phone and moved half his money into his wife’s account. How long until someone connected the dots between my “date” with Dane and the missing money?
I absently rubbed the skin above my leg socket and let my head fall against the window. I might have even tapped my head against the glass a couple of times to drown out the whooshing sound of impending doom that filled my ears.
2
Gabriel
“You have to be smarter than them, talk softer, smile bigger, and let all the words roll off your back. It’ll be hard, son, but someday you’ll find someone who wants to see your light, and when you do, you’re going to shine.” – Miri Eze
Who the bloody hell was that?
I took another step forward, but she was already walking away – fast, as though she had a place to be. She had on tall riding boots and had a slight hitch in her gait, and I almost got back in the car to offer her a ride. But that was madness stemming from an overactive protective gene I seemed to have developed along with a penchant for self-destructive behavior, so I ignored the instinct. It didn’t matter how nice the suit was, a black man in an SUV did not offer a ride to a beautiful white girl he didn’t know, not even when the man in question had a British accent and an Oxford education. At a minimum, she’d call the police, and I did not need to explain my misguided chivalrous instincts to Chicago’s finest tonight.
“You alright, man? Why’d you stay outside?” O’Malley asked as he stepped out of the restaurant. Dan O’Malley had the Boston accent and tattoos of a thug, but the generosity of a gentleman. He’d been showing me the ropes at Cipher since I’d come on board, and he was one of those people who made the new bloke feel welcome without doing anything in particular to show it.
His voice broke the spell I was under, and I tore my eyes away from the excellent view disappearing around the corner. “I’m fine. What’s your opinion of Quimby?”
“Well, Quinn’s been phasing out private clients, and this one’s definitely on the block. Alex is taking a look at the numbers, but my gut says the guy’s a fucking mess. His company’s hemorrhaging stockholders like rats from a sinking ship, and guys who cheat on their wives lie like shag rugs. The liability’s too high for us to keep untrustworthy clients.”
“How do we know he cheats?” I hadn’t read the file yet and wondered if fidelity was a usual part of Cipher’s client profiles.
O’Malley gestured inside the restaurant. “The waitress said he brings a different woman in about once a week. Last one just left, actually.”
I tried to shrug off the unaccountable feeling of disappointment at the thought that the lovely bird with the spectacular rear-view had already been claimed.
“The account breech that called us here is going to jack this up, since he’s still technically our client and he’s got one of the old insurance policies, which means we pay if we can’t protect. Hopefully we can wade through the shit and figure it out. Come on, you should meet him, get a feel for his rating on the dickhead scale.”
I followed O’Malley inside and wondered how any man, much
less a married one, thought he could shag a girl after a date here. The waitress was Caucasian, in her early twenties, and wore a practiced pout. The bloke I assumed was Quimby sat at a table in the corner, scrolling manically through his phone. He was probably about my age, also Caucasian, and handsome enough to make up for being short in a tall man’s world. His date had looked to be over six feet tall, and this bloke didn’t seem like he had the confidence to pull that off. A mystery to ponder some other time, perhaps.
We approached the table, and Quimby looked up with a wide-eyed expression that had shades of panic in it. His quick glance dismissed me and landed on O’Malley.
“It’s gone!” He sounded as though someone had his stones in a vice.
O’Malley didn’t say a word, just arched an eyebrow and waited. A good tactic, and one I’d used often during my tenure with the Royal MPs. I wondered idly if he’d ever been with the police.
Quimby nearly shrieked. “My money! It’s gone!”
The waitress looked over at us from the salt shakers she was refilling, and I gave her an easy smile. She looked away quickly and went back into the kitchen.
“Calm down, Mr. Quimby,” said O’Malley as he pulled out his phone. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Eze the details while I get our tech person on the line.” O’Malley pronounced my name with the proper “Ayzay” inflection that told me he had a good ear for language.
Quimby continued talking to him as though I wasn’t in the room. It was a standard attempt to establish hierarchy that I routinely ignored. “I have an account at National. It’s been emptied,” he said.
“How much is missing, Mr. Quimby?” I asked.
He seemed startled by my accent, then glared and spoke to O’Malley again. “There was a million dollars in that account!”
O’Malley turned his back and walked away a few steps to speak on the phone. I knew he was doing it on purpose, and it seemed to infuriate Quimby.
“So, how much is actually missing?” My voice was deep, and I usually spoke quietly enough that people had to lean closer to hear me – a useful tool for gathering information about everything from unfortunate personal hygiene to lipstick or blood splatter on a collar.
Quimby glared at me. “Who are you?”
“Gabriel Eze with Cipher Security.”
“I don’t know you. I’m going to wait until he’s off the phone so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
I shrugged. “As you wish.”
I adopted an at-ease posture and studied the table Quimby had shared with … someone. I had no proof it was the lovely bird, but it was she I pictured sitting across from him. A barely-touched glass of sparkling water with a wedge of lime sat in a small puddle of ice-sweat on the table. She’d had at least one sip, but the sides of the glass were wet enough to make fingerprints unusable. She wore some sort of lip balm rather than lipstick, which, for some reason, made me think of pretty young girls and athletes instead of mistresses.
The chair had been pushed a significant distance back from the table, as though a tall person had been seated there. I studied the chair-back and saw a few strands of long brown hair caught in a crack in the wood. Again, totally circumstantial – the hair could have been there for months – but the bird outside was a brunette, with thick hair she’d worn down past her shoulders. I pictured it up in a sloppy ponytail, or long and loose, spread across a pillow, and I had to shake myself sharply to concentrate on Quimby again.
Why him? Why would she choose him? Unless …
“May I see your phone, Mr. Quimby?” I asked just as O’Malley returned to the table.
“I’m not giving you my phone!” he spat.
“Give him the fucking phone, Quimby. We have to talk.” O’Malley sounded tired and disgusted, which was no mean feat for a man whom, despite his colorful vocabulary, I’d only ever seen behave like a professional.
O’Malley’s tone startled Quimby, and he shoved the phone across the table at me through puddles left behind by wet glasses. I didn’t pick it up. It would be a cold day in hell before I wiped the water off on a tailored suit.
The phone was unlocked and on the home screen, so I navigated to the call icon. The screen opened to a blank contact containing a phone number but no name. I memorized the number and then searched the recent call list. There were three missed calls from “home,” then about ten minutes after the last one, O’Malley’s call. I took a screenshot of his call list, air-dropped it to myself, and then navigated back to the home screen and slid the phone back across the table.
O’Malley was just barely keeping his temper in check, if the jaw muscle flexing with every clench of his teeth was any indication. “Exactly how much is left in the account that you claim no one knew about?”
Quimby’s voice was back up to glass-shattering levels. “Five hundred thou.”
I started chuckling as I dialed the number I’d memorized from his contact list. “Half,” I said under my breath.
“You think it’s funny to have half a mil stolen from an account I worked damn hard to fill, Easy?” Quimby squeaked angrily. Calling me Easy rather than correctly pronouncing Eze with long “a” sounds was another tactic I’d come to expect from men with dominance issues. I also noted that he said fill, not earn, but I ignored him as the ringing phone in my ear was picked up by an answering machine.
“You’ve reached Cheatham and Howe, the divorce and bankruptcy specialists of the greater Chicago area. Please leave a message—”
I hung up and my chuckle turned into full-on laughter as I jerked my head at O’Malley, indicating we should leave.
“We’ll be in touch, Quimby,” he said to the cocky bastard as he followed me out of the restaurant.
“What’s so funny?” O’Malley asked as I climbed behind the wheel of the SUV.
“It was the wife, and she must have used the girlfriend to do it.” I told him about the phone number, the wife’s calls, and the fact that exactly half of the money was gone.
O’Malley looked impressed by my assessment, and he chuckled as I drove away from the curb. “Serves him fucking right for bangin’ someone else’s bongo.”
3
Shane
“Pay attention to how he treats waiters and animals. How he treats waiters is how he’ll eventually treat you. How he treats animals is the way he’ll treat your kids.” – Shane, P.I.
Oscar was the world’s most dominant dog. I inherited the Bernese mountain dog from my neighbor in L.A. who couldn’t train him because the dog believed he was the boss of her. Oscar and I had settled on a fairly comfortable roommate situation, rather than master/beast, and sharing my apartment with him had made me a much better housekeeper – and shot – than I used to be. It was either hit the laundry basket with the socks and underwear every time, or find them in his poop the next day.
He greeted me with his usual dangerous exuberance, and I braced myself for impact as all one hundred pounds of him leapt straight up in the air like a bouncy puppy. I pushed past him to drop my keys and phone in the kitchen, then made my way to the bedroom to pull off my boots, jeans, and leg. Oscar waited until I flung myself back on the pillow before he jumped up, licked my face, then stretched out next to me for properly worshipful scratches.
I hadn’t been able to shut my brain off since I left the restaurant. Cipher Security had called Dane exactly three minutes after I’d transferred the money out of his account, and they were at the restaurant five minutes later. That was scary effectiveness.
I sat up and pulled my laptop off the nightstand. I did my work in bed, mostly because it was easier for Oscar to sit next to me there, and the bulk of it was internet research anyway. Cipher Security Systems had a simple, straightforward website, which wasn’t a surprise. They specialized in designing custom security systems for financial institutions, universities, hospitals, and any large corporation with significant assets. It seemed to me that Dane’s mid-sized internet advertising company was on the small side of Cipher’s business model.
Cipher had several mentions in the news, but all of the articles just confirmed what I already knew – I didn’t want them on my tail.
I disabled the internal wireless router on the laptop, then plugged in the external hard drive on which I kept my client files. I would admit to having a high degree of paranoia, but I knew what kind of unauthorized entries and data extractions I could affect, and my hacking skills were fair-to-middling at best.
I extracted the Quimby file from the external drive, then made my private notes about the encounter with Dane. I pulled Dane’s Notes file off my phone via thumb drive and added it to the Quimby file, scrolling through quickly to see if there were any other financial sources that his wife might not know about.
Mostly, the notes contained numbers – gym memberships, airline miles clubs, pin codes, passwords, his passport number, and, I kid you not, his mother’s maiden name. I was honestly shocked that he had any money left at all.
I shrugged, and Oscar grunted at the disturbance of his very important nap. I absently scratched his belly as I navigated to the Denise Quimby billing sheet, added the hour and forty minutes door-to-door that my rendezvous with Dane had taken, subtracted ten minutes for the sake of the round number, and created her final invoice, minus her deposit, payable by check to S. HANE Information Services. I then saved the invoice in my billing file, moved the case file back onto the password protected external drive, disconnected that, and then reconnected the laptop’s wireless router so I could e-mail Denise Quimby her final bill.