Trust Me

  The shrill voices emanating from the television were annoying and much too loud, but Nadeen appeared oblivious to the noise. Desdemona glanced at the set. The afternoon talk show host was interviewing three men who were dressed in frilly maids' aprons. They were extolling the thrills of cleaning house for a dominatrix.

  “Phone's over there on the wall.” Nadeen pitched her voice above the drone of the talk show host. “Tell your friend I won't take a penny less than one-fifty. Cash.”

  “I'll tell him.” Desdemona prayed that Stark would be in his office. She picked up the grimy phone and punched out the number.

  “Stark Security Systems,” Maud said in a sunny voice.

  “This is Desdemona Wainwright. I need to speak to Stark.”

  “Certainly Miss Wainwright,” Maud said cheerfully. “I'll put you through.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Quite all right. Have a nice day.”

  Stark came on the line. He sounded preoccupied. “Stark here.”

  “It's me, Desdemona. I need some advice.”

  “Advice? What's wrong? What's that noise in the background?”

  “Don't ask unless you suddenly develop an overpowering urge to scrub a toilet.” Desdemona waited until the television audience quieted briefly. “Listen, I'm out in the University District, at the house where Vernon lived. Stark, he was a computer buff. A hacker, maybe.”

  “Desdemona—”

  “This is for real. His landlady says he spent all his money on computer equipment. She says he was always fussing with the stuff.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Desdemona knew she had his full attention now. She could always tell when she had his attention. The focused energy coming through the phone line was enough to heat the plastic grip of the receiver. “Yes. When she heard about his death she worried that she wouldn't get her back month's rent, so she went up to his room and took his computer. She plans to sell it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it raises some interesting questions.”

  “Well?” Desdemona asked tensely. “Should we buy it?”

  “‘We?’”

  Desdemona was exasperated. “You're supposed to be my hotshot computer security consultant, remember? I'm asking for a professional opinion. Do you think Vernon's computer might contain some useful information?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Should we buy it and see?”

  “All right. Buy it.”

  Desdemona turned toward the wall and lowered her voice. “The landlady wants a hundred and fifty.”

  “What kind of computer is it?”

  “I have no idea. That's a little beside the point, isn't it?”

  “No. It could be worth anywhere between fifty or five hundred, depending on the brand, year, and what's inside.”

  “Stark, this is no time to be overly literal. We're not buying Vernon's computer as an investment. We're looking for clues.”

  “We are?”

  She ignored that. “I've only got fifty dollars in my purse, and Ms. Hocks won't take a check. I'm afraid to leave here without the computer. She might find another buyer while I'm gone.”

  “Give me the address. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Hurry. I have a hunch I'm going to have to watch some very strange television while I'm waiting.”

  Stark knocked on Nadeen's door thirty-five minutes later. Desdemona leaped out of her chair, galvanized by relief. “That'll be my friend, Nadeen.”

  “He'd better have the money with him.” Nadeen padded across the tattered carpet and opened the door.

  Stark loomed on the front step. “I'm Stark.”

  “We've been waitin' for you.” Nadeen ushered him into the room. “Got the cash?”

  “Yes. But I'll have to see the computer, first.”

  Nadeen appeared alarmed. “She said you'd buy it, no questions asked.”

  “I never buy anything unseen,” Stark said.

  Desdemona pointed to Vernon's computer, which sat in a box near the kitchen. “That's it over there.”

  Stark glanced at the television set as he walked across the room. He frowned briefly as the talk show host asked a man why he liked to videotape his wife in bed with another man. Then he looked down at the computer.

  “Well?” Nadeen demanded. “What do you think?”

  Stark studied the computer intently for a moment, and then he reached into his pocket for his wallet. “I'll take it.”

  Desdemona breathed a sigh of relief.

  She waited until she had followed Stark outside and watched him stow Vernon's computer in the trunk of his car.

  “What do you think?” she asked as he closed the lid of the trunk.

  “I don't know what to think yet.” Stark took her arm and walked her down the sidewalk to where her car was parked.

  “I almost forgot,” Desdemona said. “I learned something else about Vernon today. He wasn't a real ice sculptor. He lied about that on his résumé. He bought the carvings from a man named Larry Easenly.”

  “How did you discover that?”

  “Easenly called today. He wants to be paid for the last swan. He said Vernon struck a deal with him for the ice work in order to get the job at Right Touch.”

  Stark paused in the middle of the sidewalk. He stared into the distance. “That would mean that Tate knew you needed an ice carver before he even walked through your door to ask for a job.”

  “Yes.”

  “How could he have known?”

  Desdemona thought about it. “Well, it was no secret. Rafael had just left me for a job on the Eastside. He could have told any number of people that I was in the market for another ice sculptor. Everyone who worked for me also knew I needed one.”

  “A lot of people.”

  “Yes.”

  Stark started walking again. “I'll fire up Tate's computer tonight and see if there's anything interesting on it. But don't hold your breath, Desdemona. Odds are, Vernon was just an ordinary computer buff. It's very likely that the only things I'll find on his machine are a lot of games.”

  They came to another halt beside Desdemona's car. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel. She hesitated and then decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “You haven't said anything about Tony, but I know what you're thinking,” she announced.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. But, Stark, trust me, there's no way he could be involved in this. I'm sure he really did get a call from the Hollywood people. That's why he left town yesterday morning.”

  “I don't know about the Hollywood call,” Stark said, “but I did some checking. He was definitely booked on a flight to L.A. yesterday morning. But the flight didn't leave until nine-thirty. He checked in for it at the last minute. Almost missed it.”

  Desdemona was stunned. “You checked on his flight? How?”

  Stark shrugged. “I used my computer to search the airline's records.”

  “Good grief. You can do stuff like that?”

  Stark's mouth twisted wryly. “I'm a computer security expert, remember?”

  “You actually checked the airline records,” Desdemona repeated in amazement. “You don't take anything at face value, do you, Stark?”

  “No.”

  “Is it legal to do that kind of thing?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Let's not get into a discussion of technicalities. Checking airline records falls into the same gray area as buying Vernon's computer instead of telling the police about it. Drive carefully, Desdemona.” Stark closed the car door.

  Desdemona watched in the rearview mirror as he walked back to his car. He was as solid and unyielding as Mount Rainier. And somewhere inside he was still as cold as the glaciers on its summit.

  15

  Sam. Sam, wake up.”

  “We brought you some breakfast.”

  Stark opened his eyes at the sound of Jason's and Kyle's voices. He took a few seco
nds to orient himself before he raised his head from his folded arms. He reached for his glasses, shoved them onto his nose, and automatically glanced at his watch.

  It was nearly seven o'clock. In the morning.

  “I must have fallen asleep in the middle of running the search program.” Stark rubbed his jaw and absently noticed the rough stubble of an incipient beard. The last time he had checked the time, it had been three A.M.

  He had learned one thing for certain last night. Whatever his deficiencies as an ice carver, Vernon Tate had definitely been qualified as computer literate.

  Tate had employed an exotic operating system, not one of the common ones, and he had secured it and his files behind an invisible, highly sophisticated wall of high-tech wizardry.

  It had not taken Stark long to realize that getting into Vernon's files was not going to be a piece of cake. He had made a preliminary survey with his newest password search program, but he hadn't expected it to work, and he had been right. Vernon Tate had been too savvy to use a real word or a name as a password. And as good as his password search program was, Stark knew it was unlikely to come up with a password that had been deliberately scrambled by an expert.

  Sometime after midnight, Stark had opted for another approach to the problem.

  Kyle set a bowl of cereal on the desk. “We already put the milk and sugar on the cereal for you.”

  “Here's a spoon.” Jason handed one to Stark.

  “Thanks.” Stark picked up the spoon and started to eat the soggy, overly sweetened cereal.

  Kyle came around the corner of the desk and peered at the glowing monitor that sat on top of Vernon's computer. “Did your special trapdoor search program work?”

  “Yeah, did you find a way to break into the files?” Jason asked eagerly.

  “I don't know.” Stark stoically munched cereal. He was ravenous. “The trapdoor program was still running when I fell asleep.”

  “Hey, look, something just came up on the screen,” Kyle said.

  Jason crowded close. “Let me see.”

  Stark glanced at the monitor. He stopped chewing when he saw the prompt sign flickering gently against the dark screen. Cool satisfaction went through him.

  “Gotcha,” Stark said softly.

  Jason looked at him. “Are you in?”

  “I'm in.”

  Kyle grinned. “This is even better than Wyvern's Treasure.”

  Stark put down the cereal bowl and went to work at the keyboard. “Let's see what we can find.”

  “I'll bet Desdemona and the rest of the Wainwrights will be excited when they find out that Vernon Tate had a super secure system on his computer,” Kyle said.

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “It means he might have been doing something really mysterious.”

  “It might simply mean that he liked his privacy,” Stark said calmly.

  “Mona, what the hell happened here?” Ian Ivers asked from the doorway of Desdemona's office. “Looks like a hurricane went through.”

  Desdemona put down the complicated insurance form that she had been working on all morning. “You must have heard that one of my employees was murdered Friday morning.”

  “Yeah. That's one of the reasons I came by.” Ian dropped heavily into a chair. “Wanted to make sure everything was okay with you. Christ, I hadn't realized the killer had torn things up like this.”

  “The police think he was searching for a floor safe or something of value,” Desdemona said wearily. She had been over the tale a dozen times since the murder. Her neighbors and the owners of the small businesses on the block had all wanted to hear the gory details.

  “So the poor ice carver had the bad luck to walk in on him and got iced, himself, huh? And I hear you got locked in the freezer?”

  “Yes.”

  Ian glanced at her, his eyes very intent. “You actually saw the guy?”

  “I saw him, but I couldn't describe him. He was wearing a nylon stocking over his face. Was there something you wanted, Ian? I'm a little busy at the moment.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. I called Tony's number, but there was no answer, so I thought I'd see if you had heard anything from Stark. Think he's looked at the proposal for Dissolving yet?”

  “I think it's safe to say that playing theatrical angel is not high on Stark's list of priorities at the moment.”

  “Mona, could you do me a favor here? You're close to Stark. Could you put in a good word for me? I have a hunch he'll listen to you.”

  Desdemona sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Look, why don't you give it up, Ian? Stark's not really into theater.”

  “Damn it, Stark needs this as much as we do.”

  Desdemona raised her brows. “He does?”

  “Think what it will do for his corporate image. It's a fast way for him to become known as a patron of the arts.”

  “Maybe you shouldn't have told him that your goal was to put on a play that would rip the guts out of the audience,” Desdemona said. “I think the concept had a negative impact on him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe that's where I went wrong. His secretary says she's been instructed not to give me an appointment.” Ian shot to his feet and began to pace the office. “Maybe I need to rework the proposal.”

  “Good idea. Tell you what, you go rework your proposal, and I'll finish cleaning up around here. Luckily the killer didn't bother to mess up my computer.” Desdemona swung around in the chair and switched on the machine.

  “Maybe the ice carver interrupted him before he got around to it,” Ian suggested.

  “I guess that's possible.” Desdemona shivered as she punched in the familiar commands that called up the weekly schedule. “I don't even like to think about what happened in here.”

  “Say, do you know where Tony is? He and I were supposed to do lunch today. We're gonna discuss possible casting for Dissolving.”

  “Tony's in L.A.”

  Ian abruptly stopped pacing. “L.A.? What the hell is he doing down there?”

  “He got a call from the soap people.”

  Ian was incensed. “Damn it, I thought he'd learned his lesson about Hollywood. He knows that stupid soap is dead in the water. Dissolving is at a critical point.”

  “You mean it might dissolve completely?”

  “Very funny.” Ian looked genuinely hurt.

  “Sorry.” Desdemona frowned as an unfamiliar message appeared on her screen. “That's strange.”

  “What?”

  “My computer is asking me if I want to recover some lost files.”

  Ian craned his head to see the screen. “That's a message you get when there was a power failure in the middle of a work session or if you accidentally turned off the computer without exiting the program properly.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Ian shrugged. “Just what it says. It means that the last work you did was saved in a special emergency file. You'll have to call it up with special commands to retrieve it.”

  “But, I didn't—” Desdemona broke off without finishing her sentence. For some reason she did not want to tell him that she was quite certain that she had not accidentally shut down a program. Nor had there been a power failure the last time she used the computer.

  “Didn't what?” Ian glanced at her.

  She cleared her throat. “I didn't know you were so familiar with computers.”

  “Who isn't these days? I use one to keep files of potential patrons and subscription lists and to handle the Limelight's financial records. Tony set up the programs for me.”

  “That's right. I'd forgotten.”

  “He's got a real knack for that kind of thing, doesn't he?”

  “Yes.” Desdemona did not want to pursue that. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I'd better get back to work.”

  “I can take a hint.” Ian paused at the door. “Say, Mona?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think Stark would respond to a pitch that focused on how he would be hailed as a visionary patron of the arts if he
were to back Dissolving? Corporate types like to grab on to the vision thing, you know. Good press.”

  “Gee, I'm not sure how Stark would respond to the concept of himself as a visionary corporate executive and patron of the arts.” Desdemona smiled encouragingly. “Why don't you give it a shot?”

  Ian slapped the doorframe in a gesture of renewed enthusiasm. “I'll do it. If you hear from Tony, tell him to get his ass back here to Seattle. That Hollywood crowd is all hype and no talent. We're theater people.” He hurried off toward the front door, ponytail jiggling.

  “I'll tell him,” Desdemona said to herself. She waited until Ian was gone before she turned back to the computer.

  She regarded the message about lost files for a long while. The only person who had ever used her computer other than herself was Tony. The possibility that he had been working on it shortly before Vernon's murder made her stomach churn.

  Eventually she summoned the nerve to instruct the computer to recover the missing work. She punched a kev. Nothing happened.

  Desdemona groaned and reached for the manual. She hated having to resort to the manual. She never understood it.

  The phone rang, slicing through her concentration. She picked up the receiver.

  “Right Touch. This is Desdemona.”

  “Hey, kid, it's me, Tony.”

  Desdemona stilled. “Where are you?”

  “L.A. Didn't Aunt Bess get my message?”

  “Yes, but we were a little concerned. Did you hear that Vernon Tate was killed?”

  “Killed? As in murdered?” Tony sounded incredulous.

  “I walked in on it, Tony. The killer was still here. He took a couple of shots at me.”

  “Jesus.” Tony was appalled. “Are you okay? You weren't hurt?”

  “No, I managed to get into the freezer and close the door. The killer left. But he dumped some shelving in front of the door and…oh, Tony, I was trapped in there.”

  “Shit, the freezer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you…okay?”

  “I nearly went crazy, as you'd expect. All I could think about was the trunk of Northstreet's car. And to make matters worse, Tate's body was in there with me.”

  “Oh, shit,” Tony said again. Desdemona could hear the frustration and anger searing his words. “Oh, shit. Are you sure you're okay?”