It had been another restless night a couple weeks back when hed first detected the unknown computer geek trying to access his research through online channels. The hacker had broken in three different times to download codes that were misdirecting fakes to begin with. Once the false codes were applied to the data that had been stolen from his lab eighteen months ago, the thieves would realize that theyd been duped. Again. Theyd wind up with cotton candy or a laxativenot any of his patented medicines or experimental drugs.
Though hed had no luck tracing either the location or the identity of Black Hole yet, Damon had led the intruder on a merry chase. He sat and watched the screen as his opponent peeled away layer after layer of security protocols, getting closer to the translation codes that could turn Damons equations from gibberish into millions of dollars.
And just when the perp was about to reach the innermost level, Damon pushed a button and scrambled the codes all over again.
His laughter was rare, a rusty sound that stretched the scarred muscles of his throat. SinPharms security firm had their way of preventing industrial espionage, and Damon had his.
That should keep you busy for a few more days. Hell, if the enemy wanted to reproduce his formulas and market competitive medical treatments without doing their own research, then they were damn well gonna have to get past him. Unless he tracked them down first and introduced them to the FDA, the FCC and any other government organization whose laws theyd violated.
And if Damon discovered the hacker was in any way responsible for the theft and fire that led to Mirandas suicide, then he would personally put him out of business.
Permanently.
While he relished the image of the unknown spy throwing up his hands and cursing at the computer screen, Damon knew he had problems closer to home he needed to deal with. He glanced at the broken glass and dissipating chemical on the floor. Like you.
Damon rolled his stool over to another desk, where two rows of monitors helped him keep an eye on the Sinclair Tower through adjustable interior and exterior security cameras. He typed in a command and brought up a view of the main rooms in the penthouse upstairs. Good. All was quiet. His housekeepers seemingly intuitive ability to know when hed screwed up and needed a little extra help hadnt awakened her from her sleep.
But by morning, if he didnt clean it up tonight, then shed somehow know. Shed be down here at first light, cleaning and tutting herself into a worried state until she verified for herself that he hadnt been cut or injured in any way.
Corporate spies he could handle. But it was funny how such a tiny little woman, whod once changed his diapers and sent him to his room, could transform six feet, three inches of brains and testosterone into a guilty little boy, as eager to please as he was to cover his tracks and stay out of trouble with her.
But the bonded cleaning crew he hired to sterilize the lab once a week brought their own supplies, and if there was a broom to be had, he wasnt finding it.
Mental note: buy cleaning supplies for the lab.
In the meantime, he could raid his housekeepers private stash. Damon draped his lab coat over a hook beside the rear exit, swiped his key card through the lock and hurried up the back stairs to the penthouse where they lived on the top two floors.
His plan was simple: sneak into her unguarded kitchen to borrow a broom and dustpan, then dispose of the evidence and hide the fact that hed spent yet another sleep-deprived night working in his lab.
Yet as he tiptoed past the darkened hallway that led to her quarters, something made Damon stop. Everything was as neat and tidy as it had appeared on the monitor downstairs. But something was off. Perhaps it was the absence of any familiar sound that pricked his senses and put him on alert. There was no humidifier running, no television chattering on after his housekeeper had fallen asleep. He heard no soft, denasal snore. Damon leaned the broom and dustpan against the wall, turned the corner and gently knocked on her door.
There was no answer. The woman had raised him after his mothers death, had stayed on after his marriage. Shed been there through his fathers passing. Had remained with him past her own retirement, the accident and Mirandas suicide. They were as close to being a family as two people who shared no bloodline could be. Squashing a flare of panic beneath cold, rational purpose, Damon opened the bedroom door to check on her.
Helen?
MISS SNOW? A nurse joined Kit at the ICU window, looking through the criss-crossed steel filaments inside the glass to the fragile, wan woman in the hospital bed on the other side.
Theres no change, is there. Kit had stayed as close as the hospital staff would allow while surgical and neurological teams stitched up the elderly womans head wound, monitored cranial pressure and vital signs, and tucked her into the sterile room for observation. Until she regained consciousness, there was no way for the doctors to completely assess how much damage the three attackers had done. No way for the police to get any more information on the mugging beyond Kits concisebut all too incompletestatement.
Were doing everything we can. The plump nurse shrugged. The rest is up to her.
The mysterious Helen didnt look strong enough to fight off a pesky fly, much less fight for her life. Were all dead?
Where was the hope in that? Was that going to be Helens last, despairing thought? Kit splayed her fingers at the edge of the cool glass, wishing she could hold Helens thin, bony hand again, and share whatever warmth and encouragement the woman needed to survive. Truman Medical Center was already a dim, ominously quiet tomb at three in the morning. Walking away and leaving the elderly woman in the care of staff who knew even less about her than Kit did felt like abandonment.
Kits parents had been found holding hands when their bodies were discovered after the fire, with debris from the explosion blocking their escape. According to the arson team whod combed through the diner afterward, Matthew and Phyllis Snow had most likely succumbed to the toxic smoke long before theyd been burned or crushed by the collapsing ceiling. But theyd had each othertheyd known love and a hopeful connection to something outside themselvesright until the end of their lives.
Kit curled her fingers into a fist. Someone should be in there, holding Helens hand, giving her hope. She shouldnt be alone.
But the nurse hadnt come to give a medical report, and she had no clue about Kits frustrated sense of justice for all. Its long past visiting hours. And since youre not family, wellIm sorry. Her apologetic frown didnt ease the sting of dismissal. Our Jane Doe needs her rest.
Shes not a Jane Doe, Kit insisted, fighting for her neighbor the only way she could. Her names Helen. She lives in the Sinclair Building. You put Helen on her charts, didnt you? I cant imagine how disoriented shed feel if she woke up and you started calling her by someone elses name.
Yes. We have her listed as Helen Doe. Sorry to alarm you. We passed along all the information you gave us to the police. Im sure theyre checking their missing persons files right now. The nurses rueful sigh recaptured Kits attention. Go home. Its late. Youve already done more for her than most Good Samaritans would.
Someone had to be here to answer questions. That was the practical excuse shed given for climbing into the ambulance while the paramedics worked on Helen.