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“I just have a couple questions. Does your control-the-global-economy corps have insurance against hacking and fraud?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, so if Sweet or Urich worked for you, and this went down, you’d be covered.”
“There’d be an investigation, which would take time, and possibly some legal wrangling, but yes. That’s good,” he added as he gathered up the bags. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
“Makes you the subordinate.”
He pinched her. “Makes me focused on the trees—or the data and imaging—rather than the forest. It would cost the companies time and some money, but it’s relatively small change. The publicity could cause more damage, but they’ll have their spinners working on that. Cooperating with the authorities, full internal investigation. And they’ll likely chop a head or two.”
“Yeah, that was Urich’s take. As emperor of all you survey, do you know or have access to the codes and passwords of your employees?”
“If you mean as head of Roarke Industries do I have full access to that data, yes.”
“Because you can out-hack the hackers, or because of your position?”
“Both. Isn’t this interesting?”
“Maybe. What do you know about Winston Cunningham Dudley the Fourth?”
“Friends call him Winnie.”
“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Do you?”
“No, but then I don’t know him, particularly. We’ve met, certainly, at charity events, that sort of thing, but don’t have anything in common.”
“You’re both really rich.”
“There’s a difference between multigenerational wealth and wealth more recently and personally acquired.”
“So he’s a fuck-headed snob?”
He laughed. “You do whittle things down. I have no idea. What I do know, and that’s more impression and passing commentary, is he seems to enjoy his privilege and socializes with his own kind. Dudley and Son is solid and run well. If you’re considering he’s gone on a murderous rampage, folding in one of his top people, I’d have to ask why would he?”
“That’s another area. I’m just trying to get a feel. What about the other company, Intelicore, and the other guy. Sylvester Bennington Moriarity the Third. And where do they come up with these names?”
“I think the fourth speaks for itself. Given our background and lineage, when we have children, we’ll have to make up impressive names. Like Bartholomew Ezekiel.”
“If we have a kid, I hope I like him better than to do that to him.”
“That would be a factor.” He turned back to the machine and ordered a citrus power drink.
“You have coffee.”
“Which is, thanks to this consultation, cold by now. I want something to wash down these crisps. I don’t know Moriarity any better than the other—I believe friends call him Sly. If memory serves, they’re both in their forties, grew up in the lifestyle one expects on that level. They play polo or squash or golf, I imagine.”
“You don’t like them.”
“I don’t know them,” he repeated. “But no, not particularly, and that would be mutual. Their type has a built-in distrust and disdain for my type. Money polishes up the street rat, darling, but it doesn’t exterminate it.”
“Then I don’t like them either.” When he raised his brows, she poked him in the belly. “It’s pretty clear one or both of them dissed my man. That’s my job.”
“Hold this?” he said and pushed the drink into her hand. Then he used his free hand to poke her in the belly in turn. “Thanks for that. But even if we deem them fuck-headed snobs, it’s a long distance to murder.”
“Gotta check the angles. Here.” She pushed the drink back at him, took the two bags of soy chips. “Go do what you do, and I’ll do the same. Thanks for the chips,” she said as she walked away.
“You bought them.”
