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“Forget that. You love Sushi Mike’s.”
Sushi Mike is the owner of Tanoshii. His creations are fabulous, so tempting. But I don’t want to give in too easily. “I don’t have anyone to feed me fish,” I whine.
Cress plays her tiny invisible violin. “We’re all going.”
She glances at Jarvis, who says, “I’ll feed you fish, Micki.”
“By the way, Max invited Elizabeth Talbot along so she can update Max on what’s happening with the sabotage investigation.”
Jarvis crosses his eyes. How does he do that? “Elizabeth and reports. Max really knows how to ruin a promising meal.”
“Sabotage? At GSU?” JL never said a word.
“Cybersecurity issues.” Jarvis is curt.
Cress enjoys his discomfiture. I wonder why. “Elizabeth’s an old friend of Jarvis,” she says with a grin. From both of their expressions, an old friend is stretching things. “She’s a consultant, and Max asked Clay to hire her to help with some issues.”
I see my opening and I squeeze myself through. “If it’s a work meeting, maybe you and I should stay here.”
Cress nibbles on her lower lip. “The whole point of this isIwant to have sushi at Tanoshii. If anyone else wants to work, they can go back to the office after we eat.”
A timely but unwelcome reminder that I am meeting with Rebecca tomorrow before the big announcement. I still haven’t decided on my next step. The logical thing would be to stay while I look for a new job. Then Hayden’s face leers at me and logic doesn’t really come into it.
Cress struggles into her coat. “Dawson is waiting in his fiery chariot to waft us up to our old haunts.”
I never ate at Mike’s with Sam. His disdain could reach from Howard Street down to Congress. “Just bait, darlin’. What’s the point? A good fish fry is a million times better than small bits of raw fish wrapped in rice.” Unpleasant experiences to dwell on.
We aren’t going far enough north for me to see my old building. Haven’t been back. The memories are too painful. The realtor handling the sale had it staged, and I haven’t set foot inside since moving out in January. She contacted me when I got back to say the closing was going to be soon.
We’ve just settled into the back seat when my phone rings. Instead of pulling away from the curb, Dawson lets the car idle. “Unknown caller.” I announce it as if my news is as important as a new World War. I won’t answer, but most of these are really hang-ups.
After two rings, the phone goes dead. I’ve had five in the last couple of days. No one has been able to trace the calls. Jarvis says whoever it is uses a nested-chain multi-hop VPN that masks the IP addresses and routes the call through a bunch of different servers. I’m convinced it’s Sam, but no one knows where he is or how he could have gotten this number.
“Spyware,” Jarvis says.
“What?” I’ve missed most of this, but that word sends a chill right through me.
“We’ve been checking but if it’s on your phone, whoever put it there is a master.”
“Not likely then. Sam is not a master techie.”
Jarvis scrunches his face, lips moving soundlessly. “When we get back, I’ll root around a bit. I have contacts on the dark web who might know if he paid someone. He’s had help hiding himself. We’ve been digging and not finding much about him.”
Huffing to catch my breath, I push my icy-stiff fingers around the case.Wrong number. Wrong number. Just a wrong number. If only my brain would believe the wishful thinking. But the primitive core sees a humungous pulsing red light while a voice like siren screams, “Danger! Danger! Danger!” My muscles bunch, adrenaline pushing me to run. “He can’t afford it.”
“True, at least not from his artist account. But I can’t help wondering if he has access to other money.”
Cress touches my hand. “Shit, you’re freezing.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pair of tartan gloves. Prying the phone out of my death grip, she hands it to Jarvis, who immediately starts typing things on my keyboard. The screen turns black with white letters and numbers scrolling and scrolling.
While he’s engrossed in trying to ensnare my stalker, Cress slips the gloves on my unresisting fingers. Her gesture and the warmth of the wool sprinkle fairy dust all over me.
Just as the adrenaline drops, Dawson screeches to a halt outside the restaurant. “Move in quick,” he says.
Handing back my phone with a shake of his head, Jarvis asks, “Is there a threat?” Then he turns to look through the rear window, fingering a small bulge in his pocket. OMG, does the computer geek have a gun?
“I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean no one’s there. Get the ladies inside and I’ll park the car.” Dawson’s order is uncompromising.
A black cloth banner with the name of the restaurant hangs over the sidewalk on Clark Street. We hustle under the narrow black awning and through the doorway into a tiny space where everything is brown maple. A car backfires. The sensation on my skin is like a hot dog splitting as it cooks. Cress stops so suddenly, she practically falls into an elderly man bent over a cane who has stepped off the curb. Jarvis grabs her upper arm to steady her. “Sorry,” she says, a quaver distorting the word. Remembrances of the shooting at the Palmer House last December must be overloading her nervous system.
