Sweet Caroline (7 page)

apartment complex Foy had suggested she consider.
Thanks for asking. I'd love to tag along,
she replied. She liked Brian. He was easygoing, with a wry, self-deprecating 60

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

sense of humor about his personal life, but was straightforward and all business about his job. They'd worked together for several hours in the last two days, and she found it inconceivable that Ian suspected him. She also found him a brilliant programmer and analyst.

The phone rang a few minutes later. She was so deep in code again, it startled her. "Caroline Spring." she answered, sounding breathless.

"Got your e-mail," Brian said from the other end of the line. "Cool!"

"Is this a regular Friday night thing?"

"Most of the time. In the winter, Striker likes to rent a bus and take a bunch of us skiing. He's in good shape for an old dude."

Caroline smiled. "Brian, why do you and your brother call him Striker? Mick says it like a curse."

"You want to know about curses, ask my big brother. Mick's superstitious as hell. Thinks all of the Mahoneys are cursed."

She had to have misunderstood. "Your family's living under a curse?" How gothic.

Brian's chuckle sounded ironic. "Not
my
family, just my big brother, or at least in my big brother's mind."

"Come on, Brian. Scientists debunk the paranormal, don't they?"

"Not Mick. He's a scientist
because
of the family curse." Caroline envisioned Brian putting quotation marks around those last two words.

"Who or what is cursed?"

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He snorted, as if disgusted by the thought. "Maybe someday, when you have about five hours to kill, we can skim the surface."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah, but that's old news." She heard the smile return in his voice. "The party starts right after work. Should go 'til about midnight."

"What do people wear?"

"Whatever you're wearing now. In case you haven't noticed, we all dress down on Fridays." Caroline sighed. She wore a silk blouse with linen pants. The matching jacket hung from a hanger on the back of her door. "Someone forgot to tell me. I'm wearing a suit."

"Probably won't hold up too well if you're thrown into the pool."

"Excuse me?"

For an instant, she heard Mick in Brian's mischievous laughter. "Hey, work hard, play hard," he said. "That's Ian's motto."

"Will he be there?"

"We never know 'til we see him. Whether he's there or not, he always picks up the tab for the food and keg."
Whoa.
How much of Ian Foy's generosity was heartfelt? Or was it paternal, which tended more to manipulation than generosity?

"You have plenty of time to change," Brian was saying.

"Promise you won't flake out on us." 62

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Oh, she'd be there. Wouldn't miss the opportunity to observe the crew after they'd tossed back a few. "Those legendary wild horses couldn't keep me away."

"Great. Later."

Caroline hung up the phone, propped her chin in her palm and closed her eyes. They stung from hours of staring at the screen, just like her neck and shoulders ached from hunching forward. She'd been at this for five days, and had yet to see anything unusual. Nothing popped. Even background checks came up clean.

The first thing Tuesday morning, she'd run a background check on Brian Timothy Mahoney. She learned he was thirtyone, fourteen months older than she, and still lived at home. Or at least he received his mail at the same post office box as his mother, Sheila DeSantis, and her husband, Tony. He'd graduated with honors and a degree in computer science from UC-Berkeley. Afterward, he'd pursued enough continuing education that he had almost every certificate the industry offered.

He had some credit card debt—nothing unmanageable for his income. He owned a jet ski, and was halfway through the payments on his Blazer.

Over a mocha latté, he'd told Caroline he was engaged to one of the executive assistants, Ramona Carini, with their wedding in two weeks. "We're at minus fourteen days and counting," he'd said, bursting with pride. After their break, Caroline had returned to her office and ran a background check on Ramona as well. Both hers and Brian's records were spotless—not even a parking ticket. 63

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

They'd grown up in Sebastopol and followed each other through grammar school and high school. Brian went off to college; Ramona started working at ZyQyx. Neither had ever worked anywhere else, both received excellent performance reviews, and both had climbed the corporate ladder in the direction of their choice.

Caroline had also run checks on the three Mahoney cousins who worked in the ZyQyx branch offices. All women in their early forties, administrative staff with spotless records. Model employees. Where did she look next?

Ian had showed her proof that someone was siphoning his profits, yet she saw no unusual activity on the network. Whoever masterminded this one was good. Very, very good. After fetching a cup of coffee, Caroline reviewed the snippet of code she'd written before lunch.
Dim lRet As Long

Dim lProcessID As Long

Dim lProcessHandle As Long

'Can replace me.hwnd with any handle to any other

'window including one you may obtain from another

'application

GetWindowThreadProcessId Me.hwnd, lProcessID

'Get the process handle, you need not change"0 and false" settings lProcessHandle = OpenProcess(0, False, lProcessID)

'Sets the priority

'use any priority from the constants

'defined in declarations

'if lRet—0 then

64

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'the call was successful
lRet = SetPriorityClass (lProcessHandle, HIGHPRIORITYCLASS)

'Close the handle so system retains

'accurate count of open handles

'to process. Returns non-zero if

'successful

lRet = CloseHandle(lProcessHandle)

Her mind was still on the Mahoneys. She hadn't seen Mick since she'd burst in on his nightmare on Wednesday, although she'd heard him coming and going at different times. She'd promised Ian her undivided attention the day she started. In reality, she was spending more time trying to solve the mystery of her life, and how the Mahoneys figured into it.

"You have to stop this, Caroline," she muttered. Once her job was done, she'd have plenty of time to unravel the mystery.

* * * *

AT A QUARTER PAST six, Caroline riffled through the sparse array of clothing that hung in a walk-in closet so empty it echoed. Her business suits, blouses, and dresses lined a quarter of one side, while her casual clothes, other than those fit for nothing more elaborate than a date with the Laundromat, could have been hung from one hook. Travis had shipped clothes perfect for business dinners and cocktail parties, not poolside keg parties.

She chose the best of her casual wear, white jeans that hugged her long, slender legs and rode low on her hips, and a 65

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white tank top that ended a few inches short of the belt and zipper on her pants. She circled her waist with a gold chain, fastened on a pair of large golden hoop earrings, and slipped several bracelets on her arm. This had been Luke's favorite outfit. He'd bought it for her while they were in Puerto Vallarta—the trip meant to jump-start their sagging relationship but that had ended it permanently instead. Caroline turned in the mirror. Luke had insisted she wear gold-strapped sandals with four-inch heels to round out the look. He'd paid a fortune for them in a designer shop along the resort city's answer to Rodeo Drive. He wanted her to look "hot."

She looked "hot" all right, like a cross between a country singer and a hooker in a Dallas juke joint. Disgusted, she kicked off the sandals, unsnapped the chain at her waist and pulled off the bracelets. Fingers working quickly, she harnessed her hair into a long, thick French braid, and threw on a pair of white, backless sandals. Now, at least she wouldn't glow in the dark.

Caroline paused in the hallway a few minutes later. Mick's door stood ajar. She wondered if he'd left for a minute or two, or if he was expecting someone. The sensual sounds of a French chanteuse crooning something hopeless and forlorn floated through the opening, along with the most unusual fragrance, akin to the musky scent of a rain forest sprinkled with Caribbean spices.

Caroline tiptoed across the hallway and pushed on his door. It opened slowly, enough for her to see that the blinds were drawn, and the room dark except for the flicker of 66

Sweet Caroline

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candles. What lay beyond? A warm tub with bubbles?

Champagne? With the sun still high?

Part of her wanted to laugh, while another wanted to cry. She and Luke had shared a lot of good times, but after the first couple of months, he was about as romantic as a plate of pickled herring. Making love before suppertime, flickering candles in daylight, the mournful poetry of a French chanteuse—definitely not on Luke's list of priorities. She sighed, shrugged off what could have been, and headed out. 67

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

IT WAS ALMOST 7:30 p.m. when Caroline found a parking space at the Marina. She'd stopped for gas and picked up a bottle of wine and some snacks at a deli not far from the complex. She might not be drinking, but she hoped everyone else was and remembered an old war slogan she'd heard somewhere:
Loose lips sink ships.

Caroline had no problem finding the party. She followed the noise—laughter, music, and a loud splash made by someone who'd belly-flopped into the pool.

At the entrance to the clubhouse, a woman called out,

"Hey, Caroline, over here."

She looked through the crowd of about forty—all ZyQyx singles, some older than she, and some younger. Caroline didn't remember everyone's names, but she recognized all of the faces.

"Hey, she made it, Larson," Brian shouted to one of the guys from Accounting who stood at the other end of the pool table. "You owe me five bucks."

"After that shot, you owe me ten," Larson countered. Caroline noticed he didn't make eye contact as he waved hello.

Hmmm. Accounting. The right department for financial
intrigue.

"Caroline, over here." Ramona Carini stood next to the bar at the far side of the room, waving while she looked out from behind a row of wine bottles and sodas.

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"Are you hiding?" Caroline set her bag of treats alongside several unopened bottles.

"As a matter of fact, I am. Brian loves to party. I hate it." Taken aback, Caroline said, "Why come with him?"

"Because I love Brian, and Brian loves to party."
Oh lord, Luke's dream woman. Stand by your man, always
put his wishes ahead of your own.

With a bright smile, Ramona said, "What can I get for you?

We have everything."

"A soda for now. I like to start slow." Ramona handed a can of cola to Caroline and took a hearty swallow of Bud Light. "Let's go over there where it's quieter."

Interesting. She barely knew Ramona, yet she had the distinct feeling Brian's fiancée had something very specific to share.

"This is much better," Ramona said once she sank down into a deck chair outside the party room. Caroline sat down in the chair beside her. "So, Caroline, how do you like Mecca?"

"Mecca?"

"You know, ZyQyx headquarters. Instead of out there." Ramona waved at infinity. "Wherever Ian said you worked."

"I like it a lot. Nice to put faces to names."

"How long have you worked for Ian? Did you know him before that?"

Careful, Caroline, careful.
"I've known Ian for quite some time."

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Ramona finished her beer, then popped the top on another can Caroline hadn't seen her bring along. "Was he always like he is now?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Like what?"

"Um ... you know, so ... so ingratiating."

"He's always been the same with me." Not really a lie, she reasoned. She'd been around him five days, and his behavior had been consistent.

"I don't know," Ramona continued. "Sometimes he creeps me out—like he wants to be one of us."

"You mean an employee rather than the boss?"

"Yeah that too, but I think he'd like to be more like us personally."

Caroline stopped herself from responding too quickly. This conversation was headed in an interesting direction. "I don't know what you mean by 'personally.'"

"Okay, I'll say it even though Brian would kill me if he heard me."

Caroline held her breath.

"I think Ian wishes he were a Mahoney." That was the last thing she expected to hear. Foy openly disdained the Mahoneys. Had Ramona had
that
much to drink? "I really don't know the Mahoneys, but—"

"Sure you do," Ramona insisted. "You're living with Mick. He must have told you what he thinks about Ian ... or Striker as he calls him. He's told everyone else." Caroline laughed, and this time she wasn't acting. "Sorry. I'm
not
living with Mick. I live
across
from him. He helped move my stuff into my apartment and I haven't seen him 70

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since." A white lie, but what sense was there in sharing the story of his nightmare?

"God, then he
must
be tired after this trip. I figured he was pounding on your door every night. All the gals think so, too. They're dying over it."

"The gals at ZyQyx? Why? I'm sure he'd have rented my apartment to anyone who wanted it."

"Don't kid yourself about that." Ramona slurred her words as she neared the end of the second can of Bud. "The apartment's been empty for a year. He allowed ZyQyx to lease it but only on a temporary basis."