Framed Read online

  Lark turned the server to see the back. Three fans cooling seven hot-swap bays. “Where was it?”

  “In the server room catty-corner from you. It runs about a hundred virtual machines. I’ve run scans, and the code isn’t replicated anywhere else on our network. Whatever it’s doing, it’s stopped cold. I can help if you get stuck. Where do you think you’ll start?”

  “With the logs.”

  “Good idea. That alone will take you a while. Ping me if you run into any snags. I’ve got ten years on you; I can help.”

  “Thanks.” She barely noticed when Jocelyn left. Before she did anything else, she needed to create a backup of the quarantined folder. While it copied, she brought up her case report and finished the write-up. She felt the familiar burn of anger toward unscrupulous asshats who preyed on the unsuspecting. This woman lost only a few thousand dollars, but she’d read about cases where entire life savings had been lost to scam artists.

  She sent the report to Melvin, then opened a text file to document everything she did with the malware, in case criminal charges were ever filed against the idiot who’d written the program.

  Lark brought up a command line and tapped the keys. A list of partitions on the drive appeared. She poked around, seeing if anything jumped out at her.

  Huh. That’s weird. The clock time was off.

  She checked the server time against the access logs. A certain amount of time drift was not uncommon. However, the secure Network Time Protocol corrected that by having a server’s clock check in with the NTP at regular intervals. Why hadn’t that happened here?

  Digging deeper, she found a program inserted where it had no business being. Reading through each line of code would take too long, so she copied it into a safe folder and executed it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lark started, her concentration broken. Craning her neck around to see Melvin, she suddenly realized how stiff her muscles were. She sat back, shaking out her hands.

  “What time is it?”

  Melvin turned to rest his buttocks against the table. “Two o’clock.”

  Wow. She’d lost track of time, totally immersed in the mystery of the malware.

  “It’s been hours. Have you managed to come up with anything at all?”

  She swiveled her chair to face him more fully. “Well, I know what it’s not. It’s not a virus, and it’s not ransomware.”

  “Are you sure? I still think Doug’s making a mistake assigning this to you. Have you ever worked on a project like this before?”

  Lark took a deep breath before answering. “Yes, I’m sure. I have more experience than you seem to think.”

  “Huh.”

  “I did come across a weird anomaly in the clocking system. According to this server, the time is thirty minutes into the future. I’m curious why.”

  Melvin crossed his arms over his chest. “Odds are it’s just time drift. Focus on the job at hand, Larkspur. Don’t go down rabbit trails.”

  “But what if it’s connected—”

  “It’s not,” he snapped. “But if you’re going to get so wound up about something so simple, I’ll tell Jocelyn to take a look at it. Will that get you back on track?”

  “Sure thing.” Her fists clenched and unclenched. Why the hell did he dislike her so much?

  Melvin didn’t linger, which was good. Lark stretched and went in search of more coffee. SCIF rules even forbade caffeine machines, in case someone tried to mount a camera inside. Regular sweeps for bugs didn’t alter that unwelcome reality.

  Jocelyn was eating lunch when Lark came into the break room, surrounded by two other computer scientists and one analyst—all male—who hung on her every word. Lark’s stomach growled. Oh, yeah. She’d better eat, too. She grabbed her brown bag from the refrigerator and sat at the other table. Jocelyn immediately excused herself to come sit with her.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Slowly.” Lark couldn’t discuss specifics outside the SCIF, but her friend wouldn’t expect her to. “But steam is shooting out of Melvin’s nose, like a pissed-off bull about to charge.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “His boss assigned you directly to a project; of course he’s pissed-off. He’s territorial, in case you hadn’t noticed. But his huge ego outweighs his actual talent.”

  “He’s a bully.” Damn it. She’d forgotten her coffee. Rising, she made a beeline for the coffee machine, poured herself a cup, mixed it the way she wanted, and returned to her seat. “I really need to bring in my own mug. These Styrofoam cups hold like two drops. Also, your admirers left. Why do you encourage them?”

  Jocelyn shrugged. “A girl’s got to have a hobby. Haven’t you ever dated a coworker? Been in love? Gotten your heart broken?”

  “Well, that escalated fast.” She balled up her sandwich wrapper. “Would you believe I was engaged once?”

  Jocelyn’s eyes sparked with curiosity. “Who? When?”

  Lark sighed. “Short version? Ralph Pearson. Eldest son of a rich family. Both our families wanted us to get engaged, so we did. I thought he was like me, rebelling against his parents’ edicts. Turns out his father ordered him to date me.”

  Leaving out a lot of details made her feel less foolish. They’d made a pact to be true to themselves, whatever their parents wanted. Each changed their name in rebellion against their parents’ manipulations, her to Lark and him to Pierce. A few months later, Ralph-now-Pierce left for Princeton, where he’d been successfully molded into a stuffy, pretentious boob who tried to rein her in at every turn. When she told her parents she intended to end things, her father threatened to pull strings to get her kicked out of Carnegie Mellon unless she went through with the marriage. Unwilling to be trapped into a meaningless role as a society miss, she broke off the engagement anyway. Her father made good on his threat, forcing her to transfer to CalTech on scholarship, and she refused to speak to him for eight months.

  “Well, this has been fun,” Lark said. “But it’s time for me to get back to work.”

  “Chicken. Someday I want to hear the rest of the story.”

  “Maybe. Someday.”

  Chapter 3

  Friday, February 17. 12:24 p.m.

  Viktor Sokolov’s Home. Boston, Massachusetts.

  Elliott Weber tried to rub the grit out of his eyes as he trudged down the hallway to his doom. He scrubbed his palms over his bright blue hair, short on the sides and longer up top, then scraped his fingers through the gelled tuft at the front, artfully styled to look messy. He didn’t know why he bothered; his uncle hated the hairstyle, hated the color, and, frankly, didn’t care much for Elliott, either. He’d been called useless, stupid, and irresponsible.

  A juvenile delinquent, through and through.

  He’d own up to that one. Even before his father—and then his mother—died, he’d become expert at sneaking out of the house, meeting his friends to drink beer and smoke weed. When he was sixteen, his mother finally succeeded in overdosing on oxycodone, and his uncle became his guardian. Elliott graduated from misdemeanor joyriding to felony larceny of luxury motor vehicles, until he’d been caught and arrested. Sure, his uncle had pulled strings. Probation and community service for what should have been six years in prison and a fifteen-thousand-dollar fine. It’s not that he wasn’t grateful, really, just that sometimes he thought prison might have been more fun.

  That screw-up had cost him a beating and confinement to the townhouse. What would be the penalty for this one?

  He knocked, then pushed through the door into the Inner Sanctum, his heart thumping painfully before beating in triple time. He winced at the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, head pounding with hangover and anxiety. As usual, his uncle held court from behind his obnoxiously enormous walnut desk, custom-made for him by the Amish so he could say he supported independent craftsmen. As usual, Palachka sat off to his right in a brown wingback chair, staring down at a newspaper open on his lap. It fooled no one; everyone knew he listened to and catalogued
every word said in this room.

  And as usual, Palachka raised his head to stare at him, eyes flat and nearly inhuman. Elliott twisted up one side of his mouth in a smirk and made kissy noises at him. His uncle’s chief enforcer didn’t so much as twitch in reaction, returning his gaze to the newsprint. As brutal as he knew Palachka to be, Elliot wasn’t afraid of him. His uncle kept a tight hold on his leash. Palachka wouldn’t hurt him unless his uncle ordered it.

  His uncle, on the other hand, terrified him.

  “All right, gentlemen,” he said, rising from his throne. He buttoned his suit coat and came around to shake hands with his three guests. “Send me the cost projections on Monday. I’ll let you know if I need anything else from you.”

  “No problem, Mr. Sokolov.”

  “We’ll get right on that, Mr. Sokolov.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sokolov.”

  Palachka rose, escorted the men from the room, and closed the door firmly behind them before returning to his seat. This time, he set the newspaper aside and focused on Elliott.

  “New criminal enterprise?” Elliott asked. Apparently even fear of dismemberment couldn’t curb his smartass impulses.

  His uncle cast him an impatient look. “I’m expanding one of my nightclubs. Roman, ask Mikhail Kerghakov to meet me here Tuesday morning. Nine sharp.”

  Palachka dipped his chin once and rose, pulling his cell phone out and moving to a corner to make the call.

  His uncle’s gaze ran down Elliott’s body. “Ripped jeans, ratty shoes, and that ridiculous hair. You’re a disgrace.”

  In contrast, everything about him was meticulously groomed. Gray hair neatly clipped and brushed back. Nails trimmed. Tie precisely knotted. His wool suit had been custom-tailored, and his shoes alone had probably set him back two grand.

  “Since you clearly haven’t come here for fashion advice, what do you want, Elliott? I’m a very busy man.”

  Now that the moment of truth had arrived, he couldn’t seem to push words past his dry throat. His fingers twisted together of their own volition. Clenching his teeth, he shoved them into the front pockets of his jeans. Show no fear, remember?

  “Well?” his uncle barked.

  Elliott’s gaze jerked up to meet his. Inside his pockets, his nails dug into his palms. He’d really porked the pooch on this one.

  “There’s a problem with the cyber business account,” he finally said. His uncle insisted on hearing bad news up front. “There was an unauthorized withdrawal.”

  Dead silence. When his uncle spoke, his voice had dropped an octave.

  “Explain.”

  Elliott couldn’t help the convulsive swallow. “I get texts on my phone whenever there’s a withdrawal. Usually it’s me moving money around, so it’s no big deal. This morning, someone took money out.”

  “Who?”

  “I found a name. SPURious. That’s who transferred the money out.” Elliott tightened his shoulders.

  Uncle Viktor’s brows snapped down, storm clouds gathering in his eyes. “What the fuck does that mean, Elliott? Is that a person?”

  Wishing he had the nerve to sit, he muttered, “It’s a hacker handle.”

  “And? Who is it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Yet,” he added hastily. “I need to—”

  “How much?”

  Elliott cleared his throat. “All of it.”

  His uncle’s brows shot toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah. They drained the account. Fifty million dollars.”

  His uncle moved close enough that Elliott could smell his aftershave and see the anger in the flecks of his eyes. “This is the money I set aside for the auction. How could you let this happen?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. I mean, I didn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

  “When?” he snarled. “When did you lose my fifty million dollars?”

  Palachka walked to the built-in bar, opened a triangular crystal decanter, and splashed two fingers of Scotch into a glass. He brought it to his boss, who tossed it back and thrust the glass back into his hand.

  Elliott’s stomach knotted as he suppressed a hard swallow. “Early this morning. Around four thirty.”

  His uncle’s eyes slitted. “And you’re just bringing it to me now? Eight hours later? What the fuck have you been doing?”

  Moron. Half-wit. His uncle’s scorn rippled over his skin, but he was used to it. He reminded his uncle of his father, the waste of air he was virtually certain Palachka had killed.

  “I just woke up. When I saw the text, I came to you right away.”

  It really was too much to hope that his uncle wouldn’t catch on. Sure enough, anger morphed into pure rage. “In other words, you frittered away your night with those losers you hang out with online? Fooling around with some moronic game where you play a half-dressed woman with big tits?”

  “Uncle Vik—”

  “Now is not the time to remind me we’re related,” his uncle screamed into his face, and drove his fist into Elliot’s stomach. As he doubled over, agony clawing through him, his uncle backhanded him across the face. He felt his uncle’s ring tear his cheek as he collapsed onto the carpet. Another scar to add to his collection. Funny, the carpet really did feel as soft as it looked. He rubbed his sore cheek into it as he curled into a fetal position, hoping the blood smearing his face would stain the fibers.

  Hard hands clamped onto his biceps, and he was dragged upright. Palachka showed no expression—no animosity, no pleasure, and certainly no sympathy—as he steadied Elliott.

  “Dolt. Why did I ever trust you with the cyber business? You don’t have the sense God gave a jackass.”

  Elliott rubbed his cheek, then wiped the blood down one leg of his jeans. “Because I make you a fuckton of money, Uncle Vik. That’s why. Skimming PINs and selling credit card numbers is big business. And me and my losers are damned good at it.”

  “Insolence will not serve you well right now, Elliott.” His uncle turned abruptly and went to sit on one of the leather sofas grouped around the coffee table, built by the same Amish artisan who’d designed his desk. He picked up a file folder and opened it, effectively dismissing Elliott. “You have until the auction to find my money.”

  “What if I can’t?” he blurted out.

  His formidable uncle didn’t look up from the papers in hands. “Then I unleash Palachka on you, and you’ll wish you were dead.”

  Chapter 4

  Friday, February 17. 11:45 p.m.

  The Promenade. Boston, Massachusetts.

  “I’m getting married in the morning!”

  Lark grinned. “Yes, you are, baby sister. You’re glowing so much I can’t see anything else.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be Mrs. Kaley Newman.” Kaley’s bright eyes glazed as the Jell-O shots caught up with her. “Mrs. Kayyy . . .”

  Lark deftly scooped the last shot off the table and handed it to Dana. Kaley pouted as her friend downed it.

  “Time for another round,” she said. “Your turn, Lark.”

  Lark shrugged and wandered toward the bar. Even a hangover wouldn’t dim her sister’s beauty one iota the next day. If Kaley wanted to celebrate, who was she to deny her?

  “Another round,” she shouted over the din. This time of evening, the nightclub was packed with partiers. The music alone deafened her, and she felt a headache burning deep into her skull. The bartender brought over a small tray with six Jell-O shots. She dug into her pocket for some cash.

  Someone jostled her elbow, causing her to drop the folded bills. Muttering a curse, she bent down to snag them before someone stepped on them. A sweaty hand gripped her shoulder.

  “Tha’s it, baby,” a male voice slurred. She looked up and realized the man who’d bumped her had moved closer, so her head was close to his junk. She jerked away and stood.

  “Fucking asshole,” she said. “Go away.”

  The idiot moved well into her personal space. “But you’d be so good, baby. Come on. Let’s go into
the alley.”

  Charming. She pushed his chest. “You go right ahead.”

  Confusion flitted across his florid face. “You coming?”

  “Not in a million years.” She shoved the bills at the bartender, who grinned and moved on to the next customer. Grabbing the tray of drinks, Lark started back toward their crowded little table.

  She’d almost made it back when someone touched her shoulder. Swearing, she whirled around. The shot glasses clacked together. “I’m not going to blow you, jackass.”

  Her mouth snapped shut. Instead of the drunken idiot, another man stood behind her. A really hot man. Six feet and three inches of hard muscle straining against a black T-shirt tucked neatly into black cargo pants, which were, in turn, bloused over black combat boots. But she wasn’t looking at his clothes. She was staring at gorgeous cheekbones and a square jaw. At gunmetal blue eyes and grooves running down his cheeks like long dimples. At the five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw and his perfect, perfect lips.

  Which stretched into an amused smile. “Why don’ you wait till you’re asked?”

  Holy shit. She couldn’t for the life of her form a single coherent word. The man was hot. And that accent . . . !

  “Uh.”

  “I take it you were expect’ your drunken admirer? I suggested to him—rather strongly—dat he go elsewhere.” His words, smooth and rich as molasses, rolled lazily off his tongue. New Orleans, she thought.

  “Ugh. You saw that? Jerk.”

  The smile widened. “Him or me?”

  Lark found herself grinning up at him. “Him, of course. Unless you’re a jerk. Are you a jerk?”

  “Depend’ who you ask. My teammates tell me I can be a class-A jerk.”

  She cocked her head. “What sport? I’m guessing you’re a swimmer.”

  For some reason, that made him laugh. “I do swim, yes.”

  Lark turned her head to glance at her table. No one had noticed her. Her sister’s four best friends were admiring her engagement ring again as Kaley wiggled her fingers to make it sparkle. “I’d better—”