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Authors: Ridley Pearson
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kept the name and the dog. Ginny loved Mac too, though she tried not to show it; she was private with her pain. Private with her pleasure too. Dart called out and ordered a vodka—he needed something stronger than the beer that was now empty in front of him.
The waitress didn’t like being yelled at from across the room. Ginny didn’t like it either. Dart felt like shit.
“So?” she asked, her patience wearing thin, the conversation running out of easy topics.
“I feel a little foolish asking this,” he admitted.
A patronizing grin.
He wished there were a way to start all over. This conversation, this relationship—everything.
“I need your help,” he told her.
This seemed a great relief to her. Perhaps she had feared another reconciliation attempt, the tears, the pain, the impossibility. She sampled the Scotch, smacked her lips, and set down the glass carefully onto the coaster.
“Professional?” She gloated. Her work had, in large part, been responsible for the demise of their relationship, and here was Dart on bended knee asking for her talents. The irony was not lost on either of them.
He nodded. Where was that vodka? “Yes. Information,” he said.
She waited him out. He didn’t like that.
“Insurance records. Medical insurance,” he said softly. “Do you have access to that?”
“You know better than that, Dartelli.”
Her job, which lacked a specific title but fell vaguely under computer programming, gave her access to everything to do with the major insurance companies, and what she didn’t have legally, she had anyway—at her probation hearing the judge had called her “a wizard.” The paper had called her “a hacker.” Dart had called her “Babe,” but usually only after making love, and certainly never around friends. Had she not repeatedly broken the law, he realized that they still might be together. Or was it that she was caught at it? Dart wondered. The department forbade an officer from consorting with a convicted felon, although they had once discussed how there were ways around such restrictions. He knew that even now she spent her evenings behind that screen invading networks, accessing files to which she had no legal right. With her it was an addiction—it rated right up there with sex. She was good at both.
She was the only person he knew that had been offered more jobs, more money, after being busted and placed on probation. The calls had flooded in. It was as if, by being caught, she had earned her degree. The FBI had been quoted saying, “She knows more about computers than Bill Gates.” It had ended up an endorsement of sorts. She was earning three or four times Dart’s paycheck. Fine with him if she paid. She got four weeks’ vacation and an expense account. He had heard that she was driving a Lexus. He wondered what the judge would think of that.
She asked, “What specifically do you need?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, that clarifies it.” One of her complaints with him had been what she perceived as his reluctance to state his position—she had called him wishy-washy, slippery, and dishonest. It brought back bad memories.
Bad idea , he thought for the second time.
“I’ve lost track of a possible witness—the girlfriend of our suicide, our jumper. She lived with him, we think. But we can’t pick up a paper trail—an address, a phone number. Insurance records were suggested as a way of tracking her down.” He paused, studying her. “And while you’re at it …,” he added, awaiting a grin from her, “I thought I might try the suicide too—see if he was facing a fatal disease, or something like that, some reason to explain the jump.”
“The almighty Bud Gorman let you down?” she sniped. Over the course of their relationship, Ginny had repeatedly offered to supply the financial information that Gorman provided Dart, but the detective had steadfastly refused because technically it fell under criminal activity. His willingness to
The waitress didn’t like being yelled at from across the room. Ginny didn’t like it either. Dart felt like shit.
“So?” she asked, her patience wearing thin, the conversation running out of easy topics.
“I feel a little foolish asking this,” he admitted.
A patronizing grin.
He wished there were a way to start all over. This conversation, this relationship—everything.
“I need your help,” he told her.
This seemed a great relief to her. Perhaps she had feared another reconciliation attempt, the tears, the pain, the impossibility. She sampled the Scotch, smacked her lips, and set down the glass carefully onto the coaster.
“Professional?” She gloated. Her work had, in large part, been responsible for the demise of their relationship, and here was Dart on bended knee asking for her talents. The irony was not lost on either of them.
He nodded. Where was that vodka? “Yes. Information,” he said.
She waited him out. He didn’t like that.
“Insurance records. Medical insurance,” he said softly. “Do you have access to that?”
“You know better than that, Dartelli.”
Her job, which lacked a specific title but fell vaguely under computer programming, gave her access to everything to do with the major insurance companies, and what she didn’t have legally, she had anyway—at her probation hearing the judge had called her “a wizard.” The paper had called her “a hacker.” Dart had called her “Babe,” but usually only after making love, and certainly never around friends. Had she not repeatedly broken the law, he realized that they still might be together. Or was it that she was caught at it? Dart wondered. The department forbade an officer from consorting with a convicted felon, although they had once discussed how there were ways around such restrictions. He knew that even now she spent her evenings behind that screen invading networks, accessing files to which she had no legal right. With her it was an addiction—it rated right up there with sex. She was good at both.
She was the only person he knew that had been offered more jobs, more money, after being busted and placed on probation. The calls had flooded in. It was as if, by being caught, she had earned her degree. The FBI had been quoted saying, “She knows more about computers than Bill Gates.” It had ended up an endorsement of sorts. She was earning three or four times Dart’s paycheck. Fine with him if she paid. She got four weeks’ vacation and an expense account. He had heard that she was driving a Lexus. He wondered what the judge would think of that.
She asked, “What specifically do you need?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, that clarifies it.” One of her complaints with him had been what she perceived as his reluctance to state his position—she had called him wishy-washy, slippery, and dishonest. It brought back bad memories.
Bad idea , he thought for the second time.
“I’ve lost track of a possible witness—the girlfriend of our suicide, our jumper. She lived with him, we think. But we can’t pick up a paper trail—an address, a phone number. Insurance records were suggested as a way of tracking her down.” He paused, studying her. “And while you’re at it …,” he added, awaiting a grin from her, “I thought I might try the suicide too—see if he was facing a fatal disease, or something like that, some reason to explain the jump.”
“The almighty Bud Gorman let you down?” she sniped. Over the course of their relationship, Ginny had repeatedly offered to supply the financial information that Gorman provided Dart, but the detective had steadfastly refused because technically it fell under criminal activity. His willingness to
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