Randy White - Dead of Night

Still… Dasha had to admit to herself that her last moments with Frieda Matthews had been stimulating in an unexpected way. She replayed it in her mind, as she slid in behind the wheel of the Tropicane vehicle, started the engine, and accelerated away…

She could see herself helping the confused woman to her feet after she had tumbled at speed from the back of the SUV. Knew from an Army medic’s course that Matthews had compound fractures, right femur, right wrist, nearly one side of her body skinned raw, blouse torn off.

Sickening if you weren’t hardened to that sort of thing. In shock. A concussion, too.

“What’s happening? Help me. Will you help me?” Adults in shock sometimes revert to the speech patterns of childhood.

“Of course. Put your arm over my shoulder. We will take you to hospital.”

… Then the two of them, waiting in weeds at the side of the road where Aleski had dropped them-a straight-away where she could see vehicles approaching from a mile in either direction. Matthews babbling, and crying about some child she missed so badly, starting to feel pain for the first time, the adrenaline mask fading.

Supporting the woman’s body, Dasha had let her hands explore around. Done it unthinkingly, at first, then with specific interest, finding Matthews to be bustier than she looked, skin soft to the touch, her abdomen firm, silky. A woman who used clothes to cover herself, not reveal.

It was arousing, Dasha had to admit it. Standing, holding the warmth of damaged flesh, aware of another human’s absolute vulnerability, hands cupping a woman’s breasts for the first time in her life, Dasha watched the SUV bearing down on them, Aleski going way too fast because he was furious.

Frieda Matthews had nearly gouged out the man’s right eye; used her teeth to mangle his ear. Aleski was bleeding from the groin-he wouldn’t explain why.

Another middle-aged woman who refused to be humiliated by life, by a man, by anything.

In that instant, Dasha had felt something resembling fondness for Matthews. Pulled her closer, watching the SUV growing huge as it flew toward them, wanting to time it right and cause this strong woman the least amount of pain. Touched her lips tenderly to Frieda’s cheek… then pushed her away gently-a steering sort of push-and watched Matthews wobble groggily out onto the road.

The woman’s back was to the vehicle when it hit her. An explosion touched Dasha’s own cheek as a vaporous sprinkle. Warm, like soft rain.

The Russian dabbed at the moisture with fingertips. Red.

Yes, fondness. That’s what Dasha had felt. Arousal, too.

Both unexpected.

She wondered if she’d get the chance to experience those confusing feelings again one day.

Mr. Earl was waiting for them at the Tropicane Ranch. Sat on the porch of the plush, two-story minimansion that was reserved for major stockholders and dignitaries, but used almost exclusively by the tall Lincoln-looking man with the big white teeth.

Mr. Earl the Black Pearl was king shit around the Tropicane staff. Most didn’t know Mr. Sweet existed.

Mr. Earl was showing his teeth now, a huge smile. He was dressed very stylishly in a white linen suit, with a white cane and panama strawhat within easy reach, as Dasha approached carrying the laptop computer in both hands, like an offering.

“Is it Applebee’s?”

Ten feet away, Dasha could smell the lavender lotion he used. Saw that his red bow tie was crooked-which might mean Mr. Earl was already a little drunk. He drank mojitos in public, vodka in private.

“This is his computer. But you told me not to open it, that you wanted to get the first look. So I can’t confirm it.”

Mr. Earl stood, took the computer as he fitted spectacles on his nose-the lenses were dime-sized.

“Go! Get food, drink, go for a swim, whatever you want.” The man was excited. He might have been accepting gold, not a laptop. “I’ll meet you here later for cocktails. Eightish is cool.”

Dasha had hoped to fly back to the island that night with Aleski and Broz, but she answered, “As you wish.”

At her staff apartment, Dasha shaved her legs. Chose white satin slacks, no underwear, a gauzy blue blouse, no bra, just in case the tall man wanted something special in trade for closing the deal. Her read, though she had nothing to prove it: Mr. Earl dressed like a homosexual but wasn’t. Not full-time, anyway.

Disgusting, if he insisted, but necessary.

That was Dasha’s impression. The two of them were about to agree on a way of leveraging Mr. Sweet. Wealthy people sometimes have accidents; disappear-there’s nothing suspicious about that if their assets are undisturbed. Creating an independent cash flow after a wealthy person vanishes, though, required unusual opportunity, plus planning.

She had her theory about how Stokes hoped to profit from introducing exotic parasites into Florida. Mr. Earl maybe knew. Or had a theory of his own.

An important meeting. It required giving thought to appropriate dress.

When Dasha returned to the little mansion, minus Aleski and his idiot cousin, she got a surprise. Mr. Earl was no longer smiling. He was on the porch, pacing beneath the yellow light, smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.

Mr. Sweet didn’t allow tobacco on his islands. Smoking was a Florida indulgence.

“The good news?” Mr. Earl told her before she got seated, even before asking her if she wanted a drink. “You got the right computer. There’s no doubt about who the software’s licensed to. I also checked the applications system, and you told me the truth. You didn’t take a secret little peek at his files. Like I would have bet you would.”

Dasha stood comfortably, pleased with her own professionalism, but curious about where he was going with this. She hadn’t opened the computer because she’d guessed the man had a way to check. He was shrewd, always a step ahead of everyone. The first time she’d realized for certain how smart Mr. Earl was was the first time Dasha suspected she might have an ally. Someone to help her displace Mr. Sweet.

“The bad news?” Mr. Earl’s tone was a mix of irritation and amusement. “The bad news is, that lil’ fool who went and hung himself, wasn’t a retard like our boss man claims. Applebee was a damn genius, far as I can tell. Let’s go sit inside, have a look at the computer. I’ll show you what I’m saying.”

There was only one folder on the computer’s desktop. Labeled EPOC/TROPICANE.

Mr. Earl said, “Watch this.” He opened the folder. One by one, he opened the files within.

“Numbers,” he said. “The little man didn’t write with letters. He wrote with numbers. Jesus Christ, it had to take him forever to learn how to write this way. His own language.”

During intelligence training evolutions in the Russian Army, Dasha had gone through a three-week school on encryption and secret writing. It had mostly dealt with computers, how to hide and recover data.

A portion of the evolution had been called “Forensic Computer Analysis.”

“Is that code? Or cipher?” She was looking over Mr. Earl’s shoulder at columns of numbers, seeing his face in the screen’s reflection, her eyes two dark spaces next to his left ear. She didn’t think he’d have a clue.

He pushed himself away from the desk. “You tell me. You’re head of security.” The man leaned, lighted a cigarette, smiling-playing a game with her, giving a test. Blew a cloud of smoke into her hair; touched his fingernail to her back and traced a horizontal line typically covered by her bra strap.

That was something else unexpected. More than two years they’d worked together, and this was the first indication the man was interested in having fun.

Dasha sat, rebooted the computer with system extensions off. She checked the software’s kernel version, the boot volume, and the amount of memory available.