F Wilson - Sims

Not gonna happen, she thought as she closed out his voice. I’ll eat in the employee caf.

As they passed the two buildings that made up the research complex, she interrupted him. “When we get into the research centers, I think I’ll start with the basic facility, and then move on to general research.”

Portero shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“What now?”

“You will not be inspecting the basic research facility.”

“Of course I will. That’s what it says in the order—‘all research facilities.’ What part of ‘all’ is causing confusion here?”

Another helpless shrug. “If it was up to me—”

“Cut it. We’ll have SimGen back in court first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That will be up to you. But the powers that be consider the basic research experiments too sensitive and proprietary to allow inspection. They’re worried about industrial espionage.”

“Nonsense! Every member of my team—”

“We will allow you to inspect every other facility on the campus,” he said, his voice taking on an edge. “But under no circumstances do we allow outsiders in that building. We will go to the Supreme Court to protect our basic research.”

Romy did not miss the sparks in his crocodile eyes. So now it’s “we,” is it?

She knew damned well that SimGen could barrage the courts with motions ad infinitum.

She was wearing two spycams and had been saving them for the basic research facility. Now, damn it, she wouldn’t get a chance to use them.

With frustration burning like a hot poker against the back of her neck, she turned toward the window. Don’t lose it…don’t lose it…

As she glared through the glass she noticed a truck pulling out of the basic research building’s enclosed loading dock. She couldn’t tell if it was the same one she’d seen earlier, but so what?—she wanted a closer look at it. But by the time it reached the road they’d be well past it.

Finding the window button she jabbed it with one hand while she rummaged through her shoulder bag with the other. She pulled her notebook free, then let it flutter from her fingers and out the window.

“Stop!” she cried. “My notes!”

Portero hit the brakes. As soon as the car stopped—and before he could shift into reverse—Romy hopped out and ran back. She retrieved the notebook, then stood and studied the truck as it reached the road.

It looked brand-new, dark green, about the size of a UPS delivery van, but with no lettering on the side panels, no indication anywhere that it belonged to SimGen or anyone else. As it turned and roared away, she used a spycam hidden in one of her suit jacket buttons to photograph its Idaho plates.

Idaho?

And then the Jeep was backing past and skidding to a halt in front of her—directly between Romy and the retreating truck.

“Find it?” Portero said, bounding out from behind the wheel.

“Yes,” she said.

“Good.” He trotted around and opened the passenger door for her. He seemed anxious to get her back in the car. “Now, about lunch…”

Romy stepped to her right so she could see the truck again, and pointed to it. “What’s in the truck?” she said so innocently, as if asking what octane gas he used in the Jeep.

“Truck?” He looked around with equal innocence as if just noticing it. “Oh. Just delivering supplies.”

“Where’s it going? The gate’s the other way.”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of delivery schedules.”

A bend in the road swallowed the truck. Romy saw no point in standing out here any longer, so she stepped past Portero and slid back into her seat.

“You’re SimGen’s chief of security and you have no idea why an unmarked truck is rolling from the basic research building toward the company’s private airport?”

Portero’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that’s the road to the airport?”

Romy smiled. “Lucky guess?”

His expression hardened as he slammed her door closed.

“And just when we were starting to really hit it off,” she muttered.

17

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

OCTOBER 6

Patrick Sullivan lay in bed on his right side, face to the wall, Pamela spooned warmly against his back.

Ah, peace.

Judge Boughton’s decision had started to thaw the ice between them. After all, if a federal judge thought the case warranted a hearing, then maybe Patrick hadn’t gone off his head with “this sim thing,” as she liked to call it. A little champagne before dinner and a Graves Bordeaux with perfectly done steaks had finished the melt, leading to a hefty serving of aerobic sex for dessert.

And now for some much-needed sleep. But his slow slide toward dreamland was cut short by the crash of shattering glass. He levered up in the bed. Not again! The sound had come from the living room this time. Anger bloomed with the crash, but thewhoomp! that followed it shot a bolt of terror through his heart, even before he saw the flicker of flames along the hallway.

“Pam!” he shouted, shaking her. “Pam, wake up!”

She was slow coming to. Not used to all that wine. But when she saw the flames and smelled the smoke—

“My God!”

Neither of them was wearing a stitch but they still had a few seconds. Patrick found Pam’s slacks and blouse on the floor and tossed them to her. As she slipped into them—God knew where their underwear might be—he dialed 911. He found his jeans as he was reporting the fire.

Less than a minute later, cold and barefoot, they stood on the curb and watched the flames fan out from the living room. The howling fire trucks arrived shortly and brought the blaze quickly under control, but not before it had gutted Patrick’s house. Somewhere along the way a neighbor had draped a blanket over their shoulders; another had brought them some old sneakers, ill-fitting but a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cold wet asphalt of the street.

When it was over and the firemen were rolling up their hoses, Patrick stood mute, numb with shock, unable to move a muscle as he stared at the smoking ruin of his home. But Pamela began to lose it. She started with a few deep sobs that quickly graduated to wails. Patrick tried to comfort her but she shoved him back.

“Don’t come near me!” she screamed. “This is all your fault! I told you to forget this crazy sim thing but you wouldn’t listen! You had to keep pushing and pushing until you almost got us killed!”

Patrick saw the terror slithering in her eyes. He took a step toward her. “Pam—”

“No!” She held out a hand and backed away. She looked wild with her hair in disarray and her tears reflecting red and blue flashes from the police and fire vehicles. “No, you stay away! I’ve had it! I can’t take this anymore! Everyone I work with thinks you’re either a nut or an opportunist! I’m tired of defending you and I don’t want to be burned alive! We’rethrough , Patrick! I can’t take any more…I just can’t!”

She’s hysterical, he thought. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. “Pam, please…”

“No!” She raised her hand higher and turned away, moving toward her car. Through a sob she said, “I’m going home alone, Patrick. Good-bye.”

She left Patrick standing alone outside the smoking timbers of what had been his home, wondering how a day that had started out so well could go so hideously wrong.

18

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

OCTOBER 7

“All I can say,” Mercer Sinclair shouted, “is that there’d better not be any connection to SimGen! If I find out anyone here had anything to do with this, heads will roll, and I don’t care whose body is attached!”

Luca Portero watched Sinclair-1—his pet name for SimGen’s CEO—pace back and forth in his two-toned CEO office before his panoramic CEO window. If this display was being staged to intimidate Luca or the two other men who made up the rest of the CEO’s captive audience, it was failing. Miserably.