Simon couldn’t imagine that happening here. It seemed like the sort of neighborhood that should appeal to him—he’d made a point of remaining on grunting terms with his current neighbors. But he supposed there was no point in being a loner if it wasn’t achoice.
“Got it,” Jacob said.
“How many tries?”
“Two.”
“Will the security firm get an alert?”
Jacob stepped through the door and shoved the notebook into his back pocket again. “Don’t know. Three is usually the doddery grandma allowance. Probably best to work quickly, though.”
“The police have probably been here already.” Simon stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. It was muggy inside, like someone had planned for a warm welcome after Christmas shopping in the cold. He was surprised no one had turned the heat off. “I’m sure they took the computers already.”
“Garbage too,” Jacob said. “They were looking for information about a murder, though, and one that didn’t take place here, so hopefully they missed something we can use. Do you want to take upstairs or down?”
“Downstairs,” Simon said. If the alarm had gone off, he would be better able to deal with the arrival of security than Jacob was. “Be quick.”
Jacob loped upstairs, and the heavy wood risers creaked under his weight. “Start in the kitchen,” he called down.
Simon headed down the hall to where he would have put the kitchen door if he were building a house. The architect apparently agreed, and a nudge swung the door open onto a modern, glossy teal-countered kitchen. It was also the kitchen of a depressed man.
Not dirty—Clayton probably had a cleaner. But there was still a layer of dust on the oven—more than would have accumulated in the days since his murder—and a squirrel stash of chocolate bars and bags of candy stacked in easy access on the counter. Empty wine bottles were lined up on the table like soldiers on guard.
There was a stack of mail piled up on the window over the sink—all open, none looking dealt with. The edges were smudged with butter and fingerprint powder. Simon pulled a pair of thin latex gloves out of his pocket and snapped them on. A quick sort through the pile proved that no one but banks and takeouts sent snail mail anymore. At the bottom was a letter from the University of Texas, but it was just the standard “please donate” they sent to successful alumni. Well, civilian universities, anyhow. Simon had never gotten one from boot camp.
Apparently Clayton was successful enough to warrant a personalized letter, instead of the mass-printed one. It specifically referenced his thesis and how it had influenced his development of the “PeaPod social lubrication algorithms,” which sounded unpleasant.
Clayton had scribbled a note on top.Useful for no project.A little bit harsh, as it turned out, since someone at Syntech had found something to do with it. He snapped a scan of it with his phone. Maybe it could be useful.
He was just about to file the PDF in the cloud when his phone buzzed against his palm. Dev’s name pulsed on the screen. Shit.
Simon considered just rejecting the call, but he hit the green button instead.
“—ell are you doing?” Dev snapped as Simon lifted the phone to his ear.
“Right now?” Simon deadpanned. “Going through mail.”
“Don’t try and be fucking clever,” Dev snapped. “I told you to lie low with the hard drive until I got in touch with you. Not to chase up Nora for confidential files, and definitely not to go and bail the damn thief out.”
“He wasn’t booked,” Simon said. “Your lawyer was going down anyhow—” Dev tried to interrupt, but Simon firmly talked over him. “And whatever is going on—since you wanted me to sit on the hard drive, I’m assuming you didn’t want Jacob spilling his guts to the world that we have it.”
Dev snorted. “Like that’s why you did it. Don’t try to kid a kidder, Simon.” His temper was cooling already. He’d never been good at holding on to his anger. He’d never had to be. In the old days, him getting angry and him getting it out of his system by punching someone usually happened at the same time. “Look, I have the board climbing up my ass right now. I’m pretty sure they’ve got my own damn security team watching the house. I don’t want to give them any ammunition until I know what the hell is going on.”
“Because you’re completely in the dark.”
There was a tight silence, broken by the faint distinct click of Dev clenching a once-broken jaw. “Jesus, Simon, you think I’m involved?” he finally demanded.
“I don’t know. If you are, you should have told me. If youaren’t, then you should be talking to me.”
Dev snorted at him. “What do you think I’m trying to do? I need to talk to you, but it can’t be here. The board already thinks we were colluding. Now that you’ve got Jacob and all the stolen information? We can’t look like we’re plotting anything.”
Simon left the kitchen and walked into the main room. It looked almost unused. There was a pack of cigarettes on the arm of the leather couch.
Odd. Clayton was a notorious health nut. Half of his interviews weren’t about social networking or computers. They were about vegetarian lifestyles and yoga, and they ran in magazines that talked about how your body was a temple.
“My apartment,” he said. “Tonight.”
“I mentionedyoursecurity team watching me?” Dev groused.
