reporting hard news to be at a posh society party, Ms. Resnick certainly fit in with with her elegant gown and sparkle of jewelry around her neck.
Holly had managed to sneak in a side door with one of the servers who’d been outside on a break. Now she needed to blend in until she could locate the product development labs and snoop through some computer programs or file cabinets to find out more about bullets that couldn’t be traced.
And she needed to do it without running into her sister, a television camera or security—and having to explain herself. Normally, she wouldn’t break the rules of etiquette any more than she’d break the rules of the state of Missouri. But when Edward Kincaid had mentioned that William Caldwell’s company had made a prototype of the bullet like the ones showing up in so many autopsies, she knew she needed to see one of those bullets, unfired and unscathed.
“Here you go, Miss.”
“Thank you.” Tucking her evening bag beneath her arm, Holly cradled the cup of hot chocolate between her hands and mimed a few sips to mask her face while she moved through the crowd to the elevator bank. Since she couldn’t very well ask for directions to the research section of the building, she’d have to rely on finding a directory and pray that the doors leading to other floors wouldn’t be locked.
An hour or so later, Holly was about ready to give up and go home. She’d found her way to CT’s development section on the twelfth floor and had been able to go in and out of various offices, which had been left open for an open house tour. Upstairs, the building’s marble floors had been replaced with fabricated concrete, which looked modern and aptly state of the art for a technologies company. But the hard surfaces reflected every little sound, so Holly had traded cold toes for stealth, carrying her black pumps with her as she moved from office to office in her stockinged feet, carefully staying out of sight of the visitors taking a tour and the security guards who made routine sweeps of each level.
But her daring impulse was turning into a wasted night. Each of the research labs had been locked up tight and required some kind of pass card or keyed-in code to enter. She’d searched through the open offices, but she lacked the know-how to get beyond their computer network’s security system. And all she’d picked up from the file cabinets she’d sorted through was a paper cut. She hadn’t found a single schematic or memo about the disintegrator prototype.
Puffing out a sigh that lifted her bangs off her forehead, Holly called up the search command on Blake Rivers’s computer one last time. Located at the end of the hall farthest from the elevators and closest to the labs, Blake’s office had seemed like the ideal place to hide out while she looked for answers. But none of the logical request words had given her any leads—she’d type in bullet, ammunition, weaponry, disintegrator, bang and killer. Not found. Not found. Not found. Nothing. With the evening winding down and her frustration ratcheting up, Holly typed in one last search command. Z .
“Then you’d better go back to finding answers through normal channels,” she admonished herself. “Science is one hundred percent more reliable than spying.” At least for her.
While the computer searched, she tucked her feet beneath her and spun the plush office chair, taking in the cushy digs of a successful young man. More impressive to her than snagging a corner office, Blake’s neat space had a private access door to the lab itself. But repeated tries at opening it had proven just as successful as every other dead end she’d reached tonight.
Either through daddy’s money, the prestige of an M.I.T. degree or actual hard work, Blake must have proved himself a valuable asset to the company. Maybe she’d done him a disservice this afternoon with her knee-jerk reaction to him asking Jillian to tonight’s party. If Jillian had
Holly had managed to sneak in a side door with one of the servers who’d been outside on a break. Now she needed to blend in until she could locate the product development labs and snoop through some computer programs or file cabinets to find out more about bullets that couldn’t be traced.
And she needed to do it without running into her sister, a television camera or security—and having to explain herself. Normally, she wouldn’t break the rules of etiquette any more than she’d break the rules of the state of Missouri. But when Edward Kincaid had mentioned that William Caldwell’s company had made a prototype of the bullet like the ones showing up in so many autopsies, she knew she needed to see one of those bullets, unfired and unscathed.
“Here you go, Miss.”
“Thank you.” Tucking her evening bag beneath her arm, Holly cradled the cup of hot chocolate between her hands and mimed a few sips to mask her face while she moved through the crowd to the elevator bank. Since she couldn’t very well ask for directions to the research section of the building, she’d have to rely on finding a directory and pray that the doors leading to other floors wouldn’t be locked.
An hour or so later, Holly was about ready to give up and go home. She’d found her way to CT’s development section on the twelfth floor and had been able to go in and out of various offices, which had been left open for an open house tour. Upstairs, the building’s marble floors had been replaced with fabricated concrete, which looked modern and aptly state of the art for a technologies company. But the hard surfaces reflected every little sound, so Holly had traded cold toes for stealth, carrying her black pumps with her as she moved from office to office in her stockinged feet, carefully staying out of sight of the visitors taking a tour and the security guards who made routine sweeps of each level.
But her daring impulse was turning into a wasted night. Each of the research labs had been locked up tight and required some kind of pass card or keyed-in code to enter. She’d searched through the open offices, but she lacked the know-how to get beyond their computer network’s security system. And all she’d picked up from the file cabinets she’d sorted through was a paper cut. She hadn’t found a single schematic or memo about the disintegrator prototype.
Puffing out a sigh that lifted her bangs off her forehead, Holly called up the search command on Blake Rivers’s computer one last time. Located at the end of the hall farthest from the elevators and closest to the labs, Blake’s office had seemed like the ideal place to hide out while she looked for answers. But none of the logical request words had given her any leads—she’d type in bullet, ammunition, weaponry, disintegrator, bang and killer. Not found. Not found. Not found. Nothing. With the evening winding down and her frustration ratcheting up, Holly typed in one last search command. Z .
“Then you’d better go back to finding answers through normal channels,” she admonished herself. “Science is one hundred percent more reliable than spying.” At least for her.
While the computer searched, she tucked her feet beneath her and spun the plush office chair, taking in the cushy digs of a successful young man. More impressive to her than snagging a corner office, Blake’s neat space had a private access door to the lab itself. But repeated tries at opening it had proven just as successful as every other dead end she’d reached tonight.
Either through daddy’s money, the prestige of an M.I.T. degree or actual hard work, Blake must have proved himself a valuable asset to the company. Maybe she’d done him a disservice this afternoon with her knee-jerk reaction to him asking Jillian to tonight’s party. If Jillian had
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