Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [11]
I see the envelope.
Its edge juts out haphazardly from between two thick medical dictionaries on the bookshelf. In this otherwise neat office, it looks like someone stuck the envelope there in a hurry.
I walk over and pull it out. As Pauline described, the address is written in scribbled hand. It reads: “Nathaniel Idle, Highly Evolved World Traveler.” Pauline hadn’t mentioned the traveler part.
No return address or postage graces the envelope.
Inside it, I find the thumb drive. I pop it into her computer.
Onto the monitor appears a login screen. At the top of the screen, it says: “password protected.” The user name is filled in “Nathaniel Idle.” The password is empty. All just as Pauline described it.
Into the password line, I type: “Annie.” For years, I used my ex as a password like a secret I was keeping with my computer about the power Annie still held over me. It fails.
I then try HippocratEATs. Hippocrates is my incurably hungry cat. No luck.
I try variations on my own name, then “LaneIdle,” and “W1tch” a password I remember once using. It fails too. And I’m not sure why I’d think any of them would succeed, given that I have no reason to believe anyone knows my passwords.
I wonder at the significance of “Highly Evolved World Traveler.” Is this some gimmick sent by a butt-kissing overseas company or public relations firm?
“Even from behind you look frustrated,” a voice says.
It belongs to a man who speaks in deep tones.
I turn. The visitor is short and bulky with a thick jaw.
He is dressed to kill. Except for his shoes.
Chapter 6
“Frustrated,” he adds. “And definitely not Polly.”
He wears a smooth brown suit that costs more than I care to guess, but on his feet are flip-flops that I know for certain from personal experience go for $6 at Walgreens. His hands and face seem rugged. His accessories—a short but carefully shaped hairstyle and expensive suit—scream refinement. I place him in his late thirties.
“That makes two of us who aren’t Pauline,” I say.
He chuckles. “Is she around?” he asks. He’s pointedly relaxed, aggressively nonchalant, like his footwear.
“I’m wondering the same thing.”
He steps in and extends a hand.
“Chuck Taylor, just like your high-tops.”
I stand and extend mine. He shakes with a strong grip that he lets linger an extra beat.
“Nat Idle.” I pause, and feel a need to explain myself. “I’m a freelance writer here.”
“I know who you are.”
Our eyes briefly meet. There’s a mild sty beneath his left eyelid that undercuts his aura of perfection.
He sees my gaze fall on the small blue words tattooed at the edge of his neckline, just above the line of his crisp white shirt. They read: “Semper Fi.”
“Grandpa was at Anzio, Dad at Quang Tri City,” he says. “I sat at a desk in Kuwait when the smart Bush ran things.”
He smiles, revealing whitened teeth.
“It’s gotten competitive out there if Pauline’s retaining the military,” I say.
“Actually, we’re retaining her.” He reaches into the inside breast pocket of his suit and pulls out a worn brown wallet, stuffed thickly. From it he extracts a business card and hands it to me. It reads: Chuck Taylor. Defense Investment Corp.
Another venture capitalist, one of the high-risk investors who troll the region’s labs, campuses and garages for fresh ideas and entrepreneurs to back. He belongs to the breed’s military subset. For decades, the military has invested in myriad Silicon Valley technologies that have few or speculative military applications. Sometimes with spectacular returns. Witness the birth of the Internet.
“You’re investing in Medblog?” I ask.