The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [20]
“Well, if you need any backup, I’ve got a pretty good bike lock,” Charlie adds, trying to keep things light.
Shep turns directly toward him. “Oh, man, would you love it, Charlie—I got this one option—you ever heard of Investigator software?”
Charlie shakes his head. He’s out of jokes.
“It lets you do keystroke monitoring,” Shep adds, all his attention now on me. “Which means when you’re sitting at your computer, I can see every word you’re typing. E-mail, letters, passwords… as soon as you hit the key, it pops up on my screen.”
“You sure that’s legal?” I ask.
“You kiddin’? It’s like standard issue these days—Exxon, Delta Airlines, even bitchy spouses who want to see what their husbands are doing in chat rooms—they all use it. I mean, why do you think the bank puts all our computers on one network—so you can send in-house e-mail? Big Brother ain’t comin’—he’s been here for years.”
I glance over at Charlie, who’s staring way too intently at the computer screen. Oh, jeez. The fake letter…
“It’s really amazin’,” Shep continues. “You can program it like an alarm—so if someone’s using Mary’s password, and the security system says she’s no longer in the building… it’ll pop up on your screen and tell you what’s going on.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I hadda do that…”
“So there’s the Brooklyn accent,” Shep grins. “What, it only comes out when you’re nervous? Is that when you forget to hide it?”
“No, it’s just… under the circumstances, I didn’t know what to…”
“Donworryaboudit,” Shep says, rubbing in the old neighborhood. “Like I said, Lapidus didn’t give a squat. When it comes to the tech stuff, he doesn’t care that I can see when someone types in Mary’s name, or his name…” Shep glances over my shoulder and his voice slows down. “… or even that I can see when someone’s using a company computer to write a fraudulent letter.”
Charlie shoots up in his seat, and suddenly I’m not the only one wearing the constipated mask.
“I’ll tell ya, they never had that when I was in the Service,” Shep continues, taking a few steps toward us and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He scratches his forearms—first right, then left—and I see for the first time how massive they are. “These days… with the computers… you can have ’em notify you of anything…” he adds, the old neighborhood now long gone. “… forty-million-dollar transfers to Tanner Drew… or three-million-dollar transfers to Marty Duckworth…”
Son of a bitch.
I’m paralyzed. I can’t move.
“It’s over, son. We know what you’re up to.”
Charlie jumps out of his seat and pumps a little laughter into his voice. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Shep—easy on the nightstick—you don’t think we—”
Shep plows past him, a finger pointed straight at my face. “Do I look blind to you, Oliver!?” Looking down, I don’t answer. “I asked you a question, son: Do you really think I’m that much of a moron? I knew from the second you sent that first fax, it was just a matter of time until you blew it.”
“The first fax?” Charlie blurts. “The Kinko’s one? You think that was us?” He puts a hand on Shep’s shoulder, hoping to buy a second or two. “I swear to you, buddy—we never sent that—in fact… in fact, when we got in this morning… we were… we were trying to catch the thief ourselves… isn’t that right, Oliver? We were doing the same thing as you!”
Ghost white, I just sit there. Charlie knows I’m lost. He glares my way. Dammit, Ollie… get with it. Please.
Turning back to Shep, Charlie laughs like it’s a riot. “I swear to you, Shep. We were trying to track the thief oursel—”
“Knock, knock—anyone home?” a scratchy voice shouts as the door to my office swings open. Shep spins around and finds the source of the voice—the paunchy, but still impeccably dressed middle-aged man who’s now approaching my desk—Francis A. Quincy, head financial partner of the firm. Behind him is the boss himself. Henry Lapidus.
I throw on a phony grin, but down low, my toes dig toward the carpet.
“Look who it is—the forty-million-dollar man!” Lapidus sings my way. “Believe