Chapter 2 #3
“And here’s the thing,” he said. “So far, we can just do our best to interview people. We’re seeking warrants for the company computers, but Gen-Zec probably has some of the best hackers in the tech world.
They can manipulate fire walls, backdoor entrances, you name it.
That’s why George Maynard was after them.
They were offering their services for a fee—and then, when systems were hacked and all went to hell for people and corporations, they were asking the company to solve the problems, to get rid of the dangerous hackers out there.
Except, of course, they were the ones doing the hacking. ”
“If all of this has come out, aren’t there warrants—” Grant asked.
“For all their computers? You bet. And we have an improvement on that. With the warrants, Angela can work her tech magic with that of our forensic specialists at headquarters. We’ll have what we can get from that angle.
What we need from Ainsley is going to be from a more personal angle,” Jackson said.
Angela was Jackson’s partner, second in command at headquarters.
And also his wife. They’d met on their first case, when Adam Harrison had first determined to create the Krewe of Hunters and its subdivisions. Together, they were an incredibly formidable team.
Grant nodded. “Of course,” he murmured.
He hated the personal angle. He hated being the one who had to report to and interview the surviving loved ones of a victim.
“I’ve read in the news that a man named Cecil Cartwright is the CEO of the company, and he gave statements trying to defend it at first. Then he made all kinds of speeches on how they weren’t taking anything; they were showing the importance of having all the proper security programs in place.
I’m thinking that man should be on our list to be brought in for interrogation. ”
“And I agree,” Jackson told him. “But Ainsley has met the man. I’d like her take on him before we”—he paused, looking at his watch—“before you and Shelly bring him in.”
“Where are we meeting her?” Grant asked.
“Just down Aviles Street,” Jackson said. “Easily accessible on foot. Let’s head on out.”
Shelly didn’t speak as she followed Jackson out the door, pausing with him for Grant to close their door and lock it with the proper protocol.
Then they started down the street.
Aviles was busy. For the locals, it was something of an artists’ colony.
For tourists, well, it was touted as the oldest street in the nation.
They were just off the Plaza de la Constitución, down from the Spanish Military Hospital, near the Oldest House Museum, and in the heart of what was touted as the city’s first arts district.
Once, Grant had come in late from a meeting, driving home after his delayed plane had landed in Jacksonville at about two in the morning.
Arriving on the street after parking in a public lot, walking in the wee hours of the night, he had a moment where he felt as if he’d been cast back in time several hundred years.
Grant found himself watching Shelly again as they walked. She appeared to be interested in everything. He smiled inwardly. They were going to work together on a professional level. It didn’t matter if she appreciated the history here.
But still, he was glad to see she liked his hometown. Sad as it might have been, he was afraid he might have had a bit of a wall against her if she hadn’t, and that wouldn’t have been at all professional.
He gave himself a mental shake. Jackson was heading toward one of his favorite cafés, a local place.
It was down-to-earth homey, specializing in year-round turkey dinners, meatloaf, salmon, and other staples for the all-day meal, Spanish and Latin American dishes for history and the state’s Hispanic population, and an all-around great menu.
The walls were also covered with paintings of the city created throughout time. Again, some were historic, and some were contemporary.
It was locally owned and operated, too, something he liked—not that he had anything against chain restaurants. He depended on many with the amount an agent in his position traveled. But mom and pop places were also important; they gave localities a great deal of their character.
“I’ll see if Ainsley has arrived yet and get us a table,” Jackson said.
He left them on the street, letting the door close behind him as he went in.
He had done it on purpose, Grant thought. He wasn’t sure why, but Shelly was looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” she told him.
“Um, about …”
“I saw your face,” she said. “There was a time when you had to be the one to report the loss of a loved one to someone you cared about deeply.”
He let out a breath and shrugged. No reason to lie. The death of his first partner was on record.
“I started out with an amazing agent named Hank Webster. We were sent to an abandoned warehouse. Intelligence had reported that an expert demolitionist was working there, and cameras and surveillance showed that he was alone. He wasn’t.
Someone had leaked intel. We found him, doing exactly what it was suspected he had been doing.
But we were ambushed by a party of four gunmen and …
and Hank went down. And yes. I chose to do it because I believed with my whole heart, I needed to be the one to tell Mary, his wife.
It haunted me that I had lived with a minor injury—and Hank died.
And holding Mary while she cried … yeah.
I hate interviewing loved ones of a victim,” he told her.