Authors: Vicki Tyley
Shedding her
jeans and cotton top, she changed into the one suit she had brought with her, a
summer-weight navy jacket and tailored trousers, swapping her strappy sandals
for formal mid-heeled pumps. Next, she attempted to tame her hair, pulling it
into an austere knot at the back of her head. A hint of mascara and lipgloss
added the finishing touches. Almost.
She delved into
her handbag, pulled out her company photo-ID card and slipped the chain around
her neck. If no one was going to help, she would just have to do it herself.
She only hoped she could pull it off.
Jemma sucked in her breath and
before she could lose her nerve, pushed through the heavy black-glass door.
No larger than
a cubicle, the security office’s drab grey walls and vinyl floor were more
utilitarian than decorative. Somehow, three timber-veneer desks and two
four-drawer steel filing cabinets had been squeezed into the space behind the
gated front counter. A keyboard and old-style CRT computer monitor, its screen
dark, dominated the corner desk. A set of keys, a blue-and-orange coffee mug
and a half-drunk bottle of water – the only evidence that anyone worked there –
sat next to the mouse pad. Mounted on the wall to her left, was a bank of
flat-panel monitors. From where she stood, she could see flickering shapes, but
no detail.
An ajar door to
her right caught her attention. “Hello,” she called, “Anyone there?”
Seconds later,
a uniformed, ginger-haired man barely out of his teens emerged. His pale lips
twitched in a tentative smile. “Yes?”
She swung into
action. “Jemma Dalton, Information Systems Auditor,” she said, patting the file
in her arms. “I believe you were expecting me.”
He frowned.
“Not again,”
she groaned. “Do you know this is the second time today this has happened?” She
made a pretence of checking her watch. “I’m here to check the integrity of your
data systems. It’ll only take a few minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
He didn’t look
convinced. Nor did he have much hair.
“Promise,” she
said, tilting her head to the side and stretching her mouth in the widest smile
she could muster. She bustled forward as if it were fait accompli.
Letting her
through, he said, “What do you need to know?”
“Now, let’s
see,” she said, unclipping her pen and opening the file. She motioned at the
monitors. “First, how often is footage from these cameras backed up?”
The young
security guard shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure. It happens
automatically.”
She made a show
of noting that down. “And how would you know if there were any faults, like a
camera not recording, for example?”
“A message
flashes on the screen.”
Another
notation. “To your knowledge, has there ever been more than one camera down at
the same time?”
He thought for
a moment. “Last year, there was an electrical fault that cost the company three
cameras. But other than that, they’re pretty reliable.”
“I have a note
here that’s says an operator can override the system. In what circumstances
would that be necessary?”
Lips pressed
together, he rolled his eyes up. “Um, you’ve got me there. I don’t know. Maybe
you should be talking to Gerry. He knows more about this stuff than I do.”
“What shift
does this Gerry work?” She chewed the top of her pen, waiting for him to
confirm what she already suspected.
“Graveyard –
11pm to 7am. Too early for you, I suppose.”
“That’s all
right. I just need to verify the audit trails and then I’m done.” From the
expression on his face, she might as well have been speaking Martian. Exactly
what she had hoped for. She smiled. “If you could just log me on, I can print
them out.”
He touched the
keyboard, the dark screen fading to reveal a blue and green menu. “Go for it.”
Great
security
, she thought, taking a seat in front of
the computer. At the very least, she would have expected a request for the user
to re-enter a password.
She selected
Reports from the menu toolbar. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t an application
she was familiar with; it was Windows based. Under the Activity and Audit
Reports tab, she found the information she was looking for. Viewing the data
on-screen, nothing jumped out at her.
Audit number. Date. Time. Location.
Access Code. Apartment Number.
It all looked in order, but how could that
be? She printed the report to study later.
However, before
she could stash it inside her file, the door opened. She didn’t know who got
the biggest shock, her or Ethan. She just stood there like an idiot, one hand
clasping her file, the other suspended mid-air, the unauthorized computer
printout pinched between her fingers. She knew from the heat flooding her neck
and face, she looked as guilty as she felt.
“This is a
secure area. Do you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
Ignoring the
ginger-haired security guard lurking in the background, she met Ethan’s gaze.
“Freelancing.” Those inky-blue eyes no longer seemed so alluring.
He shook his
head, frown lines marring his forehead. “What’s that in your hand?”
“A file.”
He scowled.
“No, the other one.”
“A report.”
“Let me see,” he
said, holding out his hand. “Please.”
“I went to see
you like we arranged. What happened?”
“The report,
Jemma.”
With a sigh,
she relinquished it. “I also tried to phone you. Twice. I’m only here because I
couldn’t get hold of you.”
He snatched it
from her fingers and without looking at it, folded it in two. “We can continue
this conversation at the office. You,” he said to the security guard, “I’ll
deal with later.”
Mouthing
‘sorry’ at the bemused guard, Jemma followed Ethan outside.
“Care to tell
me what that was all about, Ms Dalton?”
His gruff tone
took her straight back to her school days. She bowed her head, feeling like the
rebellious teenager caught smoking in the girls’ toilets again. Except now, she
was an adult. She took a breath and looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said, splaying
her hands. “I know it was wrong, but what else was I supposed to do? I had to
prove I’m not crazy. Well, not completely, anyway.”
“Whoa. Back up.
What the hell are you on about?”
“Not here. And
not at your office either,” she added, not keen to show her face there again in
a hurry. Before she knew it, she had invited him up to the apartment. Shutting
out the little voice in her head telling her she hardly knew the man, she led
the way. He wasn’t a complete stranger and besides, she reminded herself, as
property manager, he had access to every apartment, if he so chose.
She let him
into the apartment, picking up the broom she had used to barricade the door the
previous night before he could trip on it. “I can offer you black coffee... or
black coffee.”
Dismissing her
offer with a quick flick of the wrist, he crossed to the other end of the room.
His back to the glass balcony doors, he unfolded the activity listing. “Mind
telling me what you were hoping to achieve with this report?”
“Sure you don’t
want a coffee?” she asked from the kitchen.
“This isn’t a
social visit.”
“I’d have never
guessed,” she said, the sound of the water running into the stainless steel
kettle drowning her words. She turned off the tap. “Coming.”
Making a conscious
effort to keep her body language open, she fronted him. “You make the place
look untidy,” she said, in a feeble attempt to lighten the situation. “At least
sit down.”
His expression
unchanged, he hesitated for a moment before dropping into one of the armchairs.
She opted for the couch; it was closer to the door.
“I know what it
must look like, but I’m not really a master criminal.”
“No?”
She rubbed her
eyes, gritty with fatigue, and wished she were anywhere other than there.
Preferably home in her own bed. “No…”
“Go on, then.”
He leaned back in his chair, his right ankle crossed over his left knee
revealing a teal-blue sock the color of his tie. The report lay face up in his
lap. “I’m all ears.”
Heaving a weary
sigh, she proceeded to tell him about waking in the early hours to someone
entering the apartment, her call to Chris, his call to the security office, and
the subsequent news that the security system had not logged any activity for
that period. It was the cutdown version; she didn’t have the energy for more.
Ethan dropped
his foot to the floor and sat forward, his whole demeanor changed. “You’re
saying that someone broke in here last night, but that security had no record
of anyone entering or leaving the floor?”
She nodded.
“And before you say it: no, I couldn’t have dreamed it.”
“Strange,” he
said, more to himself than to her. Stroking his chin, he studied her. “Why
didn’t you say something this morning, instead of all the underhanded
snooping?” His gaze dropped to the printout in his lap. “By rights, I could
have you charged.”
Her breath
escaped in a loud huff. “Why not? My life couldn’t get much worse—”
A loud trill
from Ethan’s jacket cut in. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, pulling his
mobile phone from his pocket and getting to his feet. “I have to take this.”
She watched as
he opened the sliding door, stepped out onto the balcony and closed the door
behind him. Shoulders hunched, he stood with his back to her, the phone to his
right ear, his left hand clamped over his other ear.
The printout he
had confiscated from her earlier lay within reach on the carpet, where it had
drifted when he had stood up. Glancing first at Ethan and then back at the
floor, she stretched sideways and down, catching the edge of the paper between
her fingers.
Keeping one eye
on Ethan’s back, she scanned the report.
Audit number. Date. Time. Location.
Access Code. Apartment Number.
Exactly the same data she had viewed
on-screen. She ran her finger down the first column.
166584
166585
166586
166587
She stopped. Four
entries were missing. The log jumped from transaction 166587 to 166592. She
leapt from the couch, almost shouting out in her excitement. She knew she
hadn’t completely lost the plot and here was the proof.
“I was right,”
she said the instant Ethan stepped back inside.
“Right about
what?
“This.” She
flapped the report in his face. “Four entries have been deleted from the log.
Four entries from around the same time as my intruder.”
He frowned, his
eyes narrowing. “Maybe it was a computer glitch. They happen.”
She shook her
head. “No, it’s too coincidental.”
“I’ll look into
it.” He scratched the back of his head. “But can we talk about it later? I have
to go, sorry,” he said already walking away.
“But what about
changing the locks,” she called out as the door slammed behind him. “I need
some help here…”
For the second
time that day, he had cut and run.
Jemma lugged the last shopping bag
into the apartment. With a loud groan, she collapsed back against the door.
Sweat dripped from her every pore. Her face felt as if could light up a runway,
her head fit to explode. Not to mention her hands, still throbbing from the
weight of the bags. What had possessed her to go grocery shopping during the
hottest time of the day? Vowing to order online in future, she kicked off her
sandals and started relaying her purchases to the kitchen.
The intercom
sounded while she was crouched down in front of the refrigerator, in the throes
of unpacking salad vegetables into the crisper. Swearing, she straightened up
and moved to the end of the bench.
An older man’s
face, his square jaw vaguely familiar, stared into the camera.
She pressed the
button. “Yes?”
“Marcus
Bartlett, Jemma. You called about changing the apartment locks.”
Now she knew
why she recognized his face. She just hadn’t realized he was also Tanya’s
landlord. Buzzing him in, she loitered near the door, listening for the lift.
Though it could
have only been seconds, it seemed to take forever. Thankful she couldn’t see
what she looked like, but still wishing she’d had the chance to freshen up
before meeting her sister’s boss, Jemma took a deep breath and opened the door.
Tall and suave,
silver-haired Marcus Bartlett looked better in the flesh than he did on
television. His neck that of a bodybuilder, he had the physique men half his
age would have envied. Wearing a mustard-colored, open-necked shirt and black
trousers, he carried himself with a confidence bordering on arrogance. Clear
blue eyes scrutinized her.