Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(86)
“My favorite time of day,” he muses, looking into the sky, a pale, glittering blue dome beyond the windows. “You can get so much done in the morning, I find. Don’t you?”
Miranda says flatly, “I’m a night owl.”
Downs glances at her, momentarily disturbed. “Like my ex-wife. Huh.”
Then, with a shrug, he returns to his window gazing and whistling.
After a long, uncomfortable silence during which the only sounds are my footsteps thudding against the floor and Downs’s merry whistling, Miranda says with a touch of irritation, “I’ve already spoken with your associates, Agent Downs. I’ve told them everything I know.”
The whistling stops. “Deputy Director Downs,” he says, looking down his narrow nose at her.
Miranda wears the disgusted expression of someone who’s just eaten a bad piece of shellfish at dinner but is too polite to spit it back onto the plate. “My apologies. I’ve never been a stickler for titles.”
More silence, except for my footsteps. Another moment passes before Miranda, exasperated, pleads, “Connor, will you please sit down?”
Downs smiles, his pleasant demeanor back in place. “Oh, he’s just working off a little steam. On account of his lady friend being taken into custody. I’m sure you understand.”
Miranda shifts her weight in her seat and gazes at some fixed point above my left shoulder. “Yes. Well. I’m sure it’s very difficult. No one enjoys being taken by surprise like that by someone they think is a friend.”
Downs and I share a look. I’ve told him my theory already, and he allowed me to be in the room while he questioned her on the condition that I not interfere.
He didn’t say anything about pacing, however. So back and forth I go.
Honestly, it’s the only thing keeping me from tearing this room apart with my bare hands.
“Indulge me if you would, Ms. Lawson. I know you’ve already been through this, but please tell me what you can about S?ren Killgaard.”
A muscle beneath Miranda’s left eye twitches. “Hardly anything, really. Only what I’ve learned through this investigation. I’d never heard of the man until a few weeks ago.”
Downs smiles his government-issue, “we’re all buddies here,” totally untrustworthy interrogator smile. “Understood. Just whatever pops into your head. I’m trying to get a more rounded picture. Everyone recalls different things, but when you put them all together, the puzzle begins to take shape, so to speak. Whatever you recall will be helpful.”
Miranda’s lips tighten, but then it seems she forces herself to relax them into a neutral shape. “Let’s see. Well, he’s obviously an expert at computer hacking.”
Downs chuckles like an affectionate uncle. “You can say that again!”
Miranda offers him a hesitant smile. “And judging by his demands and other communications, I’d say he’s quite well spoken. Intelligent, clearly. Educated.”
Downs is nodding, saying in a friendly way yep, uh-huh, that’s for sure, but at the same time, he’s slowly moving around to the front of her desk so he can get a better look at her expression as she speaks.
My gaze glued to her face, I turn on my heel and pace left.
“What was your reaction when you received his first demand for money?”
“Panic, quite frankly. I called Connor immediately because I thought it merited a thorough investigation. I saw what happened to Sony when they were hacked.” She shudders. “I wanted to avoid that.”
“And what did Connor find?”
When she looks to me as if for confirmation of what I might have told him, Downs says, “Unfortunately, he’s a bit too upset at the moment to provide anything useful.”
When he says the word “upset,” he makes a motion toward his head that’s supposed to be only for her, a conspiratorial gesture that suggests my mental function is sketchy right now on account of the recent relationship between my skull and the butt of a shotgun. Miranda’s mouth makes an O. She nods solemnly in understanding.
“After an initial scan of the network, there appeared to be nothing amiss. Connor then worked in conjunction with my internal IT team to tweak a few things, make the system bulletproof, et cetera.”
“But as it turned out the system wasn’t bulletproof.”
“That’s correct.”
“What happened?”
“Information was stolen. Proprietary information pertaining to the workings of the studio, our projects and the like, along with highly sensitive personnel files, electronic communications—”
“Emails, you mean,” clarifies Downs.
Miranda nods.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, the list was extensive. I’ll have my IT guys catalogue it for you.”
“That’s all right, I just wondered if there was anything else of particular value that came to mind.”
Miranda pauses for slightly longer than seems natural. “Yes, actually. My software was stolen.”
Downs lowers his rangy frame into one of the angular modern chairs in front of Miranda’s desk, crosses his long legs, removes the bottle of Tums from his pocket, and shakes a few out. As if only half listening, he says, “Oh?”
She drums the fingers of her left hand on the desktop. “InSight. It’s a statistical analysis product I developed myself to measure and predict audience engagement.”