Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,38
cousin’s married to a man of your stature, they own a ranch in Morgan Hill.” She gave an approving cluck. “Prize dairy cows.”
He swallowed his embarrassment. “I suppose you have phone books?”
“What you waiting for, Bob? Your friend needs some vertical assistance. Phone booth’s in back.”
Bob stood, all six feet of him, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, René, I didn’t think.”
“Just don’t come back with one of those children’s booster seats.”
René finished half of the child’s plate. How did people eat such great quantities, and all in one sitting? And no cheese course to follow. But he kept that to himself.
“How’s it feel after your first day as CTO?” Bob grinned, wiping ketchup off his chin. “Spot any blondes yet?”
René leaned back on the phone books. “I met a programmer who makes a perfect café au lait. Two in one, Bob. Legs to forever. I’m in love.”
“Three in one, René. Love, lust, no difference, eh?”
Bob, twice divorced, complained of child support and alimony.
“But tell me,” René said, leaning forward. “I train at dojos, but I’m not into team sports. Am I expected to do le jogging with my boss?”
“What?” Bob said. “I don’t follow. Start-ups are all hustle. No one’s got time for team sports.”
“But this front running, it means faire du sport, non?”
Bob dropped his fork. “Front running? Explain.”
René told him the little he’d overheard.
“Hard to say, but front running involves a kind of insider trading,” Bob said. “There’s different ways to spin it, but say a financial search engine provides trading services. Somehow, for example, they set up access on the mainframe to stall data transmission by a few seconds—that’s a big no-no.”
“I don’t understand, Bob.” René’s cheeks flushed. The beer and Bob’s reaction got to him.
“Did you program a relay and delay code?”
René nodded, worried. “I need to for security and maintenance.”
“But for a financial search engine that uses portfolio tracking and a stock screener, this kind of front run could provide a few seconds’ advantage in online stock trading,” Bob said, playing with his napkin. “So you can manage to get a lower day-trading guarantee. Millions of dollars’ advantage in trading, René. What the hell did they tell you?”
“That’s just it, nothing. I patched and vented the mainframe back door, the usual. Secured the system.”
“Maybe you heard wrong,” Bob said. “Tradelert’s got top investors. Generating a lot of buzz. I don’t know.”
Had he done their dirty work?
Bob paid the check.
“Nothing jumped out at me after I double-checked all systems,” René said.
Or had jetlag clouded his brain?
“It’s your ass, René.”
AFTER BOB DROPPED him off at the motel, René hung up his suit jacket and trousers on the plastic hanger and stepped into the pink Jacuzzi. He needed to ease the ache in his hip joints after the plane ride. He allowed himself to float in the water, feel the massaging jets, empty his mind.
His head cleared, he played back the algorithms. After he dried off with the largest and thirstiest pink towel he’d ever used, he unpacked his handmade Charvet shirts and hung tomorrow’s suit up in the closet.
At the laminate wood motel desk, complete with Gideon Bible in the drawer, his gaze fell on the empty, dimly lit parking lot outside the window. His thoughts drifted—had Saj garaged and waxed his car? Did Aimée remember the client meeting he’d scheduled, or Miles Davis’s grooming appointment? For a moment he felt alone. So alone in this room with the king-size bed, so oversize he needed a chair to reach it.
Stop it, he told himself. He booted up his laptop, stuck in the second prototype thumb-drive he’d neglected to tell Saj he’d borrowed, got ready to work. But that phrase niggled in his mind: The dwarf’s got no idea.
Had he heard wrong?
He’d call the Nordic blonde. Test his suspicions.
“Susie, it’s René, sorry to call so late.”
“What happened to you after work?” She almost purred. “I failed in my mission to serve you.”
“But you can redeem yourself, Susie,” he said, envisioning her long legs. “I planned on checking the mainframe again,” he said, “but without remote access I’ll need to take care of that tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you get your token?” A little gasp. “My fault. I forgot.”
The token allowing him remote access to the mainframe. Tokens were guarded like the Holy Grail. Had she really forgotten?
“Security would allow that? I mean, in France we work on-site only.”
“This is the Valley, René,” Susie said, a smile in her voice.
Something bothered him. And he wished he knew what.