Naked Sushi (3 page)

You bet she was.

This case just got a whole lot more interesting.

* * *

This was one goddamn screwed-up night.

I’d barely zipped up my jeans when the Wicked Witch of the West made me pack up my things and give her back the key to the girls’ daisy-wallpapered bathroom. We were the only two who used it since the company wasn’t big on hiring females unless forced to do so. All the other employees were guys. No receptionist up front. Nobody answered the phone when customers needed tech support since all the calls were routed overseas.

Just rooms filled with programmers and graphic art designers. A geek junkie’s heaven on earth.

Then Ms. Sims recited the employee policy to me like it was the Miranda Rights.

“You are hereby ordered not to contact
anyone
at the company after your termination,” she said, stuffing the documents she’d taken from me into a folder. I grabbed my coffee cup and closed up my backpack. I assumed she would report the break-in to the protection services Mr. Briggs hired to keep out interlopers.

Which made me wonder—

Where was the security guy who walked the perimeter? This wasn’t the first time he’d messed up. The only reason he kept his job was because he was Ms. Sims’s nephew.

“Why not?” I asked, confused. I often traded programming shortcuts with the guys.

“If you dare to initiate conversation with our employees,” she said, hands on her hips, “I will contact the authorities and have you arrested as an accomplice.”

“Accomplice to what?” I wanted to know. “You got your file back. Nothing was taken.”

Except my pride.

I didn’t mention the copies. Why make things worse? Mr. Briggs’s tax records couldn’t be that important unless he had an ex-wife no one knew about. Besides, I’d never live it down if anyone found out about this, especially Cindy. We’ve traded secrets and diaries since high school. She’d think it was romantic and want all the juicy details.

“True, but you
did
allow that man in here.” She fumbled around for the right words. “He could have seen our new video game design.”

“I doubt it.” I threw the words back at her. “He was too busy eyeing my ass.”

That did it. The wrath of the Emerald City flying monkeys rained down upon me.

“You little slut,” Ms. Sims screamed. “Get out,
now!
”

I swore I saw smoke coming out of her ears. I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. She’d had it in for me since Mr. Briggs hired me. She was the Queen Bee until I arrived. She was jealous since I got all the attention from the guys. Was it my fault she didn’t know WTF code from the acronym for the expletive?

That was the end of my career at the video game company. The office manager threw me out on my butt with no references, no severance package.

Nada
. I got screwed and the thief got away.

All because I forgot to buy batteries for my vibrator.

* * *

I figured I wouldn’t have a problem finding work since video game programmers were a hot commodity. Yeah, right. Nobody told me the job market had gone cold. Or so it seemed to me. Over the next week, I sent out fifty résumés a day online and went on interviews only to have them tell me they’ve stopped interviewing for that position. Which was a nice way of saying “not interested.”

Worse yet, I discovered no one would hire me because I’d been fired for “misconduct of a nonbusiness nature.” That piece of information was leaked to me by a kind soul at the unemployment office. I was persona non grata there, as well. No checks from the state hit my mailbox. Even those online personality tests had it in for me with their trick questions.

You’re fucked. You’ll never work in this town again.

I shouldn’t have mouthed off to the office manager, but my offbeat personality had its roots in my traumatic childhood. Shuffled from one foster home to another, I pulled off numerous crazy stunts to get attention. When I was in junior high, the other kids wouldn’t stop bullying me, saying I was different and didn’t have a real family. So I hacked into the school computer to find out what was in my file. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find out anything I didn’t already know.

When I was in high school, I wrote a software program to help me learn fact-driven data at a faster pace. Instead of praise for my efforts, I got stung for my antics. You’d think I’d done something wrong, like designing a T-shirt with a logo that was really a cheat sheet. Since then, I learned to shy away from people to keep from getting hurt.

When I went away to college to get my degree in computer science thanks to a scholarship, I found the only way to be accepted as an equal by the übergeeks was to play down my looks with jeans and red plaid flannel shirts.

And glasses.

I shied away from getting contacts. I had to admit I used the specs as a shield against the world. Recent life-changing moments showed me I couldn’t hide anymore. The naked truth was, I was desperate. Past-due rent and an empty fridge were a real incentive for me to rev up my computer skills.

Time for me to do a little snooping to set the record straight.

* * *

Dawn.

There was something about my old company at this time of day that got to me. Like it wasn’t real, only imagined.

A gothic gingerbread house.

Fog sat lazy and white over the trolley wires, while the winding streets gave off a mood of nonchalance before dealing with the seething passion of the morning sun. Birds flitted from tree to tree, flapping their wings to keep warm.

I pulled my flannel shirt closer around me to keep out the wet chill as I traipsed in my clunky leather boots through the pink and white azaleas around the back of the house. I was amazed how the delicate flowers tugged at their roots in their attempt to grow tall and strong like the wisteria vines hugging the worn brown sandstone. They provided great cover for my private entrance, allowing me to enter unseen through a hidden door leading into a basement room used for storage.

It was a jib door that looked like a window. When lifted and opened, it led into the rear of the house. Most likely it had provided a discreet means of entry for the Victorian gentleman or lady wishing to return home unobserved.

For me, it was the perfect way to sneak inside and put my plan into action.

I treaded carefully so as not to disturb the plump cat snoozing outside the secret door. A habit of hers recently. I’d arrived at the office before anyone else and then waited for the security guard to make his rounds before gaining entrance. No worry. I knew his habits. He did his job in slo-mo. By the time he came this way again, I’d be long gone. I knew what I was looking for. We all left our digital footprints. You just had to know where to look.

Two days ago I installed a device to track the keystrokes the office manager made on her keyboard. Yesterday I recovered it, uploaded it to my computer and then retrieved her password. I was well aware I was guilty of hacking, but I firmly believed I’d been fired unjustly. I felt warranted in righting that wrong. I just wanted my life back.

I sat down at her computer and, after a few clicks, I was in.

Yes.

I drew in my breath, nervous and excited as files popped up on the screen. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: a list of former employees. I knew that Ms. Sims used an off-site human resources company to answer job inquiries about their ex-staff. She must have given them the off-putting information about my termination. All I had to do was change that info in my file.

I scrolled through the names, looking for my moniker. Once I found it, I’d change the reason for my dismissal to “termination without cause.” Then I’d add that I was part of a company layoff.

Next, I’d write a letter on the video company letterhead documenting that my efforts were of value to the company, but “because of the weak economy and a slowdown in the technology field,” they’d had no choice but to terminate my employment.

With luck, no one would notice the change in my file, and I could email it to the various job banks to clear my record.

It didn’t work out like I planned.

My file was gone. Disappeared. Like I never existed.

I stared at the computer screen as if I were reading another language, one beyond my comprehension. I felt dumb, foolish. I traced my steps again, tried another file, opened it. Nothing. Another file, still nothing.

I sat back, thinking. How did Mr. Briggs intend to explain my disappearance to the IRS? It occurred to me that might not be a bad thing. Still, I kept searching through the files, scrolling up and down, doing a name search.

I came up with zip.

What happened?

Where was my file?

I didn’t even blink, as if by sheer mental force I could will the pixels to form my name. Zilch. I rubbed my eyes. Nothing changed. Finally, I had to admit no computer trick or maneuver was going to bring back my file. I couldn’t fix what wasn’t there.

That left me no choice. I had to see Mr. Briggs in person and demand an explanation.

That presented a new problem. How was I going to get close enough to confront him? No doubt Ms. Sims would have security haul my ass out before I could talk to him. I would have to corner him somewhere off the premises, but where?

I had bounced forward, my feet flat on the floor, opening various files while looking for his calendar, when something strange on the screen caught my eye.

What was this?

Mr. Briggs was doing business with companies I didn’t recognize. Offshore companies, by the locales of their bank transactions. Weird. I shrugged it off, since outsourcing work in this business was common.

I closed the file and kept looking until I located his calendar. Scrolling through it, I could see he was out of town for the remainder of the week. Then he had meetings across the Bay at snooty banks with security so tight even I couldn’t hack into their system. Later, a haircut at an exclusive salon. I
could
go all scissor hands and scare the hell out of him until he gave me my job back. Not a good career move.

Wait. Next Thursday he had a luncheon appointment at a place called The Mermaid’s Tale.

A sushi restaurant.

Cool.

I knew just the person who could help me snag a gig there.

Cindy Ball.

Former prom queen. Do-gooder. And all-round girl-gone-wild.

Better yet, she owed me one.

Chapter Three

“I can’t do it, Pepper,” Cindy said, glossing her lips so red she looked like a fire hydrant eager for a hot firefighter to push her buttons. “I could get fired.”

“You’ve
got
to help me, Cindy,” I pleaded, “my life depends on it.”

“That’s what you said when Mr. Ambrose found out you were doing my French homework and he threatened to fail us both.” She kept glancing down at her phone. She was waiting for a text from her agent about an important audition.

“He didn’t, did he?”

“No, because you discovered he was sleeping with the girls’ tennis coach.” She raised a finely drawn brow. “You always were a snoop, Pepper.”

Thanks, Cindy.

Still, it was Cindy who came to my rescue when the foster family I was living with tossed me out after I checked their computer and found out they were bilking the system. Her parents were squeamish about having a high school tech whiz with a questionable past under their roof until I showed her dad how to use his new computer software to maximize his tax deductions. Without their support, I would have fallen through the cracks and ended up on the streets. Instead, I went to college and dragged Cindy along with me, much to her family’s relief. We were best pals, though we had different goals. I wanted to be a spy, which made Cindy roll her eyes. She wanted to be a reality TV star. I put up with her dreams and she put up with mine. No questions asked. It was an unbreakable bond between us.

“You wouldn’t have passed his class without me, would you?” I shot back.

“No, but—”

“I
so
need this favor, Cindy.” I said, poking around her cramped bedroom. Her Barbie doll collection with their sparkly gowns and tiaras grinned at me from every corner. As if they knew my ass was on the line.

“The restaurant owner has strict rules about anyone taking my place at the table,” she insisted. She bit down on her lip anxious-like when she heard a text come in.

“Just this once,” I begged. As long as I didn’t spill sake all over Mr. Briggs, I didn’t see what the big deal was. “I’ll give you the tips, too.”

Cindy looked at me funny, which I didn’t understand. Last I heard she was a waitress at The Mermaid’s Tale in between acting gigs. If you could call being a pair of dancing legs in a commercial an acting job.

“I’m not allowed to accept tips,” she said, reading the text.

“Why not? The Mermaid’s Tale is a hot spot for business luncheons. Are these guys that tight with their money?” I asked. When the one-percenters stopped tipping the pretty waitresses, you knew the economy was bad.

She blushed. “I got promoted at the restaurant.”

“Are you a cook?” I asked, imagining myself chopping up raw fish and cutting off a finger.

“I’m a sushi model.”

“A what?”

“Men eat raw sushi off my naked body.”

“Jesus fricking Christ.” I flipped out at the thought of having to take off my clothes to get my job back.

“You may be in luck after all, Pepper,” Cindy said, tapping a message on her phone. “I just got word the hair show audition is next Thursday.”

“So?” Why did I ever come up with this dumb idea?

“The manager is cool about letting me go on auditions since he’s an actor, too. He won’t say anything.” Her face lit up. “I’ll do it.”

“Hold on, Cindy, I wouldn’t want you to lose your job,” I said, stalling. Suddenly my bright idea didn’t seem so bright. This was
so
not in my line of work. I was a programmer, not a supermodel.

“Where’s your James Bond spirit, Pepper?”

“You don’t wear
anything?
” I had to ask. The idea of my body as the sushi blue-plate special of the day made me cringe. I got goose bumps thinking about the icy cold fish wiggling between my thighs, even if they were
dead
fish.

“A banana leaf covers me
here
.” She pointed to her crotch. “And big chrysanthemums cover my breasts.”

“
How
big?”

“Big enough. Since I got my implants, we’re about the same size.”

I still wasn’t convinced. I’d been hiding my body under red flannel tent city so long, I wasn’t sure I’d pass the hot bod test. Sure, I was thin because I often forgot to eat when I was working, but I didn’t have a tan. Cindy assured me I could wear body makeup. It was like having a thin sheet over your bare skin, she said.

A sheet over my face was a better idea.

I’d die of embarrassment if anyone I knew saw me lying spread-eagled with raw fish all over me.

Then I recalled Ms. Sims snarling at me to pack up and leave, waving her broomstick if she’d had one. A surge of daring rose up in me. This was my only chance to confront Mr. Briggs and find out why I was terminated and wiped off the face of the employment roll like an outdated floppy disk drive.

The question was: How bad did I want my old job back?

Enough to take off my clothes?

I looked down at my own Barbie cleavage peeking through my flannel shirt missing two buttons. The idea of taking down that superstud who had me bare-assed over the copier was also a big incentive. Once I got his attention, I’d fill Mr. Briggs in on the burglary and give him a detailed description of the thief, though I’d leave out his dick size.

There were some things they didn’t show you in a police lineup.

Besides, he came and I didn’t.

It was payback time.

* * *

Mary Dolores O’Malley
, Steve read, peering at the data from the secure site popping up on his computer screen.
Date of birth unknown.
Place of birth unknown.
Parents unknown.

He tossed his empty foam cup into the trash can next to his desk. That was a heavy load to carry. No trace of who you were or where you came from. His problem was just the opposite. He knew all too well where he came from.

His mother was a decent sort, but she’d gotten knocked up by the local bad boy and had then produced Steve’s older brother. Tom knew his way in and out of trouble better than any comic book hero. When Steve was a kid, Tom
was
his hero after his old man took off. He looked up to him. Tom taught him how to hot-wire cars and jimmy open locks and every other ruse in a thief’s bag of tricks. He could con a con man. Steve wanted to be just like him.

Until a bullet stopped Tom cold.

A bullet meant for Steve.

Tom had tried to go straight, but it didn’t work. He fell in with a bad crowd and pulled his kid brother in with him. He died in the dirty street surrounded by a rival gang, kicking and beating his broken body.

No hero’s death for him.

Before he died, he begged Steve to get out of the old neighborhood and not to end up like him. Only through the intervention of the local priest did Steve escape the streets
and
his past. The clergyman helped him sign up for the army. Afterward, he went to college and then joined the Bureau. There, while taking down the bad guys, Steve could use the special “talents” he’d learned from his brother.

He was about the close the file, when—

Hey
,
what’s this?

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Pepper had applied to various government agencies, including the CIA and ATF.

And
the FBI?

She’d filled out the paperwork, taken the Phase I entrance exam and scored quite high. She’d been invited to take Phase II, but she never followed through. She got cold feet.

Why?
he’d like to know.

As if he ever would. No reason to keep her on his radar. Mary Dolores—Pepper—was clean. He was convinced her playacting with him in the copy room was harmless. Thank God, she hadn’t done his case much damage. He’d found another way to get to Briggs and he intended to put that plan into action right away.

Meanwhile, Pepper had no idea who he was. He had to keep it that way.

Steve grinned. He wondered how she had explained their rendezvous and the out-of-control copy machine to the woman he’d brushed by in the dark hallway. He imagined her embellishing the story and turning it into a wild tale. Most likely, she made him out to be her boyfriend needing a little late night nooky.

He sighed deeply. Too bad it wasn’t true.

Steve looked at his watch. It was almost twelve. He had a meeting with Briggs and he couldn’t be late.

He clicked off his computer and watched her file disappear into a cyber never—never land. He had to get Pepper O’Malley off his mind. The last thing he needed was a sexy computer geek with a great bod tangled up in his life.

* * *

He’s here. Coming closer to the table filled with sushi where I lay spread out like a topless mermaid on a giant half shell. I recognized his gruff voice.

Seymour T. Briggs.

My ex-boss.

I drew in my breath and squinted through my fake eyelashes, twisting my head and moving my shoulders, nearly shaking loose the yellow pom-poms glued to my breasts. Petals flew though the air, landing on my nose. I blew them off to get a better view.

Damn, who was he talking to?

Tall, dark-haired, well dressed. Moving through the restaurant with the assurance of a man who knew women wanted him. He kept his eyes straight ahead; his shoulders were broad and powerful, propelling him forward like a sleek jet fighter ripping through the skies. A trip to the moon and back.

And he’d taken me with him.

Damn. It was
him
.

The stud from the copy room.

What the hell was he doing here?

He sat down at the table with Mr. Briggs and barely glanced at me.

But I recognized
him
, even without my specs. My throat was dry, my heartbeat went wild, and I swore my honey juices drizzled down between my legs. Talk about embarrassing, since I already had a customer sitting at my table. The man sniffed, smiled and then picked up a piece of fish on my leg with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.

I hardly noticed. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Mr. Stud.

My, he cleaned up nicely.

Gone was the rugged biker look. He was a
GQ
ad in the flesh. He looked smokin’ hot in a pinstriped dark suit with a cool-blue shirt and midnight-blue tie. Professional, but I knew that an air of wildness existed under that polished exterior. His dark hair was cut sleek on the sides with just enough length on the top to give him that bad-boy look I loved.

That didn’t explain his covert activities copying Mr. Briggs’s file.

Who was he?

A sudden rush of fear made me shiver, and cool perspiration dripped down the sides of my face, my nerves attacking my courage. A sudden twitch in my leg made me jerk wildly as if I were a puppet and someone yanked on my string. My gyrations made the sushi rolls sitting on my thighs bounce up and down, giving the customer sitting within striking distance the opportunity to grab one with his chopsticks. He pinched me, but I felt no pain. I was distanced from what was happening to me, as if I existed in a parallel dimension.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. It wasn’t like I could get up and leave. I
had
to stay. Or Cindy would lose her job. And I wouldn’t get my job back.

Yet all I could think about was—

The stud wouldn’t recognize me without my glasses and my clothes, would he?

Only a foolish girl would think that.

It wasn’t as if our shoulders merely touched when we bumped into each other in the copy room.

We had sex. Him thrusting, me pushing.

I breathed him in, filled with the warm, evocative memory of that night. Heady musk mixed with the rich smell of office leather, cool AC blowing in my face. I loved it. Sexy encounters like that rarely happened to me. It wasn’t like I had this prejudice against intimacy. I was afraid of where it would lead me. Someplace I didn’t want to go, where I would have to face who I was, where I came from. So I went for the cheap thrill, the quickie sex.

This was the first time it had backfired on me.

Or had it?

What was I afraid of?
He
was the thief, not me.

I licked my lips, a new plan orchestrating itself in my analytical brain.

All I had to do was convince Mr. Briggs this man was a burglar. A denizen of the night with criminal intentions that went way beyond seducing an innocent victim. Me, of course. Then I’d have my old job back in spite of his office manager firing me during one of her Queen Bee moments.

I wiggled my pink-tipped pedicure with the red rose petals stuck between my toes and smiled. I was all set to show my ex-boss he couldn’t mess with Pepper O’Malley—
and
get even with Mr. Stud. You know what they say.

Revenge was sweet.

Even when it tasted like sushi.

* * *

“Mr. Briggs...
Mr.
Briggs
,” I whispered, trying to get his attention. He couldn’t hear me. The creepy customer at the end of the table was making slurping noises. I motioned for him to back off, but he was intent on scoring another sushi roll off my thigh.

“I’ve been trying to crack the Japanese market for two years with no luck,” I heard Mr. Briggs say to the stud from the copy room. “What guarantee can you give me your company can do better?”

“We have experience in the Asian market, Mr. Briggs,” he said, choosing his words
and
his sushi with care as he plucked a sliver of
toro
off my leg.

I winced and my mouth dropped open. Experience? He had experience all right. He knew how to fuck. So what was he doing here with Mr. Briggs?

“A Japanese manager won’t research new software on his own,” he continued, “but ask a colleague for a recommendation.”

“And your company can provide me with such recommendations?” Mr. Briggs asked, curious.

“Yes. Our strategy is to partner with Japanese insiders familiar with what we call ‘the hidden market.’ My company prides itself on having a strong network of well-informed personal contacts familiar with Japanese business strategies.”

Listen to that bullshit he was feeding Mr. Briggs. Where did he get off acting like a big shot?