Just Watch Me (Riley Wolfe 1)

So when her assistant, Meg, told her that a Mr. Beck was here to talk to her about electronic security, she did not see the visit as an annoying interruption, as she usually would have. Instead, she welcomed the chance to sit at her desk, just breathe and talk for a few relatively calm minutes—and, of course, have a wee small spot of coffee. “Send him in,” she said, and poured herself a cup from the thermos on her desk.

She’d had only one sip when Mr. Beck came in. He was a stocky man in a gray suit, probably in his fifties, with a bristly gray mustache, gray hair in an old-fashioned brush cut, glasses with big black frames, and a bow tie. “Ms. Dunham,” he said, holding out his hand with a business card in it. “I’m Howard Beck, from Cerberus Security Systems.”

He spoke with a middle-aged rasp in his voice, but he seemed nice enough. Angela took the card and inclined her head toward the folding chair across from hers. “Sit down, Mr. Beck. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you. That’s very kind, but no. Doctor’s orders.” He smiled apologetically.

“Well, I hope you’ll forgive me if I have a bit myself?”

“Oh, of course, absolutely—I still love the smell, but I’m not allowed to indulge.” He shook his head. “Arrhythmia, they tell me. My heart.”

“I’m so sorry,” Angela said. “Still, it could be worse, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, much worse, I don’t have any complaints,” he said. He allowed her another sip, and then broke the silence by saying, “Ms. Dunham, I know you’re a very busy woman—”

“You have no idea,” she murmured.

“—so I’ll cut right to the chase. I know the Eberhardt has always had top-notch security—but the Iranian crown jewels are going to paint a great big bull’s-eye on your museum. And if anyone is taking aim at it, they are going to be better than anybody you can imagine.”

“Yes, I’m quite certain you’re right.”

“They’ll know everything there is to know about how to get around any kind of alarm or sensor you can possibly have—they’ve seen ’em all and beat ’em all before, many times. So if you really want to keep those crown jewels safe, you’re going to need a few things that these light-fingered gentlemen have never heard of. And that’s where Cerberus Systems comes in. Confidentially, Ms. Dunham, I can help you do a system upgrade that is so far beyond state of the art that some of our components are not even on the market yet.”

“Really? That’s very interesting, but—”

“In fact, I can promise you that with a new Cerberus System in place, you will be getting a few new developments that have never been installed anywhere—and that means the bad guys don’t know how to beat ’em.” He nodded, once, with confident satisfaction.

“Mr. Beck—I’m sorry, but we have already hired a firm to upgrade our security system.”

“Yes, ma’am, but with all due respect—they can’t have the kind of cutting-edge technology Cerberus can offer.”

“Yes, but really, Mr. Beck—”

“Most of these other people don’t think about somebody tunneling in underneath, to your basement—Cerberus has you covered there.”

“We’ve been promised full electronics in the basement, actually. And I’m afraid—”

“Now before you say no, hear me out on this one thing: the roof.”

Angela waited, but he said nothing, merely nodding with a serious expression on his face. “I can assure you, we do have a roof,” she said at last into the awkward silence.

“Yes, ma’am, I know you do. But is it equipped with laser sensors that can detect any movement or shift in pressure from anything that weighs more than fifty pounds?”

“As a matter of fact, the firm we hired has informed me that they will install something in that line, yes.” She gave him a very British superior smile. “As well as an armed human presence, of course. On the roof and at all other possible access points.”

“Oh,” Mr. Beck said. He looked a bit deflated, Angela thought. “If you don’t think I’m being too pushy, could I ask you the name of that firm? Because—”

“Tiburon Security,” Angel

a said. There was a gentle knock on her door—three soft raps; it was her assistant, Meg. “Come,” she called.

Meg stuck her head in, a worried look pasted onto her pale, round face. “It’s the swatches,” she said. “For the drapery?”

“I’ll be right there,” Angela said. She looked at her coffee cup and sighed: It was empty. “Mr. Beck—I’m afraid I really can’t give you any more time.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand, and I thank you for the time you have given me.” He stood up. “Tiburon is very good, but if there’s any sort of problem . . . ?”

In spite of herself, Angela smiled. “I’ll be sure to call. Thank you, Mr. Beck.”