R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

"And the floppy disks?"

She opened a side pocket and extracted a handful of disks, probably twenty by the look. She held them toward the camera, holding them face forward so he could read the sequence of dates he'd probably written himself. "Okay. Good enough," he said.

She slipped them back inside and zipped the duffel shut. "Happy now, you asshole?"

"I am. Thanks for asking. Come on up to the lobby and behave yourself. I've got Kinsey right here in case you want to get cute about this.'' Reba flipped him the bird. Attagirl, I thought. That would show him. I glanced at Willard. "You just going to stand there?" No response. Maybe Willard had died and no one had remembered to mention it. I wanted to wave a hand in front of his eyes to see if he would blink.

The service elevator reached the lobby level and the doors slid open. Reba stepped forward, struggling with the weight of the duffel. Beck, gun in hand, watched her for any hint of rebellion or treachery. She set the duffel on the floor in front of him. He motioned with the gun. "Open it."

"Oh, geez. You think it's booby-trapped?"

"I wouldn't put it past you."

She leaned down and unzipped the duffel, exposing the computer for the second time. Without his having to ask, she took out the floppy disks and handed them to him. "Now step back."

She backed up about ten feet, her hands in the air. "So worried," she remarked.

Beck passed the gun to Willard. "Keep an eye on both." He knelt and freed the computer case from the duffel. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a small Phillips-head screwdriver, which he used to loosen the screws that held the housing in place. He tossed the screws aside and then took off the back panel. I couldn't figure out what he was up to.

The inner workings of the computer were now exposed. I don't own a computer and I'd never seen the inside of one. What a complex assortment of multicolored connectors, wires, circuits, transistors, or whatever they were called, lots of weensy things at any rate. Willard held the gun steady, barrel pointing first at Reba and then at me, but almost idly I thought. Beck opened his briefcase and took out a glass beaker with a glass stopper wedged in the top. He opened it and dolloped a clear liquid across the circuits like salad dressing. It must have been acid because a hissing went up and the smell of chemical burning filled the air. Insulated wires dissolved, small parts curling as though alive, shriveling and shrinking as the caustic liquid made contact. He took out a second beaker and poured acid over the floppy disks, spreading them out so as not to miss any. Holes appeared instantly, and a sizzling smoke developed as the disks disintegrated.

Reba said, "You won't remember all that stuff."

"Don't worry about it. I have dupes in Panama."

"Well, goody for you." Her voice sounded odd.

I glanced at her. Her mouth had begun to tremble and tears glistened in her eyes as she watched. Hoarsely, she said, "I really loved you. I did. You were everything to me."

I found myself staring at her with interest. Why did I think she was faking?

"Geez, Reeb, you never learn, do you. What's it going to take to get it through that thick head of yours? You're just like a kid. Someone tells you there's a Santa Claus and you believe."

"But you said I could trust you. You said you loved me and you'd take care of me. You said that."

"I know, but I lied."

"About everything?"

"Pretty much," he said, ruefully.

I caught a glimpse of motion on one of the monitors. In the underground garage, two Santa Teresa black-and-whites were coming down the ramp. Two unmarked cars followed.

Meanwhile, Beck was intent on his task. He took the screwdriver and jammed it into the workings of the computer, twisting metal parts, snapping wires, careful to avoid any direct contact between the acid and his hands. He had his back to the big plate-glass windows so he didn't see Cheney step out of the shadows with his gun drawn. Vince Turner appeared along with four agents in FBI vests.

Too late to salvage the data, but I was grateful nonetheless.

Reba caught sight of them. I saw her gaze flick to the window and back to Beck. "Oh, poor Beck. You are so screwed," she said.

He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He looked at her, his expression pleasant. "Really? How do you figure that?"

Reba was silent for a beat, a slow smile lighting her battered face. "The minute I got back to town, I put in a call to a man who works for the IRS. I spilled the beans, spelled it all out – names, numbers, dates – everything he needed to get his warrants. He had to call the judge at home, but he was happy to be of help."