Page 3 of Once a Killer

“Keep me posted. And don’t hesitate to ask if you need help. Those patent forms can be a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“We’ll contact our patent lawyers when you’re ready to file for the patent,” Jameson said. “The copyright is more straightforward.”

“Gonna be a while yet,” Rivers said. “But I’ll get there.”

Jameson gave him a thumbs up and headed back to his office. He pulled out his phone and saw that it was almost seven p.m. Time to head home.

He saved his work on his computer, then backed it up with two flash drives. He disconnected the computer and put in into his battered briefcase and slid the flash drives in his pocket. Then he plucked two hairs out of his scalp and slid them gently onto the top of two of the drawers in his desk. His tells, to see if anyone had been in his office after he left.

He hated to suspect that one of the engineers who worked for him was snooping, but a few things had beenoffin his office over the last couple of weeks. A picture of his sister’s kids wasn’t in the same place it had been the night before. The dial on his wall safe was on a different number than the one it had been on when Jameson had left the office. And he was pretty sure someone had followed him home one night last week when he’d worked late.

He hadn’t recognized the car. It didn’t belong to any of the four engineers who worked for him. But it had picked him up shortly after he exited the parking lot and stayed behind him until he drove into the alley behind his three-flat.

And then there had been the car that had run a red light and almost T-boned him. He’d only managed to avoid it because he’d been paying attention and had quick reflexes.

Jameson closed his office door and locked it behind him, then stepped into the main area of the lab. “I’m done for today,” he called. “See you all tomorrow.”

Rivers gave him a thumbs up as he kept typing furiously. McKay glanced at him and nodded. Brogan and Lewandowski were both engrossed in their programs and managed a wave without looking.

As Jameson let his gaze drift over all of them, he wondered if one of his employees was responsible for the little blips he’d found in his office. The four of them, and himself, were the only ones with keys. And he’d emphasized to each of them, when he’d hired them, that they couldn’t share the keys with anyone else. To guard them carefully.

He watched for another moment, but when everyone seemed engrossed in their own work, Jameson headed out the door and down to the parking lot. Got into his car and kept glancing at his rear-view mirror. No one followed him out of the lot. It was early enough that he could see the cars behind him, and no one appeared to be following him. But he didn’t really relax until he’d parked his car in the three-flat’s garage and walked up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. After examining the locks carefully and finding no trace of tampering, he unlocked the door and stepped into his kitchen.

Once he checked the front door and was certain no one had messed with those locks, either, he dropped his briefcase onto the desk by the front windows. The shades were still closed, and his little tells undisturbed.

He exhaled as he threw himself onto his couch. When the hell was the security agent he’d hired going to arrive?

He needed to focus on his program. Get the data that would speed up the patenting process. But in the past week or two, he’d spent more time wondering if one of his employees was targeting him.

Or was the threat completely unrelated to his four engineers? Was it coming from some other source? He had no idea. The only thing he was sure of?

In order to finish this program, he needed someone to watch his back. Twenty-four seven.

Chapter 2

Bree pulled into a parking spot at the curb in front of an older building on the north side of Chicago. A three-flat, with each floor identical to the others. She frowned. Mel had said Jameson Ford was going to make a billion dollars from the computer program he was developing. This sure didn’t look like the kind of place a potentially mega-rich guy might live.

The area was a more upscale version of the neighborhood she grew up in, with a working-class mother who struggled to stretch their money until the next paycheck. The buildings around here had been kept up. Bree wouldn’t find broken sidewalks in this neighborhood. No unmown, weed-filled yards. No trash-filled alleys.

Huh. She hadn’t expected a blast from the past when Mel sent her to Chicago.

Exiting her rental car, she grabbed her suitcase from the trunk, along with the briefcase that held her computer, and made sure the doors were locked. Nothing valuable was visible in the passenger compartment of the car. Then she squared her shoulders, took another look at the building, and strode briskly to the door.

Once inside the tiny vestibule, she pressed the bell for Jameson Ford. Waited.

Eons later, a man’s voice squawked through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Ford, Bree Gordon here. From Blackhawk Security.”

Ford exhaled, as if he’d been waiting for her. “Great. Third floor.”

The door into the building buzzed, and she yanked it open. Held it with her body while she grabbed her suitcase, then let the door slam shut behind her as she started up the stairs.

When she’d lived in a building like this, when guests arrived, the people they were visiting would step into the hall to wait for them. But there were no signs of life on the third floor. When she finally reached the top floor, she rapped on the door.

“ID card,” the same male voice ordered. “At the peephole, please.”

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