Helen and I were wandering along Fisherman's Wharf, talking about nothing of particular consequence, when my beeper started buzzing. We'd enjoyed a leisurely dinner at Fisherman's Grotto, had visited two art galleries, spent a while looking at the elephant seals who have been given a set of floating docks as their habitat and were considering a nightcap before finding someplace quiet for more intimate pleasures.

The light was too dim where we were and we had to cross to a street light before I could read the message on the small LCD screen.

The message was brief: "TED INJURED - NOT FATAL - CALL ALLISON" followed by a phone number and extension I didn't recognize.

I offered a brief but heartfelt curse, then looked around for a telephone.

The phone number reached the switchboard at the hospital. Requesting the extension connected me to a phone in the emergency waiting room. A moment later, Allison was on the line.

Our conversation on the phone was brief. According to Allison, Ted was being treated for a knife wound but she didn't think they'd keep him there. My response was equally brief - I'd be there as quickly as I could.

Explaining to Helen took longer than the phone call had.

* * *

"Son-of-a-bitch jumped me. The one who hangs out with Mr. Snoopy. I told you he was trouble."

"So, Butthead? You got away didn't you? Just chill out and lie low. A few weeks and we'll be ready to blow off this burg"

"Course I got away. Had to cut the bastard - that'll slow him down. Damned knife stuck though. Son-of-a-bitch cost me a good blade."

"In a few days, you can buy all the blades you want. Just chill and stick to business. This is no time to go screwing with the man. Now, come on, it's time to visit the rug pusher and change disks. And this one'd better be good. I want some data ready to run. Get some cash and get that bastard Mojo off our case. He's talking about putting the screws on for his vig."

"Why me? Thought you and Vee were handling it?"

" 'Cause I said so, that's why. Besides, she's meeting the card man, setting up a deal for the numbers. Toss the ladder in the truck and let's move it."

* * *

I hate hospital emergency rooms. Not so much because of my leg - I'd been unconscious that time - but because of all the times I'd visited one ER or another during my tenure as a policeman. Particularly late at night - that was when the smashed drunks, the ODed druggies and knife and gunshot cases always seemed to be heaviest. And each of them contributed their own unique odors: beer, gin, vomit, blood, body fluids and excrement as well as general gunge.

Tonight, it wasn't late enough yet for the full effects ... but it was still there. A miasma of memories that all the disinfectant in the world couldn't wipe away.

Allison was waiting at the door, looking very much like a hurt little girl despite her jeans, frilled blouse and well-turned form.

"They've got him sedated, Mr. MacPherson," she blurted as Helen and I approached. "They say he'll be okay and I can take him home but they've got all kinds of paperwork to fill out and I don't know what to do. Do you?" That last was almost tearfully plaintive.

"I'll take care of things," I assured her. I was grateful that Helen had agreed to come with me - it wasn't the usual thing you plan for a date but having a woman present at the moment was a definite bonus. "How about getting Allison some coffee," I asked Helen. "The cafeteria's closed, of course, but there are vending machines in the waiting room off the lobby." I pointed in the right direction, then produced some pocket change and a half-dozen one dollar bills.

As the two ladies left in search of vending machines - Helen had an arm around Allison, providing more comfort than support - I walked in, looking for a duty nurse.

* * *

"It's not too serious, Mr. MacPherson," the intern assured me. "A few stitches and he won't be using that arm much for a few weeks but he's young and he'll heal. We've given him a sedative and a prescription for some mild pain killers and antibiotics but he should see his regular doctor tomorrow to have the bandages changed. Also, the police will want to talk to him when he's awake."

"Exactly what are the damages," I asked.

"One cut on his arm, mostly superficial but painful. The second was a stabbing wound in the chest but he was lucky. The blade jammed between two ribs instead of penetrating. The ribs will heal, the rest is little more than a flesh wound. He'll be sore, the ribs will heal and the muscles need time to recover but there shouldn't be much of a scar." That assurance would probably disappoint Ted.

"The police have already claimed the knife," the intern continued. "Not that it's much to look at. A cheap butterfly blade, about six inches. You can buy one anywhere. We see dozens of them."

I nodded, adding assurances that I'd see that Ted was taken care of and that I'd handle the paperwork in a moment. "First though, I'd like to see Ted. May I?"

Ted was lying down but still conscious. "Boss?" his voice was slurred and weak. "Where's Allison? She all right?"

"She's fine," I assured him. "Helen's with her and they're getting some coffee. How are you feeling?"

"I think," he kept blinking his eyes and looking confused, "I did something stupid."

"You'll live," I responded but didn't add: "And, I hope, learn from it." Instead, "Can you talk about it?"

"At the rave," he searched for the right words. "Kid who set the homeboys on you. Allison spotted him." He paused.

"The one who sent the bomb?"

Ted nodded. "Saw Allison and ducked out the side. I went the other way. Caught him outside. Pulled a knife. Kid watches too many movies," he tried a weak grin. "Thought I could take him. Stupid."

"Too many movies?"

Ted nodded sleepily. "Blade down, stabbed me, knife stuck," he grimaced. "Hurt. Kid got away." His last words were slurring into sleep.

"We'll talk tomorrow. Just relax. A little paperwork and we'll take you home."

Ted was asleep by the time I finished speaking.

From what Ted had reported - and the doctor's description as well - Ted's assessment of his attacker sounded correct. The kid had watched too many movies and held the knife like it was an icepick. That didn't, however, make him any less dangerous. Even an idiot with a knife can do a lot of damage.

Ted had been lucky - and stupid.

Stupid because there was no point in chasing the kid in the first place. We didn't need the kid - not at this point - and, if we did, there were better ways to collect him. And better times as well.

Stupid a second time for trying to take the kid after he pulled a knife.

Smart would have been not chasing the kid in the first place. And, in the second place, after the kid pulled the knife, it would have been smarter to run like hell. Particularly since Ted had two good legs - long ones.

Lucky because the injuries weren't more serious.

But depending on luck can get you killed.

* * *

The paperwork took a half an hour, half of that arguing with the nurse about taking a copy of the doctor's report to give to Ted's regular doctor. Not that Ted had a regular doctor, as far as I knew, but I'd make an appointment for him with mine.

Finally, tucking the report copy in my jacket, I went around to collect Allison and Helen.

I found Allison sitting cross-legged on a sofa in the waiting room. She looked much more collected than she had standing outside ER.

Helen was in a chair pulled around to face the couch. The two ladies were engaged in quiet conversation.

Both stood as I approached.

"I'll bring the van around to the entrance," I directed Allison, "while you get Ted wheeled out in a chair. We can take him home and let him sleep it off."

"I'll lend a hand," Helen offered, squeezing my arm gently before leading Allison toward the ER entrance.

* * *

Delivering Ted to his apartment and putting him to bed was simple. Allison had already said that she'd look after him. Tomorrow - today, really - was Sunday and she wasn't working and had no classes.

Once Ted was tucked in, we drove Allison back to the warehouse where the rave was staged and then to a parking lot two blocks further to retrieve Ted's car.

Finally, after Allison had driven away, I turned to Helen. "Would you still like that nightcap," I offered, "or should I drive you home?"

"Home," she smiled. "Yours." She laid a hand on my shoulder in a gentle caress.

We drove in silence for several blocks.

"He was trying to be macho," Helen broke the quiet. "Allison told me about what happened. And about the three who attacked you."

She was quiet again for a few minutes, then asked: "Does this happen often?"

"Never," I answered honestly. "Not if I can help it."

"Good." I could hear her voice relax. "Don't be too angry with the boy. Allison will chew him out for you." There was another pause. "Women - most women - aren't looking for Mr. Macho anyway. That's a guy thing. Allison's going to look after him but she's going to give him holy hell as well." She paused again, then continued. "I'm glad you weren't hurt the other day."

"So am I," I agreed. "Did Allison tell you she was my 'maiden errant'?"

"Your what?"

I described how it was Allison who had come to the rescue - something which Allison seemed to have omitted from her account of the attack.

When I finished, "She said something about being lucky," Helen admitted. "She didn't mention the details ... or the martial arts. Maybe that's part of it. I knew she was feeling guilty but I didn't know why. That would explain a lot." Helen paused again. "Maybe you had better have a talk with Ted. He's a nice kid. I'd hate to see him get hurt."

I already intended to. Not that being attacked was a normal part of being a private investigator - except in some novels ... or, maybe, if you took divorce cases. In the usual run of things, you were more likely to die of boredom on a stakeout than being caught up in a fight - and I didn't take marital cases anyway.

On the other hand, maybe Allison could get Ted into a good akido course - if he was going to go around acting like this, he'd be better off if he knew what to do. He'd last longer if he did.

* * *

Sunday morning - late Sunday morning - with a clear sky and only a gentle breeze, I suggested sailboarding. Because of the TrenData affair - and the weather - I'd missed my Saturday date.

Sailboarding was something Helen hadn't tried before and she accepted with interest.

First, however, I called Ted's apartment and spoke to him and to Allison both.

Ted was subdued - embarrassed perhaps - but otherwise didn't sound too much the worse for his experience. "Uh, I'll check the bugs this evening, Boss," he assured me.

That was fine. Trying to handle normal tasks with his arm in a sling would only deepen the impression which, I hoped, last night's events had made on him.

I also reminded him - and Allison - that he was due at the clinic to have his dressings changed. And that, Monday, he was going to see Doctor Mallory since he did not have a regular physician.

Having been chewed out a few times by Doc Mallory - a fifty-plus lady with a no-nonsense manner and the healing touch of a saint - I figured her un-motherly demeanor combined with her drill sergeant's voice when she gave orders would insure that Ted followed whatever regime she laid down.

* * *

Sailboarding with Helen was fun and, by the time the sun was low enough to quit, she was beginning to get the hang of maneuvering a wind-driven surf board. Maybe - I thought about it - I could pair Mary with Tye for a foursome. If one leg missing hadn't turned either lady off, I didn't figure that two missing would ... and Tye was more athletic with two missing than a lot of men with both intact.

After returning the rented sailboard and wetsuit and stowing mine on top of the van, Helen suggested I should drop her back at her apartment.

"You can probably use a break from me by now," she commented. "And I know you have business to do this evening. You'll call me later?"

"Absolutely," I agreed. I was too old for puppy-love but I did enjoy Helen's company. And I'd appreciated her competence in the minor emergency the night before. Competence was a rare commodity and should be treasured when it was found ... quite aside from her other attractions.

On the other hand, we'd spent the last twenty hours together and there were some things needing to be done which just didn't fit with having a companion.

Which was probably true for Helen as well ...

* * *

I was washing my dinner dishes when Ted showed up, carrying the suitcase receiver and video cassette with the results of the dump from our taps at DSS. His left arm was in a sling and he moved with a stiffness that spoke volumes for the stab wound along his ribs.

I didn't comment on either.

"Not much on it, Boss," Ted offered. "Only took a couple of minutes to download."

I took the suitcase and set it on the table by the TV, pulling out the hookup cables and attaching them to the back of the set. "Let's see what we've got." I keyed the unit for playback on the first channel.

Since we'd only installed audio and phone taps, there was no picture but the electronics in the unit still generated a video caption identifying the channel where the signal had originated.

In this case, channel one was the men's room and consisted of several toilet flushings and a few minutes of off-key whistling.

Channel two - the ladies restroom - was equally uninteresting.

After stepping through all twelve recordings, we had a couple of phone calls - all personal and none particularly interesting. There was also a few minutes of conversation from Mich Jorgenson and someone named Suzie - presumably his daughter - while he hunted through his shelves for a book on first aid. And there were a few other snatches of conversations but none loud enough to be intelligible. At a guess, these were from people passing by one or another of the offices.

All in all, it was about what could be expected for a Sunday.

Still, it did tell us that everything seemed to be working correctly.

"Keep it?" Ted asked. "Or wipe it and reuse it?"

"We keep it. Whether they're worthless or not," I reminded him. "we keep all tapes. Hey, they're cheap. If they're not wanted when the case is wrapped, we can wipe them then."

"I'll stop and get some blanks tomorrow," Ted decided. "I've only got a couple left in the car."

He was silent for a moment, then crossed to the fridge for another Pepsi. Finally, he returned to the chair by the recorder, awkwardly trying to open the can without using his injured arm. Eventually, the soda can popped and fizzed.

Ted took a drink, then set the can down while he tried to look at his watch - again, without moving his arm. "Jane should be by soon," he offered, then fell silent again.

Another sip of Pepsi, then: "I wish you wouldn't tell her what happened."

"I wasn't planning to," I replied, level voiced. "The question is, what are you going to tell her?"

Ted stared at the soda can, turning it in his hands. "I guess," he finally offered, "I have to."

"I suppose so."

"I mean ... she has to know what's going on ... Doesn't she?"

"It seems only fair."

"It's just so ... so damned stupid ..."

I didn't say anything more, just let the silence develop.

"Well? Are you going to chew me out or not?" Ted finally challenged.

"Do I need to?"

"Allison did!"

"I assumed she would," I kept my voice even. He didn't need to be laughed at. And scolding would only distract him from his own introspective review.

"And that's it?"

"No," I disagreed. "You have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Have you talked to the police yet?"

"Earlier this afternoon," Ted admitted. "But I didn't tell them everything. Should I have?"

"Depends. What didn't you tell them?"

"That I knew where to find the kid ... I ... I didn't think ..."

"Go ahead," I allowed a small smile in my voice.

"I was afraid - if they picked him up, I mean - it might scare somebody off. The ones in the video tape, I mean. Was that right? I could always remember later where I'd seen him before and ..."

"And I don't imagine it matters a whole lot either way," I confirmed. "Considering the size of their scam, would you walk away just because one of your partners was picked up? Still, you might be correct ... and there's no harm - I hope - in leaving him loose for a while."

If the kid was picked up, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't be back on the street in a few hours. And, even if he was held, I didn't think it would cripple the operation he was involved in.

On the other hand, leaving him loose - and thinking he'd gotten away - might have a more beneficial aspect. If they felt nervous, wondering if the police were looking for the kid, that might be a useful distraction. At the same time, if his escape made them feel overconfident, ... well, overconfidence could also lead to mistakes.

In either case, there wasn't any real profit - at the moment - in having him picked up. Letting him go was better than showing how much we knew.

After all, it shouldn't be more than a couple of days. And surely I could keep Ted out of harm's way that long.

"So, what are you going to tell Jane?" I brought Ted back to the immediate topic.

A tap at the door interrupted us before Ted could answer.

"Come on in," I invited, assuming the knock was announcing Jane's arrival. It wasn't a difficult assumption - she and Ted were the only people I'd given duplicate keys to, allowing them to bypass the formalities of being buzzed through the main entrance downstairs.

"Good evening, Mac," Jane greeted me, letting herself in. "Wasn't it a lovely day? Even if I did spend the afternoon cleaning my apartment. I know, I should have gotten out and enjoyed the sunshine but you can't believe how nice it is to have an apartment to clean. Oh dear ..."

That last exclamation came when she caught sight of Ted.

"It has been lovely," I agreed. "A perfect day for sailboarding. Have you had supper?"

She nodded, then raised an eyebrow at me in a question.

I shrugged - not as an answer but to say I wasn't the one to ask. "Coffee?" I offered. "Or tea? Or beer or wine, if you'd prefer."

"Tea would be nice," she agreed, then turned back to Ted. "How bad is it?" she invited.

I occupied myself in the kitchen - technically out of sight if not out of hearing - while Ted recounted his misadventures of the night before.

To give Ted his due, he offered an honest, factual report with nothing important omitted or glossed over. If anything, he was being more honest than he needed to be ... which made it sound exactly as stupid as it really had been.

"So," Ted concluded, "I was lucky. They say it'll heal okay. But it's not very comfortable."

"Not so much lucky," I corrected, returning with tea for Jane and a soda for myself, "as your attacker was stupid. If the kid had actually known anything about using a knife, lucky would if we were visiting you in the hospital instead of the morgue."

"Ted," Jane ignored me while she laid a hand on Ted's knee, "stupid is trying to impress Allison by getting yourself cut up. I suspect she'd prefer you in one piece even if it isn't that heroic."

"Yeah, I guess," Ted blushed. "Allie kind of said something like that."

"Well," Jane drew herself back and looked up at me, "at least you're in one piece. I went by the warehouse," she changed the subject. "it looks like Madame Lu's is ready for business tomorrow. Any further instructions?"

"Not unless you've come up with any questions," I admitted. "I think we've covered everything."

"Not yet," she admitted.

"Nervous?"

"Of course," Jane smiled. "I've never been a fence before."

"That's okay," I reassured her. "Just remember that your clients haven't been crooks before either."

"It's the ones that have that worry me," she reminded me. "How long do you think it will take before someone bites?"

"Days, maybe weeks," I admitted. "It's hard to say. Still, with their old fence shut down, they've got to be looking for an outlet. They've got to be worrying about the new employees, too. I don't guess you've heard anything from any of the crew?"

"You told everyone to stay clear," she reminded me. "They'll call if it's important. Or I'll see them tomorrow, right?"

"That's the plan," I admitted. But I worried anyway. Ted's knife-wielding kid was no connection with DSS but it was a reminder of how easily things can go wrong. And the guard who'd been killed was a reminder that DSS's crooks weren't any softer. If anything, harder - the guard was dead - Ted was still alive.

I gave Jane an update on the second operation before adding: "Tomorrow afternoon, see if you can find someone to listen through the tapes for us. Ninety-nine percent of it - or maybe all - will be worthless but with Ted in a sling we're already shorthanded. And I would like to get the new office started. My living room just isn't the ideal place for conducting business."

"What do they need to do," Jane pulled out a notepad and pen.

"Listen through a lot of conversations," I explained. "And make a note of the track and time for anything that looks like it might have a connection. Ted or I will go over the interesting parts afterwards."

"Larry Gage," Jane suggested. "He knows shorthand and can take notes. If I can find him."

"I don't know Gage," I admitted. "Have I seen him around?"

"Probably," Jane added a description, then explained, "he just came out of detox a few days ago. If he hasn't fallen off the wagon again. I'll ask Mark how he's doing. Or there's Susan Day. No, scratch that - she's the one who hears voices on her bad days. Never mind, I'll find someone - someone who'll keep their mouth shut. When do you need them?"

"We'll start tomorrow evening," I decided. "About seven. At the new offices. Warn them it may take a while."

Even with voice compression and fast forwarding, a day's worth of a dozen conversations and phone calls could require quite a few hours of scanning. It was the kind of thing I really wished I could hand over to a computer.

You hear stories about the NSA and other three-letter agencies having systems which could handle voice scanning and which were used to monitor overseas telephone lines and such - set to trigger on certain keywords - but, at our level, it was strictly science fiction. Or it might be simply science fiction at any level.

At any rate, the best we could hope for was to have someone listen to the conversations and try to spot anything suspicious.

And, aside from the fact that it was deadly boring, I didn't have the time ... and, even with his arm in a sling, I needed Ted for other things.

Which meant trusting someone else to listen to the tapes, to be intelligent enough to spot anything important and to be honest enough to keep their mouths shut ... At the same time, I didn't want someone so honest that they'd feel impelled to report the recordings to the police.

Technically and legally, the recordings were legitimate - they'd been made at the request, with the permission of and on behalf of DSS and covered conversations and telephone calls made in or from the DSS offices by employees of DSS.

But, legal or otherwise, I had no interest in explaining what we were recording ... nor why.

The people I'd really have preferred to use for a job like this, I was already using ... as replacement guards at DSS. Which meant that I'd simply have to break in someone new ... I hoped Jane could find someone suitable.

As for loyalty, for someone out of work and on the tiles, an honest wage could buy a great deal of loyalty. Particularly with the promise of regular and repeated employment.

Not that I was suggesting that a homeless person was any less honest than a fully-employed citizen - just that the price of loyalty can be relative. Just as honesty can be relative and that there are more currencies than one.

My 'irregulars' were working much more for the prospect of a regular job than they were for the extra wages on a temporary job. And, in many cases, their loyalties had been purchased in advance - both when I had hired them on previous occasions and by how I had treated them both then and now.

Bringing in someone new ... well, I didn't have a lot of choice ... and everyone was new at some point. Besides, if things worked out well, I was going to need some new 'irregulars'. And I might as well start recruiting now.

Oh, wot th' 'ell - if computers were intelligent enough to handle a job like this, you'd probably have to worry about their loyalties as well.

And how do you bribe a computer anyway?

* * *

Tomorrow - Monday - after lunch, we decided, we should be able to move into our new offices.

During the morning, Jane was going to be busy playing Madame Lu. Of course, she wasn't expecting much in the way of traffic and, since the line was working, she'd use the time and phone to line up some help for the afternoon as well as finding someone to review the tapes

Ted - whether he liked it or not - was going to visit Doc Mallory. After that, somebody - meaning Ted - needed to catch up on the phone calls and messages at the answering service and to pickup any mail at our old address.

As for me, I planned to be over at Magic Carpets first and then at TrenData second.

For this evening - what was left of it - I had a few personal chores to take care of. Those tedious little things like doing some laundry ... as well as my own housekeeping. Not that I was a fanatic housekeeper but it did have to be done occasionally and, as a bachelor living solo, I was it.

* * *

Monday morning, I was up early. From the looks of things, this was going to be one of San Francisco's foggier days with a thick blanket of soft haze muffling the world outside my windows.

Still, six AM on the west coast meant it was nine on the east coast - just about time for people to be showing up at their offices. I started a pot of coffee, switched on the tube to CNN, then sat down with a note pad and reached for the telephone. There were a few items I could use the time to research ... and early morning - in my time zone - was the best time for it.

* * *

"It's mostly the insider trading reports I want," I was telling Mary Vinton at Bradford Securities and Exchange when a beep informed there was an incoming call. "They won't be in until tomorrow, I know," I finished quickly. "But if you'll call me as soon as possible, I'll appreciate it." I said good-bye and used the flash button to switch to the second call.

"MacPherson," I answered. It wasn't office hours and the calls should still be running to the answering service, not coming through to me ... which meant this was someone calling on my private line.

"Raymond Toya," the caller identified himself. "I'm sorry to call so early but I thought you'd like to hear. We've had fourteen hits on our phony accounts. How's that for a wake-up call?"

"Already up," I grinned. "You at the office?"

"Home," Ray corrected. "Had early calls from the Chicago, Boston and Dallas offices when the computer flagged transactions on the special account numbers. All of them were made between three and five this morning, our time."

"What kind of transactions?"

"Small amounts - under a hundred. All for transactions placed with different mail-order companies for various types of merchandise - video tapes, cutlery, junk jewelry, chocolates, lingerie and homeopathic medicines. I've got people tracking down the orders and having copies either faxed out or emailed to us. According to what we've found out so far though, these are all going to different addresses around the Bay area. And the phone numbers we've checked so far are mostly fakes but one was a service station over in Berkeley and one a grocery store in Oakland."

"Have you checked any of the addresses yet?"

"Not yet," Ray admitted. "I'm on my way over to the office and I've got a conference call at nine with the head office to discuss developments. Before then, I hope to check some of them out. You wouldn't happen to have street directories for the entire Bay area, would you?"

"No," I admitted. "But, if you'd like to give me a list of addresses, I can trace them down pretty quickly. However, I'll give you odds that they'll mostly be duds. Either that or they picked addresses out of a phone book."

"You think they're just testing then?" Raymond wasn't too slow on the uptake.

"That would be my guess. I don't figure that the people stealing the numbers are actually placing the orders. More likely, they're selling them to another party - in bulk - for a fee and the receivers have been using the mail order outfits to test the numbers for validity."

"Using phony call-back numbers? How would they find out if they were bad?"

"Have some more coffee, Raymond. You're not awake yet. On a credit card order today, in most cases, the operator taking the order is checking the card while you're still on the phone. If it's an invalid number or you make a mistake, they'll know before you're off the line."

"Yeah, you're right," Ray admitted. "Maybe I'd better get that coffee. Want to meet me at the office? In about an hour? That way, you can get the lists as soon as they come in."

"Hey," I reminded him. "I'm the man with the electronic leg, remember?"

"Come on anyway," Raymond offered. "Regulations be damned. As far as I'm concerned, you're cleared - leg and all. What are they going to do? Fire me for letting you in?"

"An hour, then," I agreed. "I'll bring danish."

* * *

"Better scan these," I handed the two boxes of still-warm danish to the uniformed security guard. He wasn't the same man who'd worked so hard to make a negative impression a few days before but I still felt the same reaction. I suppose it was the uniform. That and the attitude which some private security people seemed to wear attached to their epaulets.

Having been a policeman - and having been on the receiving end of a lot of bad attitudes while having to keep my own attitude from going sour - I didn't appreciate private guards who acted like storm troopers with a hangover.

Come to think of it, that was one item I needed to recommend to DSS - once the current mess was cleared up. A good course in psychological behavior and how to deal with people could make all the difference in the world - both to the people who hired the guards, to the people they came into contact with and to the guards themselves.

"I've been told to expect you," the uniform answered, setting the danish on the counter and picking up a hand-held detector. "If you would hold your arms out a shoulder level please."

Naturally, the wand squawked as soon as he got close to George. It also went off when it passed my pocket knife, my belt buckle and my pocket memo pad - an electronic one I had loaded with phone numbers and contact lists. My .38 I'd already removed and laid on the counter next to the pastry boxes.

The private guard did, at least, do me the courtesy of not asking for my carry permit.

"I'll have to have permission," he advised me, "for your pocket computer. Or," he reached across the counter and produced a small metal case with a key in the lock, "you can leave it here with the gun and retrieve them when you exit."

Somehow, I wasn't entirely surprised - only a little annoyed. "Call Ray," I suggested. "I think he'll clear it."

"Yes sir," the guard agreed. "One moment please." He remained facing me, his thumbs tucked behind the buckle of his Sam Brown belt, while the man across the counter placed the call.

A moment later, "Let him through," the man behind the counter advised. "He's cleared with anything he wants."

Just to be perverse, I returned the .38 to my belt holster before slipping the electronic memo pad in my jacket. Like I said, private security with an attitude puts my back up.

As I stepped through the arch, the detectors gave a quick beep before being silenced by the man behind the counter. I reached for the pastry boxes, then opened one: "Have a danish," I offered. Just because the guard had a storm trooper attitude, there was no point in my acting like a Gestapo agent. After all, I'd already won my point.

* * *

Inside TrenData's security bulwarks, Raymond Lu was waiting for me. "Sorry," he apologized. "But we do pay them to be through. Come on back, some of the orders are already coming in and I've got a desk and phone ready for you."

In the inner offices - which consisted of cubicles arranged around a central core holding several rack mounted computers, patch panels and a few monitors - I was introduced to a half-dozen men and women. "Mr. MacPherson," Raymond offered, "is the man who discovered our 'leak' in the first place. He's here now to sit in on my nine o'clock. He's also offered to run down the addresses from the flagged credit card orders. The pastries," Ray concluded, "are a bonus." He turned back to me and added, "For which we thank you."

"You're welcome," I responded. "But why don't we get started?" I was curious to see how accurate my guesses had been.

"You can have the cubicle next to mine," Ray gestured toward a fabric-panel enclosed desk. "Sorry," he continued, "no privacy here. Part of the security. Second floor's the same. Third floor has our transmitters and other electronics. Disappointed?"

They certainly didn't waste any money on fancy fronts - of course, they didn't get many visitors here either. "It'll do," I answered. "Do I need a pass to get an outside line?" I set my memo pad on the desk, flipping the lid open before picking up the receiver. There was a dial tone but that didn't tell me if it was an inside or outside line.

"Just dial 9," Ray counseled. "The calls are logged automatically."

"And recorded?" I guessed.

"That's right," Ray agreed.

"No problem," I laughed. "You're welcome to eavesdrop. You have a list of address to start with?"

"Right here," Ray handed me several faxes and a couple of email printouts. "Like some coffee?"

"If it's good, one sugar, no cream," I requested.

While Ray fetched coffee, I checked the addresses he'd given me, sorted them by area, then checked a phone number in my memo pad and dialed.

"Yellow Cab," a melodious voice answered. "Can you hold?"

"Okay," I agreed. It was getting on to the morning rush hour - but, for what I had in mind, it probably wouldn't make too much difference.

I was still holding when Ray returned with the coffee, then the dispatcher came back on line. "How may we help you?" the honeyed voice inquired.

"Mazie?" I tried to place the voice.

"That's right, honey. You need a cab?"

"James MacPherson," I identified myself. "I need a couple of drivers to check some addresses in your area. Just a swing by to see if they exist or not. Can you handle it?"

I'd never met Mazie. On the phone she sounded like a real seductress. I didn't want to spoil my illusions with reality.

"Hi, Mac," Mazie answered, "Hey, don't you know it's rush hour? Can it wait 'til after nine?"

"Not really," I disagreed. "Bonus if I can have results by eight-thirty."

"For you, sweet thang?" she drawled. "Le'me have 'em and we'll try."

I read off the addresses in her area - getting two immediate responses: "Not that one," Mazie advised. "Street numbers start at 1200 and run through 3400. A 450 would be somewhere in the bay." And: "You got a zipcode on that one? Closest you'll find that street is San Jose."

When I finished, she advised: "Just a drive by? I'll pass them around to whoever's in the area. Where should I call you, honey?"

I read the phone number and extension from the phone, then added: "And thanks. But tell them it's a rush order."

I dialed a second number for the peninsula addresses.

This time, I got a dispatcher who didn't know me. "Call some of your drivers," I suggested. "They'll vouch for me."

He did, they did and, again, the mention of a bonus overcame the conflict with rush-hour traffic.

Also, again, the dispatcher was able to identify a couple of the addresses as non-existent.

"Now we wait," I addressed Ray who was sitting across the desk from me with an amused expression on his face.

"You make it look so simple," he offered. "I guess it's just a case of knowing which buttons to push."

"Something of the sort. Any more reports?"

"Eleven more," he admitted. "A total of twenty-five. You want the rest?"

I shook my head. "Let's see how these check out. Conference still on for nine?"

"That's right. Any ideas?"

"It looks pretty certain that someone's running a test. Have you checked the distribution of these numbers against the false data you were feeding to the tap?"

"Damn," Ray cursed, pushing himself out of the chair. "I'll get someone on it." He wheeled out of the cubicle hollering for someone named Joshua.

* * *

A few minutes after eight, Mazie was back on the line. Only two of the addresses had matched up to legitimate street locations - and one of those was an apartment building but no apartment number had been included. For the other, the driver had stopped and inquired. Naturally, the name of the occupant bore no resemblance to the name on the order.

That was no great surprise - the names assigned to the cards had been generated randomly by a program written by one of Raymond's hotshot codesmiths.

"I'll send a check," I promised Mazie. "You can share it out for me. And thanks. I do appreciate."

It was just after eight-thirty when I got the second report. The results were the similar - three of the street numbers matched actual addresses ... except that only one was residential. The other two were a bank ... and a six-month old burn out.

It was confirmation enough - all phonies used simply to test the card numbers for validity.

Somewhere, I strongly suspected, someone with an embossing machine and a stock of blanks was busily manufacturing an assortment of phony credit cards. It wasn't unheard of - just that usually it was done with card numbers stolen from discarded flimsies or carbons. Or, sometimes, from duplicate imprints made during a legitimate transaction.

There were also cases of telephone scams used to collect legitimate credit card numbers. This was simply a higher-tech version of the same thing ... and a bit more elaborate as well.

"It looks like a random distribution," Raymond returned to report. "All the numbers were ones used Friday and Saturday. Nothing from Sunday. There's one thing I'd really like to know," he added. "Any idea when they last checked their setup?"

"Not at the moment," I admitted. "I was planning to check as soon as Magic Carpets opened this morning. But I don't think they'll be in before nine."

"How long would it take to check once you could get in?"

"Not more than half an hour," I answered. "I've got the equipment in my van." My van - with the handicapped tag in the window - was parked right outside. "Here," I produced my car keys. "How about sending one of your guards out for the case in the back seat. I'll call Mr. Parajan and see if we can get in early."

* * *

Mr. Parajan was already on his way in.

When he arrived, it was still fifteen to nine and it only took a couple of minutes to retrieve the step ladder from the basement stairs then go up and change the tape from the recorder.

Back inside TrenData - this time with no nonsense about scanning me - I popped the tape in for playback, scanning the recording on the built-in LCD display. The five-inch display wasn't exactly the heights of hi-resolution but it was adequate to tell who and when nocturnal visitor had appeared.

The answer was simple. A bit before two AM on Sunday morning, two visitors had appeared with a ladder, had gained access to the roof and had then left.

I wrote a quick note on a scratch pad, then stepped into the next cubicle where Ray was already on the phone. It was ten minutes after nine.

As I took a seat - two of Ray's coworkers were already in the cubicle and the speaker phone was active - a voice from the other end was asking "... long did they have the data before any of these triggered our system? Our transmissions are supposed to be cncrypted. Exactly what kind of a breach do we have anyway?"

"Just a moment," Ray interrupted. "Mr. MacPherson is joining us right now. And I believe he has some information on that topic." He took the note I handed over, then continued: "It looks like roughly twenty-four hours from the time they retrieved the data to the first test call. Any comments, gentlemen?"

"Mr. MacPherson?" a voice queried from the phone.

"Yes?" I answered.

"I'm Tom Keller, New York office, in charge of transmission security. How certain is your assessment of the time interval? Is this firm or speculative?"

"Retrieval occurred," I answered, matching his formal speech pattern, "between 1:54 and 1:59 AM, Pacific Standard Time, Sunday. If you allow a minimum of a half-hour for the intruders to return to their base of operations, you can assume that data retrieval and decoding commenced around 2:30 AM, PST. Since the first transactions appeared at three this morning, your encryption security appears to have been breached in roughly twenty-four hours. I'm sorry but I can't offer you anything more concrete than that."

There was silence from the phone from several seconds, then a new voice spoke: "And this is supposed to be secure encryption? Sounds like someone has a Captain Midnight decoder ring."

"That is one of the possibilities which you will have to investigate," I suggested. "Either you have made a serious error in your encryption scheme ... or you have a mole with inside access."

At that point, the conversation became heated with Keller defending the encryption algorithm and another voice - unidentified - defending their personnel security reviews while a third voice - female but also unidentified - kept trying to silence the first two and bring the conversation back to the more immediate topic.

Across from me, Ray shrugged, spread his hands and rolled his eyes with an expression which spoke volumes. Since TrenData's internal rivalries were none of my concern, I simply sat and listened.

Finally - enough was enough - I interrupted with a barked "Gentlemen! Ma'am!", then continued in a more reasonable voice in the ensuing silence. "How you settle the security question is your business. While you haven't asked, I suggest that you adopt a two prong approach: first, by attacking the encryption issue to see how long it takes for you - or a consulting service - to break the code and, second, by launching an investigation into the background and current activities of anyone who has access to the decryption algorithm. However," here I raised my voice again, "either or both of these are going to take time. The immediate question is what are you going to do about the leak.

"And, just to help you make up your minds, now that I have concrete evidence that a crime has been committed, as a licensed private investigator, I am under an obligation to inform the police and to cooperate with them. So," I barked for punctuation, "the immediate question is who do you want to notify the police and how would you like to handle this.

"Also for your consideration," I stressed the words, "beginning with an arrest - at this end - of the persons responsible for the security breach is likely to provide a few clues to answer whether your encryption has been breached or has been betrayed.

"For my part," I concluded, "I'll expect a call with your decision by noon. If I don't hear from you by then, I'll fulfill my obligations by informing the police here in San Francisco and let you work things out with them. Understood?"

"Just a minute," the unidentified female voice protested. "You're working for us and I demand ..."

"Forget it!" I cut her off. "You can read my contract again. I agreed to disclose a leak in your security and show you how to prevent the loss of valuable information. I have done so. Your response is your affair. I'm under no obligation to listen to you squabble and try to shift the blame. I'll be at my office number. You can call me. Good day."

I stood up, grinned and winked at Ray, and walked out.

I didn't bother to wipe the grin off my face as I collected my gear, then carried it though the detector arch.

The man behind the counter wasn't quite quick enough - I had a two-second fanfare of alarms to herald my departure.

I hadn't left them laughing - as the adage goes - but I had left laughing.