Chapter 8 Moore Problems
LAWRENCE
I pull up the personnel records on my MacBook, scrolling till I find what I'm looking for.
Scarlett Thorn. Executive secretary to the branch director.
Tenure: 3 years, 4 months.
Performance reviews: Consistently "exceeds expectations."
Attendance: 97.3 % on-time.
Notes from Fox: "Indispensable. Runs my life better than I do."
I scoff, staring at the comment.
Indispensable. What a joke.
Everyone is replaceable.
I look at the image of Scarlett, light, inconspicuous freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
Red hair. A sharp, stubborn expression, even in an ID photo. And a mouth that apparently has a lot to say about me.
I'm not attracted to her in any way; I'm just 'aware' of her.
Which is already irritating enough.
There's something distracting about Scarlett I can't quite understand, and it has nothing to do with the moment we had in the elevator.
"Mr Moore?" Elias glances in the mirror as we pull away from the curb. "Are we heading straight to the office or Mr Swan's residence?"
I glance at my watch. 7:50 a.m.
"Straight to the office, please."
He nods and makes a smooth turn.
I shut my laptop, but my mind refuses to go quiet.
The hacker issue is bigger than any of them realise.
Whoever it was made it past three commercial firewalls and two military-grade intrusion-detection layers before they ran into the lattice I designed myself.
That lattice isn't documented in any manual or on any server blueprint.
It exists in only two places. Every Law & Moore building worldwide, and my own head.
If it hadn't been there, they would have obtained the encryption keys to our entire quantum-cloud backbone.
Years of research and dedication. Trillions in future revenue. Gone.
We'd be ruined, and I'd have been sitting in a board meeting while that good-for-nothing Richard Fox explained why someone walked off with the master keys to our entire cloud infrastructure.
That thought alone keeps me awake.
I have two prime suspects.
First is Ace Corp. Second is Lee Technologies. Both have the ego, the capital, and enough desperation to attempt such.
My private investigative team is already doing the needful, looking through their bank records and employee history.
But I'm not waiting on reports. While they dig outward, I dig inward.
I've spent every night since searching the dark corners of the internet for breadcrumbs, fragments, anything left behind by someone who knows how to hide.
And then there's the inside possibility of a rat.
The thought makes my blood boil.
Because the more I dig, the clearer it becomes that this branch is way below my expectations.
Fox let a lot of things slide for years. Lazy hiring, sloppy access controls, and people using cheap passwords on important accounts.
Before the breach, he was supposed to be transferred to the Singapore office. One of our well-performing branches.
And they were actually planning to promote him.
I had to reread the memo twice just to believe it.
So, when the incident happened on his watch, when I heard he was the one in charge of this circus, I ordered the transfer revoked and reassigned him somewhere smaller.
And demoted. Harshly.
Because if this is the kind of leadership the senior executives are rewarding, then I need to sit down with all of them, and ask what the hell they've been doing while I've been building an empire they're barely managing to keep upright.
If this hacking incident hadn't caught my attention, I might never have seen how weak the New York office has become.
Thirty-four branches worldwide, and I've let three years pass since I last set foot in half of them.
Starting next year, I will personally walk every server room and executive floor of every Law & Moore Branch.
I don't care how taxing it will be, I'll find a way to make it work.
That hacker picked the wrong empire to mess with.
By the time I arrive at the building, everyone's wearing a look of fear and scurrying to their stations.
I ignore their greetings, heading straight to my office.
Scarlett is already at her desk, but she doesn't notice my presence, too absorbed in watching something on her laptop.
When my shadow falls over her, she shoots to her feet and pulls the bud out of her ear.
"Good morning, Mr Moore."
I hate that I notice her outfit… and worse, that I like it.
It's a tailored rose-pink pantsuit. And her hair is pulled into a high, sleek ponytail.
My jaw tightens, and I move past her without acknowledging the greeting, shutting my office door a little harder than required.
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I don't even realise how much time has passed until I glance at my watch and see it's 12:00 pm. Lunch break.
I've been so buried in tracing the breach that I barely noticed Scarlett poking her head in earlier to ask if I needed anything. I think I grunted at her.
Rising, I stretch the stiffness out of my shoulders and head for the door.
I'm not pulling anyone away from their lunch to fetch my caffeine, and I refuse to take an unnecessary elevator ride to fetch it myself.
The kitchenette will do.
I'd have to manage the pathetic coffee that damn machine produces. I wonder why I still haven't replaced it.
When I walk out the door, Scarlett is still at her desk.
She didn't go to the bistro with the blonde friend I've seen her with. She's just there, eating a club sandwich with a kind of peace I've never seen her have in my presence.
And she looks genuinely content, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen, watching that movie again.
I'm certain it's the same one she was watching this morning.
Curiosity pulls at me. I could easily find out without even asking. A quick burrow into her device, and I'd know in seconds.
But I don't. Or rather, I won't.
Because I shouldn't care, and it's inappropriate.
Because thinking about it at all is irrelevant.
She notices me standing near the door and immediately straightens.
I hold out a hand.
"It's alright. Keep eating."
Her brow lifts in surprise. "What do you need, sir?"
"Coffee," I say. "But I'll make it myself."
Trying not to feel offended by the disbelief that crosses her face, I stride past her.
Two minutes later, I'm standing in front of the coffee machine, holding a bag of beans and staring at a range of buttons.
I'm a genius.
I eat numbers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And I have no idea how to make this thing produce coffee.
Wonderful.
Pulling out my phone, I discreetly open YouTube, typing as fast as possible.
How to use…
The sound of footsteps coming my way makes me quickly shove the phone inside my pocket.
Clearing my throat and straightening, I pick up a mug from the tray on the slab, acting like I know what I'm doing.
Scarlett steps in, a tiny smirk on her lips. She leans against the doorframe, watching me.
"I thought I told you to keep eating," I say, aiming for authority.
She looks at me, the smirk stretching.
"You don't know how to work it, do you, Mr Moore?"
I scoff lightly and turn to face her. "I do."
She crosses her arms. "Okay. Then, go ahead."
I stare at the machine.
The machine annoyingly stares back.
"Uh-huh." She walks past me, taking the bag from my hand. "Thought so."
Her strawberry perfume forces its way into my nostrils.
I watch her pour the coffee beans into the machine, click some buttons easily, and the damn thing comes to life like it's happy to see her.
Traitor.
We fall silent until the beep of the machine tells us the coffee is ready.
Scarlett grabs my mug and pours the dark brown liquid into it.
"One cup of sad brown water as requested," she says, handing me the mug.
I take it from her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Mr Moore," she walks out of the kitchen.
Her perfume is still everywhere, refusing to leave.
Why isn't it leaving?
I grip the mug too hard, my heart racing in fear.
This is not happening.
I am Lawrence Moore. I do not get flustered, and I do not lose focus.
I deliberately take a scalding sip of coffee. It burns my tongue, and I welcome the pain.
Because pain is familiar.
Pain I can control. But apparently not whatever the hell just happened in my chest three seconds ago.
Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath, then force myself to walk out.