DarkWeb (TEASER ONLY)

Chapter 2

At 10:55 the next morning, I waited in a small conference room deep within the FBI's San Francisco field office. On my lapel, a badge bearing my name, the date, and a red bar at the bottom.

At 11:02, Tribecca and four others entered the room, as if they'd all come from another meeting. Tribecca shook my hand firmly. She'd morphed from Well-Bred Housewife to Government Suit in a dozen little ways: the severe flat-ironed hairstyle, the minimalist make-up, the no-nonsense clip of her walk, even the set of her jaw. She wore a charcoal grey business suit and high-polished flats.

Three men and one other woman circled the conference desk, finding their seats. Tribecca Jones introduced them, set down an armful of papers, and we sat.

"So, we are very fortunate to have come across Wren, who as you know, is a civilian living in Napa. Her late grandmother was Edith Smyth, of Smyth Paper. Through that connection, Wren has minor contacts within the greater Bay Area high society."

They were making a mountain out of a molehill. My grandmother's name carried some weight with the older generation, but nobody was going to mistake me for Lydia Hearst. When my grandmother died, the remains of her fortune had dissipated to various charities, barely leaving enough to cover the funeral.

"Wren also has a brother, Jason Bower, convicted for armed robbery. He's served five on a fifteen year sentence." The meaningful lull that followed made my stomach clench.

The lights dimmed, and a flat screen mounted to the wall powered up. An image popped on screen— a California State driver's license showing a man with medium brown hair, brown eyes, strong jaw, in his late twenties. The name and address next to his photo blurred.

"Do you know this man?" Tribecca Jones asked. I shook my head. "Please affirm your understanding verbally, with a 'yes' or 'I do.'"

I'm being recorded? I glanced around, but saw no camera. "No, I don't think so. What is this about?"

The image changed. Same man, but a candid. Grinning at the photographer, tall with a jogger's build. Cute for sure.

"No."

Another photo. This time the friendly expression was gone, the eye sockets hollow, face gaunt. I knew that difference. Something bad had happened to this guy. I shook my head, wanting the image to go. Did they need me to affirm verbally every time?

"No," I said. Another photo appeared. "I'm sorry. I don't know who this is."

Tribecca said, "Mark Donahue. He's a high level computer programmer at RhysTech." I recognized the company name. Anyone who owned a computer would. "And someone we'd like to know a little bit more about."

My palms went clammy as my one opportunity to help Jason faded. Finally, I admitted, "I don't think any of my grandmother's friends would know him. Computer guys are...."

Edith called them Nouveau riche. First generation money; no history, manners, connections to dynastic families, or respect for those things. People like Mark Donahue made my grandmother's clique clutch their natural pearls.

I said, "My grandmother's contacts were solidly old school."

"Your pedigree will make you appealing to his social circle," Tribecca clarified. My lip turned up in distaste. I'd spent enough time in Edith's fading glory social circuit to understand the fetish-like quality my family tree brought out in some bachelors. "We've planned a chance meeting between the two of you. Do not approach Donahue. Be polite if he approaches, be open to establishing a relationship if he suggests one—"