Alstair McLain didn’t tolerate insubordination and Stan Miller had never forgiven her for that Que Trade incident the previous year. She was convinced that she was throwing away years of hard work, all that effort building a successful career, and it was all for a hunch.

Still, she knew she was right. OptiMarx was dirty!

She didn’t have one shred of proof. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she just take Miller’s dictate and go on down to Jamaica?

The questions flashed through her mind, but she knew the answers already. There was no way she could turn her back on this, pretend everything was all right while she baked on some Caribbean beach. While that nitwit Barry Sanderson gave OptiMarx the high sign.

She would have to get busy and search even deeper and harder through the system code. Then she would be able to figure out what was going on. That would take some time. It would also take access to the system, which she no longer had. There was no way she could go back to the Exchange Place office. Not after her boss had yanked her off the project and reassigned her. If they had not yet changed the access codes, she might be able to log on to their remote access server and work remotely. If they had, she would have to get the new passwords somehow and make sure she didn’t show up on the server logs if somebody bothered to check them.

Well, Chuck Gruver over at NYSE owed her a few favors. Maybe it was time to call them in.

The plan was forming up in her head already. It was risky as hell, but it just might work. Besides, there was no alternative right now.

She reached through the partition and tapped the cabby on the back. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me back to the Millennium.”

They were barreling up FDR Drive, almost to the Triborough Bridge that would take them over toward LaGuardia, making good time despite heavy traffic.

“You sure, lady?” the driver yelled back.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

The cabby shook his head and veered across two lanes of traffic for the next exit.

Chapter 19

Carl Andretti leaned back in his big swivel chair and swirled the Scotch around inside the crystal glass. He gazed at the amber liquid for a few seconds before downing it in a single gulp.

He deserved this treat. Things were going well. Very well. That troublesome bitch from the Securities and Exchange Commission had been canned and had disappeared from the face of the earth. All in all, it turned out to be a far better solution than having her eliminated in the far more drastic way he had attempted.