“It would be helpful for me if we could walk in silence. We don’t want to disturb the people working.”
“I understand,” she responds.
On the wall, a sign offers direction. To our right are “Offices 301–324,” the “Ocular Lab,” and “Restrooms.” To our left, “Offices 325–335” and “Library.”
Fewer offices to the left. Maybe that means there is space for some other project — like the Advanced Life Computing department.
We walk left. Three doors down on the right side of the hallway, we arrive at the office marked “Pederson.”
I hear voices at the far end of the hallway. A tall woman and a stocky man walk hurriedly, with purpose, chatting. They don’t seem to notice us. They pause, talk for a moment more, then the woman enters an office, and the man turns around and walks back the direction he came.
I palm the knob on Adrianna’s doorway. It turns. I open the door.
Inside, I hear a metallic
My heart pounds. The inside of my skull now too — a mild hangover accentuated by major trespassing. I pull Grandma inside the dark office. I feel her trembling and sense she might scream. I put my hand on her mouth.
“I’m begging you. I love you, and I’m begging you to not scream. Everything’s fine.”
I feel Grandma release some of her tension and slowly remove my hand from her mouth.
I feel for the doorknob on the inside to lock it. I find the knob, but there’s a piece missing from its center, leaving a pinky-width hole in the metal cylinder.
I run my hand along the wall and I turn on the light.
On the floor, just at our feet, rests a metal chunk the shape of a Tootsie Roll. Now I understand why Adrianna’s door was unlocked. Someone hacked the lock chamber. They must have left in a hurry or not bothered to reassemble the lock. Why not? Did they figure no one would be visiting here for a while?
I check in with Grandma. She’s furtive, her eyes bouncing, pupils dilated, a cat amid uncertain circumstances, antenna picking up my anxiety.
“More quiet, please.”
The spacious office screams mid-level executive. Opposite us, a slatted white blind covers a picture window. In front of the window, facing us, a polished black wooden desk, a computer and unkempt piles of paper. Against the wall to my left, two thick wood floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, tinted red, filled with academic-looking texts. On the middle shelf nearest me, there’s a gray stuffed toy with short tentacles that it takes a moment to realize is not an animal, but the shape of a cell. Looks to be a neuron.
To our right, along the wall where we walked in, resides a love seat with heinous corporate upholstery.
Over the love seat hangs a rectangular frame filled with what looks to be a child’s drawing. It’s a poorly rendered double-helix, the representation of DNA, drawn and colored by felt-tip pens. “Someone paid good money for that monstrosity,” Grandma whispers, incredulous. “I’ll never understand the art market.”
I nearly laugh.
Inset at the bottom edge of the DNA image is a photograph of a woman and a boy. The woman looks to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a sun hat, her face pretty but serious. Her arm is around the boy. It’s Newton, the kid from the playground.
I reach two unsubstantiated conclusions: Newton drew this DNA picture, and the woman he is standing with is Lulu Adrianna Pederson.
Maybe she’s his aunt, family friend, or mentor.
Grandma sits on the couch.
I walk to the desk. I sit in an ergonomically precise black chair that feels more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever owned. Among a certain crowd of middle managers in this region, the perfect chair takes a backseat only to the latest computer, prompting occasional flame wars on the Internet about who produces the finest seat in the land.
I turn on the computer. While waiting for it to come alive, I look at the papers on the desk. They are disheveled, but not strewn. Like someone leafed through them — or perhaps they just weren’t stacked well to begin with.
The document on top appears to be a travel budget. It includes a laundry list of items, including food ($55 per diem); sundries ($655); car/taxi ($1,100). I’m struck by one item: airfare $60,000.
Someone has traveled a bunch, or plans to.
Below that sheet of paper is a half-inch-thick document, bound by circular rings. Its title: X86 Server Specification Manual. It’s a standard document about how to fix or update powerful servers, something I’d expect to see in the office of tech support, not an executive. Still, it looks insignificant. I leaf through it. On the inside of the last page, something catches my eye. It is neat, fluid handwriting on a form headed, “Record your specifications.”
There are three entries, for “Project,” “Configuration,” and “Location.”
Under “Project,” the handwriting reads: “Advanced Development And Memory (ADAM) version 1.0–1.4.”
On the “Configuration,” someone has written: “HMC Config: 42 Quad Core Verio Server each w/10 GB RAM and 1 Terabyte disk space.”
Under “Location,” it says: “Farm at 155 Industrial Way, SF. (Newt0n123).”
Newt0on. Newton. This is not insignificant, not to Adrianna.
But beyond that, it all strikes me as largely inscrutable, except the address. And the technical part I can run by Bullseye. I rip off the last page and fold it into my back pocket.
Adrianna’s computer has come to life. Before I can give it a look, the desk phone rings. The caller ID says: “front desk.”
Grandma says: “If it’s for me, please tell them I’m not available.”
“It’s probably the gargoyle wanting to know if everything is okay up here.”
I let it ring four times, and it stops.
We’re running out of time.
On the computer screen are two standard icons. They indicate that this computer is password protected and has two main users. One icon is labeled “Pederson,” and the other “ADAM.”
I click on “Pederson” and a login screen appears. The user name is filled out: “LAPederson.”
I assume: Lulu Adrianna Pederson.
The password is left blank. I type: “Newton.”
Nothing.
From my back pocket, I pull the piece of paper I just ripped and folded. I unfold it.
Under password, I type “Newt0n123.”
Nothing.
Into the password line, I type: “IAMSOFUCKED.”
I open the other icon — the one headed ADAM. The user name is filled out: “ADAM1.0.”
I stare at the empty password space. I type: “Newton,” then “newton,” then “Newt0n123.” None of them works.
The desk phone rings. It’s the front desk. I pick up.
“Lulu Pederson’s line,” I say.
“Mr. Johnson,” a voice responds. It’s the gargoyle.
“That’s me.”
“May I speak to Ms. Pederson?” he asks.
“Let me grab her.”
“She’s not there?”
“She’s in the Ocular Lab.”
“But you’re in her office.”
“She asked me to wait here while she grabbed something. I can snag her, or we can call you back in a few minutes.”
After a pause, he says: “Let’s just talk until she gets back.”
“Pardon?”
