Old Poison Read Free

Dehany. I had originally named him Yeibichai for the
Navajo talking god, but Sam could never remember that and called
him Yeabot. It stuck. Yeabot is three and a half feet high with a
body of white plastic and looks like a cross between R2D2 and the
Pillsbury Dough Boy. Not only does he gratify my penchant for
fantasy, but he is also a very useful tool.
    In addition to fun things like keeping me
company while I talk to myself, and pouring me a scotch at night,
he understands the spoken word better than any voice responsive
system on the market. He takes dictation, types my correspondence,
searches the Internet and my database sources, and is a full-time
guard with phone contact to his creator, Sam. Best of all, like a
living, breathing partner, I can simply assign him a problem and he
can work out a solution.
    I slid the CD into Yeabot’s slot. “Check
this CD and see if you can open the files or if all the files have
been erased.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    Yeabot whirred and beeped and hummed along
while I went back to my computer to finish a report for another
client. Suddenly, Yeabot made a squawk and ejected the CD so
forcefully that it flew out and landed with a clatter on the floor.
He was turning from side to side, repeating, “Access Denied, Access
Denied, Access Denied.”
    “Yeabot, end program!” He immediately
quieted to his normal unflappable self. “Yeabot, what’s the matter
with that CD?”
    “That CD is protected by a destructive
device. If accessed, it will release a virus which will destroy all
programs and data on the disc as well as programs and data on any
computer operating the disc.”
    “I see. Mr. Borson seems to have hidden
talents.” I picked up the disc and considered this new mystery.
Deciding what to do was going to take some serious thought. I
tossed the disc into my Out basket and turned to my case files.
    There were several cases in the file drawer
that were screaming for my attention. I pulled out the Carpenter
file. I had only a few days left to serve this turkey. A lot of PIs
won’t fool with process service, but I had developed a reputation
for doing hard serves . Of course, no one pays me fifty
dollars an hour to serve process unless they have already tried
regular servers or marshals who do the job for much less. So when I
get an assignment, I know before I ask that the recipient either
could not be found or could not be caught.
    In the case of Mr. Carpenter, the server had
broken my number one rule: Never door-knock anyone . He’d
knocked on the door and was told that Carpenter had moved a year
ago. The server accepted this and raced on to his next delivery.
The subpoena was handed back to the attorney marked, “Moved, no
forwarding address.” That’s where I come in.
    I turned back to my computer and ran the
name of my quarry through all of my database accounts, checking for
property, vehicle, employment, and consumer public filings. When
finished, I concluded that the guy most likely lived right where
the server had tried to serve him. In fact, the server had probably
been talking with him. Early tomorrow morning I would do a little
field reconnaissance and see if I could verify this assumption.
    I stretched and looked at the file cabinet
and then at my watch. Yeah, 5:15, sun was over the yardarm. I
picked up the phone and dialed Sam. His J.Edgar, Yeabot’s
technological father, answered.
    “Sam, you there? It’s Diana. How ‘bout
dinner at the Ocean Way Grill?”
    Sam picked up. “Who’s buying?”
    “Me. Got a fat retainer today.”
    “I’ll see you there.”
    I turned off the computer, slipped my wallet
into my jeans pocket, and the CD in my jacket pocket. I needed
Sam’s take on this CD.
    For twenty-five years Sam had given his
heart, soul, and body to the U.S. intelligence service, and
high-tech toys and deceptions were his area of expertise. When
disillusionment and disgust had replaced duty and patriotism, Sam
had looked for a way out. He’d spent his