My sibling was showing off, metaphorically strutting her stuff by sending photos of the nosy reporter and his cohort in a tavern. If Patra wanted to try the mossy tactic of cozying up to the enemy, it was her time and money. But I supposed it was considerate of her to let me know where she was. I was monitoring the coded file slowly emerging from the current document I’d fed into the software. Graham had been right. Patra’s father had coded some of his papers. Figuring out which ones was the trick. He’d played dirty pool by encoding what appeared to be meaningless office memos and expense reports instead of his journal entries. I hit the phone for the image coming through at the same time as Graham snarled through the intercom. “Send your sister back where she came from. I don’t need those termites snooping around my back door.” “Because that’s where you keep your Batmobile?” I asked, just because. The image appearing on my phone showed a gorilla-sized goon with a shoulder holster leaning against the wall of the house across the street.
