The morning found Bart in a cheerful mood. He parked his Buell motorcycle illegally on the sidewalk and trotted up the steps to the third floor. He expected to find Sally pacing her corner cubicle or eating a healthy breakfast from the company kitchen. Instead, her workspace stood empty.
Bart walked to the opposite end of the building and the area outside Gabe’s office. The room was dark, but his assistant, Jerry, sat at his at his own workstation.
“Hey, Jerry. Have you seen Sally this morning?”
“She called earlier and left a message. She said she would be out all day today.”
“Sick?”
“Dr. Ramsay didn’t say nor did I ask.” The gregarious Jerry never made eye contact and barely acknowledged Bart’s presence. Odd, he always called her 'Sally'. Why Dr. Ramsay all of sudden?
“Gabe in today?”
“No. He’s on the east coast. Won’t be in until tomorrow morning.”
Bart knew better than to pry when Gabe made one of his impromptu trips to one corner of the continent or the other.
“OK. Thanks, Jerry.”
“Sure thing.” Jerry continued working on his computer.
Bart started back toward his own office but couldn't resist the sophomoric compulsion to go looking for Sally. Bart mounted the Buell and worked his way out of morning traffic on Palo Alto’s narrow streets. The near gridlock conditions were a perfect example of why he chose to ride the motorcycle most days. Twenty minutes later he arrived at Sally’s apartment. As a couple exited the building he caught the door before it closed and locked. He bounded up the three flights to her floor, but got no answer when he rang the bell and knocked on the door. He tried one more time and even called her phone before giving up. Just to be sure he exited through the parking garage to see if her BMW was in its space. Empty.
Bart rode into the little motor court behind the Rusikov’s house, but found no sign of Sally's car. He looked in the side window of the garage, for no reason in particular, and satisfied himself she had not hidden it inside.
Before leaving he remembered that he had not yet checked his email for the morning. Perhaps she sent him a message. Wishful thinking? A quick review of his incoming messages revealed nothing from Sally, but one jumped straight off the screen at him and turned his blood cold. The mail had been sent by Ivan Rusikov.
GLAD YOU ARE HAVING FUN WITH MY CAR. MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE THE TANK FULL.
Bart nearly dropped his iPhone in his haste to scan for the cameras. He saw none and checked the time the email was sent. Late the prior evening, about the same time he and Sally left this house.
Where the hell was Sally?
Bart revved up the Buell, cruised back to the office, and spent a couple of worthless hours staring at a blank computer screen. By noon he realized he was wasting his time and left for lunch. He ended up at the Stanford Mall. In a near manic fit, he got a haircut, or whatever you call it when they charge fifty dollars. Then he bought a thousand dollars worth of clothes in Neiman-Marcus. A thousand bucks and he was still able to strap the packages safely on the back of his motorcycle. Not a whole lot to show for the money and certainly not his usual MO. What the hell? Gabe had just given him a raise and a larger stakeholder position. Why not blow a little cash and stimulate the local economy? He chuckled as he admitted to himself the economy wasn't what he wanted to stimulate.
He rode home and put his new clothes away then made a sandwich and poured a beer. He finished his lunch and thought about going back to work, but decided to play hooky for the afternoon. An hour later he opened his notebook on a high top table in Starbucks and went through a systematic analysis of all of the facts they had assembled on the “Flash Crash Virus”. He’d run this exercise a couple of times before both with and without Sally and he couldn’t shake the notion that he was missing something.
After a second black tea with three packets of sugar he finally gave up. On his way home a few more pieces of the puzzle fell into place and Bart knew immediately that he was on the right path. Executing a dangerous one-eighty in the street he rode back to the office. Fast. He left the motorcycle on the sidewalk near the front door. Against the law, but so what? Taking the steps two at a time he went straight to his workstation where he remained for most of the night.