the ice spa. Even after a full day of vigorous sexual activity, Sam was still aroused by her beautiful form. When the porter disappeared from view, Esther mechanically rose and tiptoed over to the ice spa, sighing loudly as she jumped in feet first. She very quickly maneuvered her shivering wet body from out of the cold bath and into the hot tub where she relaxed for several minutes. Before returning to her chaise-lounge, she went under the San Trope tower—a shower-like apparatus that applied suntan oils. Sam watched her intently as she frolicked about. She moved like an angel, Sam’s private angel. Sam was in heaven. But, he wasn’t the only one watching. The deck was visible by telescope from every hotel in the city, and tele-peeping is one of the principle daytime activities in Monaco.
Sam used his iPad when he was abroad to get his emails. Ninety-six new e-mails were listed across his screen. Tim had obviously done his job well.
“Anything interesting?” Esther asked.
“Yes, most interesting. Tim forwarded me Eleanor Moreau’s e-mail that she received prior to her death.”
“What are you looking for, Sam?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. Sam began reading the e-mail to himself. “She corresponded regularly with her sister who kept her abreast of family matters. She also corresponded with her ex-husband, mostly regarding custody arrangements for their youngest child,” Sam continued. “And it appears that you and Eleanor Moreau had something in common.”
“Really? What’s that?” Esther asked.
“Apparently, she was also a member of the Black Squares Club.”
“There’s nothing unusual about that,” Esther replied, “it’s the best online crossword puzzle club in the country. And it’s the only one that offers prizes.”
“You mean you can actually win prizes?” Sam asked.
“You earn points that are redeemable in the R. SPELLMAN catalogue.”
“Here’s something else interesting—a number of correspondences from Henri Gateau.”
“Isn’t Gateau the race car driver?” Esther asked.
“Formula One, I believe.”
“He’s very debonair and good looking. Perhaps he’s racing in the Grand Prix?”
“If he is, he’ll be dining at the hotel tonight. All of the drivers are invited to a pre-race dinner.”
“What do his correspondences say, Sam?”
“I’ll read you his last e-mail sent January 15, three months before her unfortunate demise.”
Dearest Eleanor,
I have raised the cash, but I need it back by the 17th. We’ll need twice that for the operation. Hope we’re still partners in business as well as in love.
All my love,
Henri
“That’s a strange letter, Sam. Eleanor Moreau had all the money in the world. She was a charter member of the jet set. Why would she be giving Gateau for money?”
“That’s a very good question. Let me check her out box. Perhaps she replied to the letter. Yes. Here it is.”
My beautiful Henri,
Send the cash. One more thing. Tell Jacque I’ve finished the Alaska layout. Froze my butt off. Kept it on ice for you.
Love,
Eleanor
P.S. I will definitely return it by the 17th. And, yes, we are still partners in every sense of the word.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said.
“What is it, Sam?”
“There’s a shadow cc attached to her e-mail.”
“A shadow what?” Esther asked.
“A sophisticated virus-like program that forwards incoming and outgoing mail.”
“How’s that possible, Sam?”
“General Patton once said, ‘fixed fortifications are a monument to the stupidity of man.’ ”
“Was that General Patton or George C. Scott?”
“What’s the difference? The point is that computer security is also a monument to the stupidity of man. For every measure there is a counter-measure. If I remember my hacker’s manual correctly, the program in question is called inkspot. It can find its way into the operating system of a computer in any number of ways. Watch this,” Sam said as he turned the iPad toward her. He clicked on the Start icon at the bottom of the screen and then clicked on Find. Under files and folders he typed in the word inkspot. Within microseconds a file was displayed on the screen. “Yes. Look here . . . the hacker didn’t even bother to change the name of the program.”
“You’d really be a great detective if you could tell me who was checking her mail. You implied that there’s no infallible security system on computers. Prove it!”
“No sweat. The address of the hacker is embedded in the program. He used a mathematical code to hide it, but I’m familiar with the code. It’s a mailbox on a remote site. Foolishly, the hacker chose a Hotmail address.”
“Why do you say, foolishly, Sam?”
“Because the serial number of every Intel chip is encoded in the ROM. Hotmail has a program that reads the serial number and matches it against the purchase orders of every computer sold. Ninety-nine percent of computer owners register their computer in order to validate their warranty. Virtually everyone who has a mailbox at Hotmail can be traced by the serial number of the chip.”
“Too bad you don’t have access to the Hotmail database.”
“Oh, but I do my dear. I can break into the Hotmail database faster than you can say Jackie Robinson.”
“Who the hell is Jackie Robinson?”
“He was the first Black baseball player to break into the majors and he was as fast as greased lightning. He was my father’s favorite player on the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Look, I’m in. Let me type in the date, January 15, and see what we have. Let’s narrow it down to New York City.”
“Not too bad, Sam. You’re down to about 500 entries. What now?”
“Moreau’s letter was sent at 10:52 P.M. Let’s scroll down the list. An e-mail was received from New York City at 10:53 P.M.: [email protected].”
“Now what genius?”
“Now we access the database and trace it back to the serial number on the chip.” Sam cleared the screen and typed in a series of commands. A menu appeared on the screen prompting the user for an e-mail address. Sam typed in Clarion. Within seconds, the serial number of the Intel Chip together with all the registration information appeared on the screen.
“Sam,
