through the TCM database of files and reports, looking for anything that would shed light on the cryptic voice mail he’d received.
He’d also checked his corporate voice mail to make sure a second message hadn’t yet been received. The mailbox had been empty. At least that was some small measure of relief.
He still had time to dig.
Kyle made it a practice to never face a perceived opponent without full information on whatever it was the opponent alleged. This time would be no different.
He’d searched first on the caller’s name, Jonathan Powers. He’d found just one record and that had been a form memo welcoming a numbered investor to Kingston Trust Investments.
Kyle could only assume his search on Powers’s name had somehow matched the numbered document. The man’s actual name appeared nowhere on the document.
He frowned.
The document bore his electronic signature.
What on earth was a document dealing with an investment firm doing buried deep within the TCM system? Under Kyle’s signature?
He searched next on Kingston Investments, finding several more welcome memos. All addressed by number. All with his signature.
He knew better than to print the documents. The system was geared to log any print commands. That was one red flag he had no intention of flying.
Not yet.
The memo Powers had called about must be more than a welcome memo. Whatever it was, it contained information Powers thought potentially damaging to TCM.
Where was it? What was it?
Kyle scrubbed a hand across his face and glanced at the small clock on his desk—3:00 a.m.
Typically, he’d be beyond exhausted after being on the computer for so long and so late, especially after the day he’d had, but the curiosity and anger pulsing through him had worked wonders in keeping him awake.
He launched himself out of his chair and crossed to the glass wall, leaning against the cool, slick panes. He’d long since dressed, pulling on a favorite pair of shorts and an old University of Colorado sweatshirt.
His image reflected back at him in the glass—darkened by the early morning sky.
Frustration edged through him.
Had he been so neglectful at TCM that someone honestly thought they’d get away with conducting business under his electronic signature without him catching on?
Short answer? Yes.
He hadn’t set foot inside TCM walls in months.
To add even more fuel to the fire, using his electronic signature was easier than most people would think. All someone needed were the brains to access the log of private and public keys and the ability to match the correct keys to the correct signature.
The signature itself was made up of a randomly generated string of letters and numbers, different each time the signature was applied. But anyone doing business with TCM needed only to use the software TCM operated and supplied to validate the authenticity.
Kyle opened the program he’d long ago installed on his system and ran each document through the necessary steps for validation.
Every signature passed.
Damn.
Someone had lifted his signature and he’d never been the wiser.
The reality of what had happened led him directly back to where he’d started.
Dwayne Johnson.
Senior Vice President for International Rights.
Kyle had given the man his private signature key to make life easier, and Johnson had either used that key for his own purposes or he’d provided it to a third party.
Even more concerning was the reality that if Kyle’s signature was on these memos, there was nothing to prevent his stamp of approval from appearing on an entire project or directive.
Just as Powers had alleged.
Kyle pushed away from the window and headed for the phone. If Johnson thought he could get away with whatever it was he had going on, he’d better think again.
Kyle punched Dwayne Johnson’s private number into the phone, not caring that it was three o’clock in the morning and not caring that he’d already put one call in to the man.
A call that had apparently been ignored.
Kyle felt no surprise when Johnson’s machine picked up. He wouldn’t expect any different at this hour of the morning, and he had no plans to leave a polite message. No plans at all.
“Johnson.” He spoke the name sharply and loudly when the beep sounded. “If you ever want to collect another paycheck, you’ll answer this damned phone and you’ll answer it now.”
A loud noise sounded on the other end of the line as someone bobbled the receiver.
“Sorry. Sleeping,” Johnson said.
Kyle could care less.
“I suppose you’ve been sleeping ever since you ignored my last message.”
“No, I—”
Kyle didn’t give the man a chance to utter another syllable. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be at my front door first thing this morning.”
Silence beat across the line.
“With your explanation of why my electronic signature is on a series of welcome documents for investors in something called the Kingston Trust.”
“You’ve got to be—”
“Listen to me,” Kyle interrupted again. “You are the only person at TCM with access to my signature. If you didn’t sign these documents, then you know exactly who did. Be here by nine o’clock. Or else.”
Kyle slammed down the phone.
He shut down the computer, plucked the empty beer bottles from his desk and dropped them in the recyclables container as he passed.
He headed not for his bedroom, but for his work-out room instead.
Sleep wouldn’t come tonight.
He knew that from experience.
And if he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, he’d have to do something else to defuse the tension knotting every muscle in his body.
The image of Sara Montgomery flashed through his mind’s eye. Spending some quality time with the woman would definitely be one way to the defuse the tension, but based on the fiery spirit she’d shown, breaking down her defenses was going to take some time.
He pulled on a pair
