“Do you have something for me?” Harper asked Sangar eagerly as she approached.
“Do you want a smoothie? I got one for Denise, but she had to take off early to bring her daughter to the doctor for an infected spider bite,” Sangar said, holding out the carton.
Harper briefly tried to picture her former bulldog-like editor-in-chief, Frazier Sorrenson, letting his assistant, Roberta, leave early because of a sick child. She failed in her imaginings. Roberta was lucky to get out of the newsroom every day by eight p.m. Harper doubted Frazier would let her go home early if her baby came down with typhoid.
“No, I mean . . . do you have a story for me? Things are pretty slow. I’ve already finished my edits and layouts.” By ten o’clock this morning.
Sangar gave her a knowing glance over the frame of his glasses. “Sorry, no page-burners at the moment. I told you things could be pretty slow at the end of August. A lot of vacationers have cleared out now that school is starting, crime is at a standstill, and we haven’t even got much to say about the Tahoe Shores football team yet. You did tell me you wanted an easy pace.”
“I know. I’m not complaining,” Harper assured.
And she wasn’t, really. It was just hard to adjust her brain and body to the snail-like pace of a small town. It’d take some practice.
Sangar blinked as if he’d just thought of something and glanced down at the bottles of water he clutched. “I do have something for you. Almost forgot. Denise told me to give it to you when I walked in. Came special delivery.” He extended his thumb and forefinger, and Harper realized for the first time he held a white linen envelope. She took it, curious. Her name and the office address for the Gazette were written in elegant cursive on the front.
“Looks fancy. Like a wedding invitation or something,” Sangar said, readjusting the bottles of water against his body. He turned and loped in the direction of his office.
“Yeah, except I don’t know anybody around here who would ask me to . . .”
She trailed off when she realized Sangar was out of earshot. She started toward her office, tearing open the envelope. The stationery was a plain white linen card with the exception of some bold dark blue and gold lettering at the top: Jacob R. Latimer, 935-939 Lakeview Boulevard, Tahoe Shores, NV, 89717.
“Jacob Latimer?” she mumbled, her feet slowing. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t pin down why exactly.
“What about Latimer?” a woman asked sharply.
Harper glanced up and saw that Ruth Dannen, their features, society, and entertainment editor, had halted in front of her. She was in her midfifties and had been pleasant enough to Harper since starting her new job, if a little gruff. Ruth was a polished, thin woman who gave off an air of hard-nosed sophistication and always being in the know about Tahoe people and events.
“It’s an invitation,” Harper said, puzzled. She reread the handwritten message inside out loud. “‘Mr. Jacob Latimer requests the honor of your presence at a cocktail party tonight at his home. Please bring your invitation and present it to the security guard at the entry gate at 935 Lakeview Boulevard. Our apolo
gies for the inconvenience in advance, but for security reasons, identification will be required and there will be a brief search of your car and person. No additional guests, please.’”
The note was signed by an Elizabeth Shields.
She glanced up when Ruth gave a low whistle.
“Well how do you rate?” Ruth wondered, giving Harper a sharp, incredulous once-over.
“What do you mean? Who’s Latimer?”
“Only the richest of all the rich bastards who congregate around this lake. You’ve never heard of Latimer? The software mogul? Came out of nowhere when he was still practically a kid, making his first millions in the Clint Jefferies insider trading pharmaceutical scandal? No one could ever pin anything on him, of course. Jefferies was actually the focus of the Securities and Exchange Commission’s investigation, which was eventually dropped for lack of evidence. They always go after the one with the money, not the small potatoes, like Latimer was at the time. If there was insider trading going on, both Latimer and Jefferies got away with it. By the time the scandal faded, Latimer was serving in army intelligence. He’s a brilliant programmer. The military snapped him up in a New York minute from MIT to create anti-hacker software. I hear they gave him huge bonuses every time he managed to get into the government’s high-security files, and then gave him even more money to utilize the knowledge for creating programs that kept criminals from doing the exact same thing he’d just done. He parlayed all he learned from serving in army intelligence—and all the money he made in the Jefferies pharmaceutical windfall—into—”
“Lattice,” Harper finished, realization hitting her. Lattice was a well-known software giant. Of course. That’s why she’d heard the name Jacob Latimer. Harper didn’t know much about big business or technology movers and shakers, but she’d heard of Lattice. Even though Latimer’s company had begun based on an antivirus security program for the military, it’d quickly moved on to public sector applications for human resources, and most recently to antivirus software for personal computers and devices.
“What does the owner of Lattice want with me?” Harper wondered.
Ruth just arched her plucked, dark blond eyebrows and dropped her gaze over Harper speculatively. “Maybe hair the color of copper and a girlish figure has more mileage than I’d thought these days. Latimer loves women. Rumor is, he has some unusual tastes in that arena.”
Harper opened her mouth to tell the older woman that was ridiculous. And Harper’s looks weren’t unusual, thank you very much. She’d been referred to as the girl next door more than once in her life, much to her irritation.
“I don’t see how he’d know anything about my existence, let alone my hair color. Seriously, what do you think this is about?”
Ruth held out her hand. Harper gave her the invitation. Ruth examined the contents, frowning slightly.
“It’s genuine. I recognize Elizabeth’s handwriting. She’s his primary personal assistant. I think he has several, but she’s his main one for the Tahoe compound. You have no idea why you’re getting this? You don’t know Latimer or any of his staff? His acquaintances? Never met him while you were in San Francisco?”
“No. I didn’t even recognize his name at first.”
“Well,” Ruth said, giving the card back with a flick of her thin wrist, “that’s an invite that almost everyone in the country would kill for, including me. Latimer keeps to himself in that lakeside compound of his. He’s paranoid. Some people say it’s because he’s got plenty to hide. Lots of rumors have flown around about him over the years. Is he still involved with the U.S. military? Does he pull strings to move players on the chessboard of international relations? Is he a spy? He’s definitely a big philanthropist—probably to gloss over the gaping holes in his respectability as far as his rise to power. Who knows, really? That’s the question when it comes to Latimer, and I suspect the answer is: only Latimer himself. And possibly Clint Jefferies.”