Devil's Plaything Read Online Free PDF Page B

then try HippocratEATs. Hippocrates is my incurably hungry cat. No luck.
    I try variations on my own name, then “LaneIdle,” and “W1tch” a password I remember once using. It fails too. And I’m not sure why I’d think any of them would succeed, given that I have no reason to believe anyone knows my passwords.
    I wonder at the significance of “Highly Evolved World Traveler.” Is this some gimmick sent by a butt-kissing overseas company or public relations firm?
    â€œEven from behind you look frustrated,” a voice says.
    It belongs to a man who speaks in deep tones.
    I turn. The visitor is short and bulky with a thick jaw.
    He is dressed to kill. Except for his shoes.

Chapter 6
    â€œF rustrated,” he adds. “And definitely not Polly.”
    He wears a smooth brown suit that costs more than I care to guess, but on his feet are flip-flops that I know for certain from personal experience go for $6 at Walgreens. His hands and face seem rugged. His accessories—a short but carefully shaped hairstyle and expensive suit—scream refinement. I place him in his late thirties.
    â€œThat makes two of us who aren’t Pauline,” I say.
    He chuckles. “Is she around?” he asks. He’s pointedly relaxed, aggressively nonchalant, like his footwear.
    â€œI’m wondering the same thing.”
    He steps in and extends a hand.
    â€œChuck Taylor, just like your high-tops.”
    I stand and extend mine. He shakes with a strong grip that he lets linger an extra beat.
    â€œNat Idle.” I pause, and feel a need to explain myself. “I’m a freelance writer here.”
    â€œI know who you are.”
    Our eyes briefly meet. There’s a mild sty beneath his left eyelid that undercuts his aura of perfection.
    He sees my gaze fall on the small blue words tattooed at the edge of his neckline, just above the line of his crisp white shirt. They read: “Semper Fi.”
    â€œGrandpa was at Anzio, Dad at Quang Tri City,” he says. “I sat at a desk in Kuwait when the smart Bush ran things.”
    He smiles, revealing whitened teeth.
    â€œIt’s gotten competitive out there if Pauline’s retaining the military,” I say.
    â€œActually, we’re retaining her.” He reaches into the inside breast pocket of his suit and pulls out a worn brown wallet, stuffed thickly. From it he extracts a business card and hands it to me. It reads: Chuck Taylor. Defense Investment Corp.
    Another venture capitalist, one of the high-risk investors who troll the region’s labs, campuses and garages for fresh ideas and entrepreneurs to back. He belongs to the breed’s military subset. For decades, the military has invested in myriad Silicon Valley technologies that have few or speculative military applications. Sometimes with spectacular returns. Witness the birth of the Internet.
    â€œYou’re investing in Medblog?” I ask. I’ve known Pauline has been looking for funding.
    â€œI thought she’d disclosed it already. I saw something brief in the Wall Street Journal ,” he responds. “We’re taking a small minority stake.”
    â€œThe help are the last to know.” Unless this deal’s a big one, I don’t know that Pauline would tell me about it, particularly in light of our choppy communications the last few weeks.
    â€œWhen I get involved with a new company, I like to stop by unannounced,” Chuck says. “Polly usually works late. She’s got that quality we venture capitalists love in entrepreneurs in that she will work nonstop until she keels over from exhaustion.”
    He glances at her computer, where the password screen remains.
    He pulls out his phone. “Under natural law, she’s not allowed to ignore the calls of an investor.”
    He dials. The phone goes to voice mail. He shrugs. We stand in silence, which I finally interrupt.
    â€œWhat’s Uncle Sam’s