Free The Cassandra Conspiracy by Rick Bajackson

at the clock. Any thoughts he might have had about getting a few additional winks were dispelled. Payton got up, and started about the business of getting ready for work.
    .   .   .   .   .   .
    The flutter of case-related filings kept Payton busy all morning and well into the afternoon hours. As a result, returning Janet Phillips’ call totally slipped Payton's mind.
    Around four, his secretary buzzed him informing him that a Ms. Phillips was on the line. Payton slapped his forehead as he reached for the phone.
    “God, I’m sorry, Janet. Things have been so hectic around here today, I forgot about...”
    “Can you get over here right away?” Janet snapped.
    “Why? What’s wrong?”
    “I’d rather tell you in person–the sooner the better.”
    Payton checked his watch, then his appointment book. “Give me your address. I can leave here in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.” He scribbled her address on a sheet of legal sized paper.
    .   .   .   .   .   .
    Janet Phillips’ apartment was near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, a part of the city that had been renovated along with the downtown revitalization. Payton left the taxi, walking briskly, unsure of what could have caused Janet Phillips’ reaction.
    When he reached her door, he knocked once. Before his hand dropped, he heard the deadbolt snap open. As Payton entered the apartment, he noticed that Janet glanced out into the hall checking to see if anyone else was there.
    Janet Phillips had a delicate face, a creamy complexion, deep blue eyes, and full lips set off against sculpted cheeks. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with “Caltech”. A hint of some exotic perfume wafted over to where Payton stood. Payton guessed her height at about five feet five inches–definitely good-looking. Only a blind man would fail to take notice.
    “Hi, I’m Steve Payton.” As if introductions were needed.
    “I’m sorry for the rush, but I think we’d better discuss this file,” Janet said, her blue eyes latching on to Payton's.
    “What’s the problem?” Steve asked, placing his suit jacket on the back of one of her dining room chairs. When he turned around, one look at Janet’s face and he knew trouble was brewing.
    “Is this some kind of a joke?” Janet flared. “Did Matt Evanston put you up to this? He’s always playing practical jokes on me.”
    Steve looked puzzled. “What are you talking about? Everything’s exactly as I explained last night. I only called Matt because he’s the one that got me set up with the MacBook and UniNet. Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”
    Janet motioned for him to take a seat. Payton looked for some place that wasn’t covered with books, computer manuals, or sheets of quadrille paper–some with cryptic scribblings, others blank. Finally he found a wing chair unencumbered with Janet’s paraphernalia. She sat on the couch across from him, folded her legs up under her, took a deep breath, and began.
    “First, I figured that the file somehow got garbled in transmission. That happens occasionally in spite of all the parity and message verification checks. But the number sequence kept bothering me. If a message or file got trashed in the system, the symmetry wouldn’t be there. And your file had perfect symmetry. Each part of it consisted of five-digit groups–no single numbers, no letters, nothing else.
    “Around one this morning, I gave up, and decided to look for another explanation. Since most people don’t go around sending meaningless gibberish to each other, the only feasible explanation was that the entire file had been encrypted. So I started with that premise and went on from there.”
    Before Janet could continue, Steve asked, “All right. Let’s say it’s encrypted. If that’s the case, then the file landed in my E -mail box by mistake. Right?”
    Janet nodded.
    “How did that happen?”
    “That’s easy. A system like UniNet