Free Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C by Gina Cresse Page A

returned with a glass mason jar.  “Don’t have much cash.  You can have my poker money.  There’s probably about forty-five, maybe fifty bucks here.” 
    My eyes bulge d at the stash of coins.  “Q uarters?”
    “It’s cash.  Want it or not?”
    “Yes.  I want it.  It’ll get me there.  I’ll eat light.”
    “I’ll fix you something for the road.  You won’t have to worry about stopping for food.”
    “I can’t bear the thought of one of your travel snacks.  I’d rather go hungry.”
    “You’ll change your tune about the time you get to Fresno.  Your mouth’ll water for one of my dill-pickle-and-peanut-butter sandwiches.”
    I cringed at the thought.  “Don’t you have apples or bananas?  Any fruit at all?” I pleaded.
    Jason tapped his chin with his finger as he took a mental inventory of his cupboards.  “Fruit?   I’ve got some jam.  I’ve got some grape bubblegum.  Oh!  I know!  I’ve got a box of frosted strawberry Pop Tarts.”
    Jason slid open a drawer and pulled out a package.  “ Here.   I was saving this for breakfast.  You can have it.  It’s a Hostess Fruit Pie — berry.  And I’ve got a six-pack of Orange Crush.”
    “This is your idea of fruit?  You do realize real oranges don’t come in alumin um cans with pop-tops, right ?”
    “I know.  They come in paper cans you stick in the freezer until you mix ‘ em with water.”
    “Right,” I smirked, then gathered up the license plates and Jason’s care package and headed for the door.
     
    I drove as far as I could before my eyelids refused to stay open.  I pulled into a rest area, crawled into the back of the Jeep and immediately fell asleep.  T he sound of my stomach growling woke me up .  I put the Jeep in gear and headed down the road.  I stopped to fill the tank, counting out twenty dollars in quarters to the cashier.  I splurged and bought a bottle of water.  By the time I passed the Fresno City Limit sign, the thought of Jason’s pickle-and-peanut-butter sandwich actually sounded appetizing.  He was right.  Darn him, anyway.  I stopped at a roadside fruit stand and bought a few apples to carry me through the rest of the trip.
    Spencer wasn’t home when I arrived.  I didn’t dare call him at work in case he was right about our phone conversations being listened to.  I waited.  Seven o’clock.  No Spencer.  Eight o’clock.  Still, no Spencer.   Finally, at nine thirty, the lights of his beat-up old Dodge Dart reflected in my rear-view mirror as he pulled into his driveway.
    “ Devonie !   You made it,” he said.   “ Quick, pull your Jeep into the garage.  I’ll meet you inside.”
    We sat down in front of Spencer’s computer and powered it up.
    “I exported the results of the criminal database query and e-mailed it to myself here.  Look at this.” 
    Spencer opened the file and displayed the results on the screen .  Each record contained personal information about me and a description of the crime I “allegedly” committed.  “Whoever put these records in the database didn’t count on anyone looking at the system-maintained fields.  Every record is stamped with the system date and time.  When I wrote this application, I made it impossible for anyone to modify the date stamp.  I also store the IP address of the client machine making the entry,” he explained.
    My finger scanned down the “Date Added” co lumn.  Every date was the same— yesterday — and all the IP addresses were the same.  “This was all entered yesterday, by the same person,” I noted.
    Spencer pulled my finger off the screen and wiped the smudge off with a cloth.  “Well, at least from the same machine.  You’ve been framed. ”
    “Can we find out who this IP address is assigned to?” I asked.
    “Already working on it.”   Spencer made a few mouse clicks.  “Look what I’ve been working on for the past six months .  T his is a graphical representation of the network I