by Joanne Pence
“Exactly!” Travis looked pleased. “And suppose you’re dating, and you meet the woman of your dreams, don’t you want to be sure you can trust her? That when she tells you she loves you, that it’s you and not your money she’s in love with?”
“Sure,” Richie acknowledged. “What guy wouldn’t? I mean, who among us can really understand women?”
With a Cheshire cat smile, Travis announced, “I’ve created an app that will tell you if a person is lying.”
Richie put down his cup.
“I’m testing it now. There are still a few kinks, but I’ll work them out.”
“Really?” Richie asked.
“I cannot tell a lie,” Travis said with a huge grin. “Not with my invention around. When it’s on, it records every human you interact with. You only need to say the person’s name so it can catalog who it is you’re dealing with. It sends out waves that record pressure points involving any touching, from handshakes to kisses, and changes in voice patterns or tones. The more often you interact with that individual the more data it will collect. That way, it’ll know when the person is acting out of character. Certain ‘out of character’ reactions are characteristics of lying.”
“That’s mind-blowing,” Richie murmured, not too sure how much credence, if any, he gave to Travis’ claims.
“Yes.” Travis looked like a kid entering a theme park. “My app will tell you if someone who says they love you really means it; if a business client really can be trusted; if the house you want to buy really doesn’t have any major issues; and so on.”
Richie nodded. His job was dealing with people, and he couldn’t help but imagine the trouble such an app could cause. More business for him.
“So, I have two requests of you,” Travis continued. “The first is about my old partners, Mitch Voltz and Jason Singh. I don’t want them to come back and demand a cut on what I’ve spent years developing. I want you to find out what they’re up to.”
“What makes you think they’re plotting anything?”
“Because my security system tells me someone has been sneaking around my house and I can’t think of anyone else it might be.”
“In that case,” Richie said, “why don’t you use your app and ask them if they want a cut of your profits? You’ll know if they’re lying to you about it, right? Isn’t that the point?”
Travis pursed his lips. “They know about the app, and know how to circumvent it.”
“More of those kinks, eh?” Richie said.
Travis stiffened and his cheeks reddened. “That brings me to my second request. People I deal with know about my invention. And most of them are easy to read, even without it. You, on the other hand, meet lots of people. I’d like you to put my app on your phone and see if it works for you.”
“Are you joking? I don’t think I’m your clientele.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know what people you talk to are really thinking? When they say something is wonderful, don’t you want to know if they’re telling the truth?”
Richie smirked. “I’m not sure.”
Travis laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?”
“Not at all.” Richie wondered if the stupid app would have recorded that as a lie.
Travis stood. “Well then, I’ll put it on your phone and show you how to use it. A little test run can’t hurt, right?”
Richie had his doubts. He handed over his smart phone and followed Travis to a den filled with enough computer screens to rival NASA. Travis connected the phone to his computer, and then his fingers flew as he got into its settings and began the download. Richie frowned at what was being done to one of the great loves of his life.
“So, did you hear about the fire this morning?” Travis asked as he waited for his app to install.
“No,” Richie said. “Where?”
“Easy Street Clothiers. You know that the owner’s one of the—”
“Yeah, I know.” Richie cut Travis off with a scowl. He didn’t want to talk, or even think about what Travis was referring to. “Odd that the news didn’t mention any fire.”
“It was small. I only know because I’ve got a police band on my computer and get alerts if anything odd is going on in the city.”
“I’m sure, then, that the fire means nothing,” Richie said.
“Whatever, I still don’t like it,” Travis said. “Our connection to him makes me nervous. Ah! It’s installed. I tell you, you’re going to absolutely love using it!”
CHAPTER TWO
By the time evening came, Rebecca was glad to head for home.
Diego Bosque hadn’t been at his condo. He lived on the top floor of an expensively renovated building on the east side of Telegraph Hill with a beautiful view of the bay. Talking to his neighbors had yielded nothing at all. None of them had seen him that day, and most had never even said hello to the man. They all claimed he kept strange hours and, while pleasant, wasn’t very sociable. That wasn’t at all what she expected after reading about him in the San Francisco Beat article. She wondered if the write-up on him was as biased as the one about Richie.
Rebecca and Sutter spent the rest of the day interviewing past and present employees of Easy Street Clothiers, none of whom—she had discovered after checking their names on the SFPD’s database—had any criminal record. She had the impression whoever torched Easy Street didn’t work there—unless it was Bosque himself. Or, perhaps, a very dissatisfied customer.
By the time she got home, she was exhausted, and had a raging headache. It hadn’t been helped by seeing several clusters of people she knew at the Hall of Justice either suddenly stop talking or try not to look her way as she passed them in the hall. She was sure she was being paranoid. None of them knew anything about her private life, did they? And the magazine wasn’t that popular. Or was it?
She unlocked the door to her small apartment, once a storage room off the back of the garage in a three-story building, located on a dead-end street called Mulford Alley. There were only two others living in the building. The landlord, Bradley Frick, lived on the top floor; and Kiki Nuñez, in the middle one. The best thing about Rebecca’s apartment was that it faced the building’s back yard giving her what amounted to her own secret garden.
She was glad to find a place where she could see at least a little greenery since she’d grown up surrounded by nature. Idaho had been a happy place for her until her father died and her mother sold the family farm. Soon after that, Rebecca learned the man she had planned to marry, the son of the owner of the adjacent farm, had apparently been more interested in holy matrimony to join their farms together than to join with her.
Broken-hearted, she’d moved to San Francisco, and eventually worked her way into a job she loved. Now, she couldn’t imagine doing anything other than working homicide investigations, and seeing that justice was done. It made her feel that her work was worthwhile.
But right now, all she wanted to do was to crawl into bed and hope no one got killed in the middle of the night. As the homicide’s on-call team this week, she and Sutter would be the first responders at any unnatural and unexpected death.
She opened the door to her apartment, and stopped, surprised. Richie was lounging on her sofa, his feet up, the TV on, with her little dog Spike on his lap. Her first reaction was happiness at seeing him, and she even allowed a small smile to form, but then she remembered the SF Beat article, and her good feelings evaporated. “Richie! I didn’t see your car parked in the alley.”
He smiled in greeting. “There was only one spot left when I came by, so I parked in a lot. I figured if I took it and you had to drive all around in circles looking for parking, you’d come in with guns-a-blazing.”
She was about to deny it, then stopped herself. He was probably right.
“I was getting worried about you,” he said, sitting up. “It’s late. You work too hard.”
She turned her back to him as she placed her handbag on a small table near the door, and her jacket on a hook th
at served as a coat rack. She normally gave him a hard time about walking into her place uninvited—although she had given him the key. He knew she didn’t really mean it, that it was pro forma. But right now, she wasn’t in the mood for any games.
She squared her shoulders and faced Richie with a frown. “Long hours happen when someone’s been killed.”
Her little dog Spike, a Chinese Crested Hairless-Chihuahua mix, had jumped off Richie and stood on his hind legs, his paws on her knee. She picked him up, hugged and petted him.
“Killed?” Richie cocked his head as he studied her, as if contrasting her warm greeting of Spike with her curt response to him.
She could all but see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out what was going on with her. It was easy enough to explain. She knew Spike would always be there for her; Richie, not so much. That was the reality that had consumed a lot of her thoughts that day. It wasn’t what the article said about him—it was exaggerated nonsense. What bothered her was that it had caused her to think about their relationship, and not like the result. Professionally, going out with him was clearly a mistake according to her boss; emotionally, she was allowing herself to become far too involved; and logically, she knew that as time went on, the more their differences would matter—and those differences were a recipe for disaster.
The fact that the article bothered her as much as it did proved her point.
She didn’t want to think about it, and answered his question. “A homeless guy died in a fire. It seems he picked the wrong place to try to stay warm.”
He used the remote to turn off the TV. “Was that the Easy Street Clothiers fire?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you heard. I was told the fire wasn’t big enough, and the dead man not ‘important’ enough, to make the news.”
“The whole thing is a shame,” Richie said. “About the poor guy who died, and also because Diego had a good thing going with that place.”
His words surprised her. “You know Diego Bosque?”
“Not well. I only met him a couple times.” He took his phone out of his pocket, pushed a couple of buttons and said, “Rebecca.”
“What?”
He glanced up at her, and then at his phone. “Oh, uh, what caused the fire?”
“It looks like arson. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Arson? You’re kidding.”
“No.” She moved to the center of the small room and continued to stand. “We’ve tried all day but haven’t been able to get hold of Bosque. No one is able to reach him.”
Richie frowned. “He’s got more stores around Silicon Valley. If it’s arson, maybe he went there to make sure all his stores aren’t a target.”
“We tried those locations,” she said.
“Enough of all this work stuff,” Richie said, standing. “I brought you some dinner. I figured you’ve probably only eaten vending machine junk all day.”
She put Spike down. “I’m too tired to eat.” The magazine again intruded on her thoughts. “But … maybe you have some news for me?”
“News?” he asked. “No, not really.”
Her lips pursed. “I see. Well, as I said, I’m tired and I’ve got a splitting headache. You should go home.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you get really cranky when you’re tired?” He went over to the kitchen area—her apartment only had two rooms, a combined living-dining-kitchen and a bedroom. He took several take-out boxes with Chinese writing from the refrigerator, put some food from each box on a plate and microwaved it while he made her a cup of tea and opened a can of dog food for Spike.
“I really don’t feel like eating.” She followed him, and couldn’t help but add, “Maybe I should just sit down and read a magazine.”
“I know. You’re tired. You had a busy weekend, I guess,” he said with a grin as he handed her the tea.
The last thing she wanted was to listen to him joke about their time together. “Don’t you have to go to work, or something?”
“You know Big Caesar’s isn’t open on Monday nights.”
“Maybe it should be,” she muttered. But as the food heated, its spicy smell wafted enticingly around her. She had learned to love Chinese food after she moved to San Francisco. Her stomach growled. Richie grinned, which meant he had heard it. Damn. But she had to admit that he was right. She was starving.
He took the plate from the microwave and put it on her small dinette table.
“Aren’t you eating?” she asked, taking a seat.
“I ate earlier.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter.
She took a bite, and quickly another. The plate was empty before she knew it. Her headache was all but gone. Feeling a bit sheepish after the way she had talked to him, she said, “Thank you. You were right. I needed food.”
He took a seat across from her. She saw that he had made himself a cup of tea as well.
Now that she was feeling a little more human, she took a moment to actually look at him instead of trying to ignore him. She had to admit she liked his looks, and always felt a lift to her spirits when he was near. Her gaze drifted from his wavy black hair, to deep-set brown eyes, angular cheekbones, his nose, his mouth …
She averted her gaze. It was better not to go there.
She sipped her tea. The man was a puzzle to her. Even after all they’d been through, she wondered why he took it upon himself to hang out with a cop. She knew from experience that hers was not the sort of job that attracted many men, and especially not a man with money, who owned a nightclub, and who acted as a “fixer” to some rather questionable people. She’d been well trained to analyze every nuance of everything said and done, and from that analysis to draw conclusions.
Such conclusions warned her to be wary. But as soon as she was around Richie, all her careful training flew right out the window. Especially when he did something as sweet as bringing her dinner after she’d had an exhausting day at work.
“And now you need some sleep,” he said, even as he continued to look at her oddly, as if wondering why her behavior was so strange. “I know when you’re ‘on-call’ you can be sent to a murder anytime of the day or night, and you need to rest when you can.”
He did it again, saying the one thing that showed he understood her and her work; saying the sort of thing that would make her want to tell him to stay. And why shouldn’t she?
To hell with his leading role in a gossip-laden tell-all. She knew him better than that. She was about to get up and put her arms around him when his phone buzzed.
He looked at it. “Odd. I’d better take this.” As he listened, he stood. “I’ll be right there,” he said, quickly ending the call.
She stood as well. “What happened?”
His face was grim. “There’s a fire down at Big Caesar’s.”
“Oh, no!” She followed him to the door.
“Get some sleep.” He put on his jacket, gave her a quick kiss, and turned to open the door.
“Wait.” She took hold of his arm. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you need—”
“I won’t be able to sleep wondering what’s happening.” She picked up her jacket, handbag and gun. “Let’s go.”
o0o
Big Caesars, near Fisherman’s Wharf, was a nightclub known for its big band, swing, and jazz live entertainment. The decor was elegant and its customers dressed accordingly. With white tablecloths, flowing champagne, plentiful appetizers, and a spacious dance floor, it was like entering into the type of fashionable supper club shown in films from the 1930’s or ‘40’s. Tourists were the first to discover it, and its popularity quickly spread.
As Richie’s Porsche 911 neared the club, he saw fire trucks in the alley that ran behind it, an area with a loading zone as well as for garbage pick-up. He pulled into a no-parking zone and then he and Rebecca hurried to see what was going on. A lot of people had gathered to watch.
The club’s manager, Tommy Ginnetti, stood at the entrance to the alley looki
ng glum. He’d only been promoted from head waiter to manager a couple of weeks earlier when Richie decided the club ran well enough that he could hire someone to handle the day-to-day operations. Tommy was his guy.
“What’s going on, Tommy?” Richie asked.
“I’m hoping it’s not as bad as it looks,” Tommy said. The words were hopeful, but his expression said otherwise. He glanced at Rebecca. “Inspector Mayfield. I’m surprised to see you.”
“She’s not here officially,” Richie said, his mouth a firm line. “At least, not yet.” As he looked at the smoke billowing out of the windows of Big Caesar’s, he wanted to know exactly how this happened, and planned to question everyone he could. Logan Travis’s “liar app” just might be useful after all. He took out his phone, tapped it a couple of times, and said, “Tommy.”
“Yes?” Tommy asked.
Richie put the phone back in his pocket. “What happened, kitchen staff screw up? Somebody leave a burner on?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing like that.”
“How did you get here so fast?” Richie asked. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Despite the fire, the trucks, the people, the night was cold and foggy.
“I’m the one who called it in. I came by to see what’s going on with the furnace. Last night, the club got a little chilly. When I was home today, I started thinking about it. Finally, I thought I should see when it was last serviced. I figured if there was a problem, we could get somebody here first thing in the morning so it’d be all set for Tuesday night when we open. I was in the basement with the furnace—and it does need to be serviced and the ducts cleaned out—when I heard a window break. I tell you, it scared me. I came upstairs to see what was going on, and saw smoke coming out of the storeroom. When I opened the door, the place went up in flames. I called the fire department, and then you. Luckily, they got here in a couple minutes.”
“You heard a window break?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah. I’m thinking the fire must have started in the storeroom and got so hot it caused the glass to explode. I’ve heard that happens sometimes. I’m hoping the firemen put it out before it spread to the kitchen or offices. But it looks like they’re dousing the whole place with water.”
