by David Hosp
Ma shakes her head as she stands and maneuvers her oxygen tank toward the stairs. ‘Ah, shit, I don’t get you young people these days. When we were your age we knew how to spend our time, and it wasn’t talkin’.’
‘Ma!’
She disappears around the corner, calling out behind her, ‘I’m just sayin’!’
Yvette’s house is walking distance. I go with her, just to make sure she gets there okay. She protests that she doesn’t need me to be safe, and I know it’s true, but I go anyway. Chivalry still exists on the streets of places like Charlestown. It’s a place where people take pride in doing things the way they’re supposed to be done – for good or bad. The honor code that’s followed here is cracked and dented, and at times runs counter to the way things should be in a perfect world, but it provides a set of rules that people understand.
‘Sorry about Ma,’ I say as we walk. We’ve been quiet for the first block or so, my mother’s comments hanging between us like the scent of opportunity.
She shakes her head. ‘She’s an original.’
‘She is that.’
I start to say something, but the words get caught in my throat. I know that she is waiting for me to do or say something – anything that will open the door between us – but I can’t. And, knowing that I can’t, I am at a loss for any sort of coherent expression. How can I possibly tell her that I can’t focus on anyone else at the moment because I’ve become obsessed with a mirage? I’m sorry, Yvette, you’re great, but I’m obsessed with a computer-generated girl who gets killed in an online snuff-scene . . . I’m embarrassed just thinking about it.
We are standing there, so close together that I can feel the heat coming off her body. She’s looking at me with curiosity. ‘I’ve always wondered,’ she says.
‘We have to meet Killkenny early tomorrow. We should get there before him, just to prep people; make sure they don’t freak out.’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I should probably go in.’
We are standing at the edge of the sidewalk in front of her house, looking at each other, neither of us knowing quite what to say or do next. She leans in toward me, the way she might if she was going to kiss my cheek, except that she doesn’t turn her face the way she would if the target was really my cheek. I lean in, too, the reality of the moment overcoming the loyalty I feel to my other fantasy. I know we are about to kiss and that, once we do, it won’t stop, but I don’t have the energy to fight it. It’s like there is a collision of emotions in my head, and it sounds like the tearing of metal and the screeching of rubber. I lean in further, but she isn’t there.
I open my eyes and see that she is still in front of me, but no longer looking in my direction. Instead she is looking off down the street, her face frozen in shock. I turn and I see the headlights streaming down the narrow street toward us, the car’s right wheels up on the curb. It takes just a flash before I realize that the sounds of tearing metal were not in my head. The car coming toward us is out of control, tossing metal garbage cans against the houses like paper cups.
‘Look out!’ I scream. I grab for Yvette, but I am the slower of the two of us and she has already hurled herself against me, knocking me toward her house.
We fall over the scrub bush that hides the cement foundation. The ‘yard’ is a strip of weed-infested dirt no wider than a couple of feet. We fall onto that strip, she on top of me, just as the car passes us by, close enough to rip out the scraggy bushes we’ve just fallen over; close enough for me to feel the exhaust on my face as the rear bumper comes within a couple of inches of my forehead; close enough to smell the burned rubber as the tires narrowly miss Yvette’s leg.
The car looks as though it might crash into the telephone pole up the street, but after jockeying wildly for a moment, taking out several more garbage cans and two mailboxes, it rights itself and lands unsteadily back on the road. It takes the next corner with enough speed to let out an anguished scream of rubber on cement, and then it is gone.
The street is quiet. One might expect that neighbors would quickly rush out to find out what caused the commotion, and perhaps offer help. They’re good people here, and that’s probably their first instinct, but we’re close enough to the projects that gang violence is not unknown. There have been drive-bys within a few blocks of here in recent years, and while there were no gunshots fired in this particular instance, it’s likely – and understandable – that the people in this area will wait to make sure there are no reprisals coming before venturing out to see what assistance they can be.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask Yvette. She is lying on top of me, her head swung around looking in the direction where the car disappeared.
‘I didn’t see the license plate,’ she says angrily.
‘Who are you, Columbo? I didn’t even see what kind of a car it was.’
‘I didn’t either,’ she admits. ‘It looked like a sedan, but I couldn’t really tell.’
‘He keeps on the road that drunk, the cops will find him eventually. Wrapped around a tree, probably.’
‘You think?’ She sounds skeptical. No, that’s not right – she sounds suspicious.
‘What is it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing.’
She’s still on top of me as we lie in the dirt, and she turns back around and looks at me. Her face is so close to mine, and even in the dark I can make out her eyes. They are pretty eyes – deep green, warm and lively. But as I look into them, all I can think of is the fire within the eyes of my girl from the LifeScene.
‘We should call the police, just to file a report,’ I say.
‘Yeah, we should.’
‘And then I should go.’
There is a moment before she answers when she is just looking at me, a mixture of hurt and anger in her eyes. ‘Yeah, you probably should,’ she says.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning Yvette acts as though nothing passed between the two of us the night before. I’m grateful for that. We’re dealing with enough at the moment that recriminations over a near-kiss would just complicate matters. If there’s something between us that’s real and goes beyond friendship, it will still be there when things calm down.
I pick her up in the morning and we drive to the NextLife headquarters. We park in the back, and sit in the lot waiting for Paul Killkenny. She’s sipping a coffee out of a Styrofoam cup that’s large enough to shelter kittens. The aroma of French vanilla swirls in the car, overpowering the acid sting of the small cup of black dark roast that I’ve almost finished.
‘Any word from the Charlestown cops?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘I checked in with them this morning. There were no other accidents reported last night, so at least whoever it was got home without killing anyone.’
‘Lucky,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ I deadpan. ‘Lucky.’
At that moment Paul Killkenny pulls into the parking lot. He’s driving a black Chevy SS with dark tinted glass that rumbles low and fierce as it pulls around the tarmac. He sees my Corolla and pulls in next to us. I get out, looking over his ride. ‘Subtle,’ I say.
‘More effective than a black-and-white,’ he says. ‘The bad guys know not to fuck with me.’
‘I bet they see you coming, too.’
‘I don’t work undercover,’ he says. ‘I want them to know when I’m in the neighborhood.’ He looks at the Corolla. ‘I see you’re still all about impressing people.’
‘That’s how I roll.’
Killkenny looks at Yvette. ‘Sounds like you two had a close call last night. Hope you’re okay.’
‘How did you hear?’ Yvette asks.
‘Nick texted me this morning. Said you’d both been up late last night filing the report.’
‘It’s not the quickest process I’ve ever seen,’ she concedes.
‘I hope they catch the guy. Sounds like he could have killed you.’ She doesn’t respond. He looks up at the NextLife building, which towers over the area, coated in blu
e glass. ‘Speaking of subtle . . . ’ he says. ‘When did they finish this?’
‘Last summer. We’ve been in since October.’
‘What’s here?’
‘Pretty much everything except our server-farm, which is out in Hopkinton, and my division.’
‘Which they keep hidden in a basement.’
I nod.
‘So, what now?’
‘Let’s get you checked in and we can go see HR, see what we can find out about the murdered girls.’
The lobby is gleaming chrome and glass, with a reception desk that looks a little like an inverted shell. There are two security guards there. One is an attractive brunette in her twenties, the other is a six-foot-two soup-can with a head. He hangs back and lets his partner deal with us. She smiles as she scans my ID, and then Yvette’s. Her smile hiccups for a second when Killkenny presents his badge, but she recovers nicely. ‘He’s with me,’ I say. She nods and presses a button to let us through the turnstiles that lead to the elevator.
We head to the third floor, where most of the administrative offices are. I ask to see Helen Jimenez, our head of Human Resources. Because of the nature of what my department does, most of my people are vetted fairly heavily, and I have regular meetings with Helen. I like her, and I’ve managed not to annoy or offend her, which means that she’s probably one of my biggest fans at the company. I wait with Yvette and Killkenny in the reception area for about five minutes before Helen emerges.
‘Nick,’ she says pleasantly. She comes over to me and takes my hand, leaning in close enough to make the handshake seem almost like a hug. ‘No problems with the new hires, I hope?’
‘No, Helen, everyone seems to be settling in. You know Yvette Jones? She’s in my department.’
Without answering the specific question, Helen smiles at Yvette and extends her hand. ‘Yvette,’ she says.
‘And this is Paul Killkenny,’ I say. She shakes his hand as well. ‘He’s a detective with the Boston Police Department.’ She withdraws her hand a little more quickly than I think she might normally, raises an eyebrow.
‘Really? A detective.’ She tries to make her voice sound impressed. ‘What brings you all out to Brighton today?’
‘We’re looking for some information about three women who did some sort of work for the company a few years back,’ I say.
‘What kind of work?’ Helen asks.
‘We’re not entirely sure,’ I say. ‘We know one of them did some work as a model, but we don’t know specifically what she did for the company.’
She looks at Killkenny. ‘We don’t normally give out any employee information to the police without a warrant,’ she says hesitantly. ‘It’s a policy.’
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but in this case it’s probably better for the company if we bend the policy just a little bit. At least for the moment.’
‘Why? What is it that the police are investigating?’ She looks at Killkenny, and he stares evenly back at her.
‘All three of the girls were killed,’ he says in a cold, flat voice. ‘I’m investigating their murders.’
Helen’s smile fades, and her face drains just a little bit. There is a receptionist in the waiting area and her head swivels at the use of the word ‘murders’.
‘Maybe we should continue this discussion back in your office,’ I suggest.
‘Yes,’ Helen agrees. ‘Yes, that might be best.’
Helen’s office is a large corner spot with luxurious furnishings and a separate sitting area set away from her desk and work space.
‘I’m not comfortable with this,’ Helen is saying as she taps away at her computer.
‘None of us are,’ I reassure her.
‘I could get a subpoena,’ Killkenny says. That gets Helen’s attention. She looks up at him, glaring. ‘I don’t want to, but I will if I have to.’
‘It isn’t necessary,’ I say to him. I look at Helen. ‘He could, though. We’re trying to keep the company’s involvement in the investigation quiet. I can’t imagine there’s much information the police need from us. We can simply provide a little help and be done with it.’ I don’t know whether Helen believes me, but I doubt the words even as they leave my mouth.
‘Here it is,’ she says. ‘Amanda Hicks. All I have is a contract, nothing more.’
‘What’s the contract for?’ I ask.
‘Looks like a fairly standard modeling contract and release. It was four and a half years ago, just after the company started. They clearly didn’t have many record-keepers back then. Frankly, I’m surprised we found this.’
‘There are no other records that mention her?’ Killkenny asks. Helen shakes her head. ‘How about the others? Janet Schmidt and Patricia Carnes?’
Helen taps some more on her keyboard. After a moment she nods. ‘Janet Schmidt had the same contract. No further information.’ She goes back to her tapping. ‘Patricia Carnes, too.’
‘But you have no more information?’ Killkenny asks. There’s an edge in his voice.
‘None.’ Helen’s tone is cold.
‘Like I said, I could get a subpoena,’ Killkenny shoots back.
‘I’m sure you could, Detective, but you won’t get any additional information from that. I can’t create documents that don’t exist. Apparently these women did modeling for the company when it was starting out. I know nothing more than that.’
Killkenny looks at me. ‘So, that’s it? That’s the extent of the cooperation?’ He shakes his head.
I’m frowning as I look back at Helen. ‘These are contracts with the company, right?’ I say to her.
‘Yes, as I said.’ It’s clear that she is getting annoyed with the process. I may have burned any goodwill I might once have had with her.
‘Who signed on behalf of the company?’
She looks at me for a moment, then turns back to the screen and scrolls through the document. I can see her come to rest toward the bottom, and she sits there for a few seconds, just staring. Then she looks up at me. ‘Tom Jackson,’ she says. ‘He signed on behalf of the company.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘They’re modeling contracts.’
Tom’s office is one of the ones on the executive floor. He could have one of the corner offices, given his seniority, but it’s not his style to push for perks like that. As a general matter, he’s not particularly concerned what people think about him; he’s not a people person. He’s an exceptional technologist, though, and he’s smart enough that he was able to transition to the business side of the company early. His particular gift is in figuring out how technology could be monetized based on the way people behave online, and how much they are willing to pay for a variety of services. He went through the process with several start-ups early in his career, and had enormous success. NextLife, though, is turning out to be more of a challenge.
‘Yes,’ Killkenny says. ‘They’re modeling contracts. That much I could see. But what were they modeling?’
Tom’s sitting behind his desk, a plain slab of Formica that the company leases for all the offices. There are few personal items in the office, and the desktop and credenza behind him are dominated by three large computers, two with oversized screens. He’s a lot like me; he’s here to work. That’s one of the reasons we get along so well. He picks up the contracts again and looks them over. ‘They’re from four and a half years ago,’ he says. ‘We were in the development stage at that point, so it wasn’t for any type of media.’
‘No?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘No, we didn’t have anything to sell at the time; we weren’t in the market yet. We certainly weren’t doing any advertising.’
‘What kind of modeling were they doing for the company then?’ I ask.
He looks at me, shifting in his chair just enough to make it clear that he isn’t entirely comfortable with the question. ‘That’s sensitive company information, Nick. I’m not sure we should be sharing that with anyone outside of the corporate structure.’
‘It’s important,’ Killkenny says.
‘Why?’ Tom asks. He looks at me, then at Killkenny. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘It’s about three murders,’ Killkenny says. The effect is pronounced. Tom’s face goes white, his mouth dropping open. ‘All three of these girls have been murdered, and the only thing we can identify that they have in common is that they modeled for this company at around the same time four and a half years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tom stammers after a moment. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No reason you should have,’ I reassure him. ‘You see why we need to know, though, right?’
He nods slowly. ‘I do.’ He takes a deep breath and rubs his hand over his face. ‘They were prototypes,’ he says at last.
I stare at him, blinking, and it takes a moment for me to understand. ‘Prototypes,’ I repeat, the meaning sinking in. ‘I never put it together,’ I say. ‘Prototypes,’ I say again, like I am exploring a new term.
‘Prototypes?’ Killkenny says. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Come with me,’ Tom says, standing. ‘You need to talk to the Doc. He’ll be able to explain this better than I can.’
The computer lab is on the fourth floor, and it’s entirely an expression of Dr Santar Gunta’s personality. While many companies in the technology sector have adopted a loose, informal atmosphere, particularly for their programmers, Dr Gunta considers himself first and foremost a scientist. As a result, he has been unwilling to give up the clean-room feel. The entire floor is open, and the sunlight streams through the huge glass windows on all sides. The floors are white tile, the walls freshly painted, the desks and computer equipment all shiny bright white plastic. Everyone in the room is wearing a lab coat, giving the place the feel of a bright, sterile medical facility, or perhaps a NASA mission launch.
There are a hundred programmers at their computers, all their attention trained on the screens in front of them, tapping endlessly on their keyboards. Every once in a while one of them will print out a sheet of programming and take it over to a supervisor, discuss programming strategy in hushed tones and then head back to his computer. Looking around the room, I notice that none of the programmers are women. Not one. In fact, Yvette is the only woman on the floor. I guess I’ve probably noticed the prevalence of men in the programming business before, but it’s never struck me as directly as it does standing in this room.
