Dark Justice

by Kristi Belcamino

  “My name is Red,” he said.

  “I’m Gia. Next one’s on me Red.”

  My phone pinged. I looked down. It was a text from James.

  “Call me.”

  I ignored it. I wasn’t ready to analyze our fucked-up relationship any more. I was done. I needed a break from the emotional roller coaster. At least for the night.

  For starters, I knew James. He was beating himself up for making out with me even though he had a girlfriend. His guilt was annoying. I didn’t want to deal with it. So I wasn’t going to.

  I bought Red a few drinks. He bought me a few. He was from New Jersey, in the city on business and had five kids at home. We talked baseball and, ultimately, Spain.

  His wife was from a small town in southern Spain.

  At the end of the night, I got up to leave, and he grabbed my elbow when I lost my balance.

  “Hey, Gia, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to call you a ride, okay?”

  I nodded my thanks.

  I nearly fell asleep in the car on the way back to the hotel. I pulled my sunglasses on when I got there so I didn’t have to make eye contact with the valets or the people in the front lobby as I made my way to the elevator.

  Once in my room, I flopped on the bed. My phone buzzed again and I ignored it. James had called and texted a few times while I was at the bar.

  I’d deal with him again in the morning.

  When I woke, it was a typical San Francisco late morning—gray and cold. I saw that James had not stopped calling and that Dante had joined in with four of his own calls.

  Fuck.

  I would have to deal with them soon.

  Meanwhile, I sheepishly called Tony and asked if he and a friend could get the Bugatti back to my hotel from the bar where I’d parked it the night before.

  I put on the coffee and then unpeeled my dress and stepped into the hot shower.

  Only after a cup of coffee in me did I dial James.

  “Yo.”

  “Gia, where the fuck have you been?”

  “What’s up?” I said nonchalantly.

  “There’s some pretty strong evidence that points to you. I’m not sure there is anything I can do to help you.”

  “Whatever. Dante is handling it.” I said. “Did Madame Butterfly say you couldn’t help prove my innocence because we nearly fucked last night?”

  I was pissed.

  He gave a loud sigh. “That evidence, Gia, it’s bad. You need to be perfectly honest with me. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  “What is it now, James? Another shitty photograph?”

  “Video. Hotel surveillance footage. It shows you shooting Maxwell Carlton.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Twenty-Five

  I needed help.

  A video of me? That was some high-tech shit, since I obviously did not kill anyone and yet there was a video showing me murdering someone.

  I hung up with James and called Danny. I already felt guilty that I’d been in town so long without letting him know. But how did I know things were going to hell so quickly and that I’d become a murder suspect?

  Danny always been a night owl, so I knew when I called that he was either still up or had just gone to bed with the sunrise.

  As a millennial who didn’t speak on the phone, I could hear the surprise in his voice when he answered. “Gia?”

  “Long story short. I’m in the city. There’s a video of me shooting someone dead. I need your help.”

  I heard some shuffling sounds. “At your service.”

  Then: “You’re in San Francisco?”

  “I was going to surprise you.”

  “Um, you did.”

  “Can I come over.”

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  “What? So sophisticated.”

  “Haha, Gia.”

  I disconnected.

  I dressed in a faded pair of black jeans, my heeled motorcycle boots, a soft T-shirt and my black Armani blazer.

  As soon as the wheels of the Bugatti hit the pavement of the Tenderloin district, my heart sunk. My once-beloved working neighborhood was gentrified. Boutique coffee shops. High-end restaurants. Shiny silver skyscraper apartment buildings.

  I could hardly believe it.

  And still, tent cities on the sidewalks housed the homeless.

  Meanwhile, young men with slouchy stocking caps, goatees, and flannel shirts with Armani sneakers were walking the streets. Women dressed in Lululemon leggings, carrying lattes and pushing their dogs in tiny strollers gathered on corners, wearing their Tiffany sunglasses on top of their balayage-blonde heads.

  It was fucking bizarre.

  I hated it.

  My neighborhood was now home to a bunch of hipsters.

  My brief idea to buy another apartment in the TL was immediately discarded.

  This neighborhood was no longer my kind of scene.

  As I looked for a parking spot outside my building, I decided to pull into the spot near the homeless guy the mommy crowd had just dismissed.

  He didn’t look over when my alarm beeped loudly as I set it.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He kept walking. I jogged to reach his side. “What’s your name?”

  “Roland,” he mumbled and kept walking.

  “Hey,” I said again, keeping pace with him as he walked. He side-eyed me.

  “You busy, Roland?” I asked.

  He stopped and laughed. I laughed too. His teeth weren’t bad for a homeless guy. And his face was freshly shaven.

  “No, seriously. I need your help.”

  He drew back and gave me a skeptical look.

  “I’ll pay you to watch my car,” I said and jerked my chin back toward the Bugatti.

  He looked and blinked. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Twenty bucks to start screaming if anyone gets near it? I’m just going to be right there.” I pointed toward the building.

  He shrugged. I pulled out a ten. “I’ll give you the other ten when I come back in about an hour.”

  He nodded and headed back toward the car. I watched him slouch against the wall near the car before I rang the doorbell.

  The camera swiveled to point at me. I held up my middle finger.

  The door clicked open. Inside, the lobby looked great. I’d told Danny to do whatever he wanted with the building, and I’d pay for it all. He’d installed beautiful paintings of different San Francisco scenes. I loved it. I raced up the stairs. He was waiting at the top of the landing with his arms wide. I was enveloped in his hug. He smelled like woodsy spices.

  My heart filled with gratitude. I’d never expected him to live this long. He had a disease that made him grow too much and too fast, but some new experimental drug treatment had arrested his growth and prolonged his life indefinitely.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I stepped inside my old loft.

  In the old days, Danny had lived in a tiny, cramped apartment a few blocks away that was full of computer monitors and old pizza boxes.

  One corner of the loft still held all the monitors he needed to be the world-class hacker he was, but he’d closed it off into a dark room. I could see the bank of computers flickering green lights from the door to the room that was ajar.

  I nodded that way. “That was smart.”

  “Yeah, that equipment doesn’t do well in the light.”

  The other area was a very tasteful masculine apartment with dark wood and muted tones. And it was neat as a pin.

  “Looks good, Danny.”

  He blushed.

  Steam was starting to bloom out of a kettle on the stove.

  “I’m making a pour-over. You want some?”

  “You’re so fancy,” I said, teasing.

  He blushed again.

  “Can we drink it on the roof?” I asked.

  “Sure.” The roof was always my favorite part of my loft apartment.

  With steaming mugs of coffee—that I ha
d to admit was delicious—we headed up the stairs to the roof.

  My old pergola covered in grape vines was doing well. It even looked like it had a fresh coat of paint. We sat on the upholstered furniture.

  “It’s so great to see you.”

  “I’m back for good, I think,” I said.

  For a second he froze and said, “I can move out tomorrow.”

  “No fucking way,” I said. “I’m buying a hotel. I’m going to live there.”

  “What?” he spluttered, nearly spitting out his coffee.

  I think I was nearly as shocked as he was. I’d never intended to live in my hotel. But seeing the Tenderloin and realizing it was no longer my home, made it feel like the right decision.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to buy this place?” I said nonchalantly.

  He frowned. “The loft?”

  “No, the whole building.”

  A flush instantly spread from his neck up to his cheeks.

  He looked down. “Gia, I don’t think I can afford it. I mean that’s a super generous offer.”

  I reached over and opened a small box stashed under a planter. Danny looked at me wide-eyed. I winked as I opened it. It had a metal cigarette case and lighter. I lit one and blew out the smoke before I answered.

  “Not bad for a cigarette that’s probably a decade old,” I said. I ashed the cigarette and then smiled at Danny. “Here’s the thing. Way I figure it, with the rent-to-own plan we’ve had in place, you’ve already put a substantial down payment on it. Your mortgage wouldn’t be too crazy. In fact, your mortgage would be exactly what you pay for rent right now.”

  I waited for his reaction.

  He shook his head and exhaled. “That’s great, but nobody is going to give me a loan. I’m an off-the-grid hacker,” he said ruefully.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, inhaling the stale smoke again. “I forgot to tell you. I’m the bank. It’s contract for deed. Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing, and you’ll own the building and have the title. The rent you collect from your tenants will easily pay the property taxes.”

  “Gia, I can’t.”

  “You can,” I said.

  He shook his head again.

  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Deepfake,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The video of you. Someone who knows Deepfake technology.”

  “Is that the Tom Cruise TikTok thing?”

  “Yeah, that was the most famous one. And the hologram of Kim Kardashian’s dead father. And the video of Joaquin Oliver asking people to vote.”

  I hadn’t heard of any of these those videos. I also had no idea who the last name was.

  “Joaquin Oliver?”

  Danny told me Joaquin Oliver was a high school student killed in the Parkland shooting. His parents had a Deepfake video made of him telling people to vote for gun safety.

  “Creepy,” I said.

  “Nah. Effective.”

  “What did they make Obama do?”

  “There’s ones of Trump, too,” he said. “And Daisy Ridley having sex. And Adolf Hitler. Obviously, all fake. Oh, not to mention those ads that ran with Russian president Vladimir Putin and North Korean leader Kim Jong-un.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “I’ve missed a lot. All I know is this all sounds dangerous as fuck.”

  “It is,” Danny said sounding distracted. “From what I understand Deepfake relies on what’s called an auto encoder, an artificial neural network—”

  “English, please,” I interrupted.

  “Okay, it’s like this—This network compresses and encodes data, say from a video, and then reconstructs it. So basically, it’s breaking down images and videos of you and then superimposing them on a model who is representing you,” he said.

  “I still don’t really get it.”

  “That’s okay,” he said.

  “How do we prove it’s not me?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s damn good technology.”

  “Apparently,” I said. “It was enough to make James believe it.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “I know.”

  “It might take a while, but I’ll research what people do to show it’s fake.”

  “Thanks.” I stood. “Listen I have to go. I’ll send over the paperwork tomorrow for the building purchase.”

  In my eyes, it was a fair deal. I didn’t want the building anymore. I didn’t need the money. Danny had helped me out for free for more years than I could count by managing the building and hacking into any computer system in the world that I asked him to. He deserved to be financially secure. Not to mention, he’d risked his life before to help me. It was totally a fair deal.

  “Gia!” he started to protest, but I was already down the stairs and out the door.

  “I’ll have Dante send you that video,” I said over my shoulder.

  Danny was good people.

  I slipped the homeless guy a twenty-dollar bill and roared off in the Bugatti, shaking my head at my old neighborhood with its juice bars, barre studios, and boutique baby shops. I wouldn’t miss it at all.

  My phone rang as soon as I got in the car.

  “Gia, about the building…”

  “Prove that video isn’t me,” I said and hung up before he could say anything else.

  Twenty-Six

  Back at the hotel, I was just ordering a smoothie from room service when Dante called.

  “I just spoke to your lawyer and James.”

  “You spoke to James?” I interrupted.

  He continued. “And we all agreed you should leave town for a few days.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re not in town and more people end up dead you’ll have an alibi.”

  That was crazy, but I couldn’t argue with the logic.

  “I’ll go see Darling.”

  Darling had moved to Mill Valley in Marin.

  “Great,” Dante said. “Stay put until you hear from me.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Within an hour, I was driving across the Golden Gate bridge. Seagulls swooped above me, and the sun was out. Life wasn’t so bad.

  In fact, it would be pretty damn good if I could only figure out who was killing people and why they were framing me for it. I hadn’t even been in town long enough to be the target for a framing. Had I? Odd as fuck.

  It had to be someone on the gala foundation committee. That narrowed it down to thirteen people? Or less.

  As I drove, a man in a Lamborghini pulled up beside me. I only noticed because he was matching my speed, staying abreast of me, and it was annoying. When I looked over, he gave a slight nod and revved his engine. Then he lifted his polarized sunglasses and gave me a slow wink. I slammed on the brakes so he flew ahead of me. Oh brother.

  Then, in response, he punched his brakes, and I went roaring past. I laughed when I saw his face. He saluted me and then I left him in the dust, watching his vehicle get smaller in my rearview mirror.

  The rest of the drive was uneventful, and soon I was pulling into Darling’s circular drive.

  My city friend lived in an old-fashioned classic Tudor with steep, gabled peaks and roof and banks of windows above a brick foundation. It was tucked into a deep forested area and fronted by a massive green lawn. It was lovely.

  As soon as I came to a stop, the door was flung open and a pack of golden retrievers raced out toward my car.

  I leaped out and laughed, smothered by wiggling, furry bodies so I didn’t get a chance to see Darling until she let out a sharp whistle.

  She stood in the entry and looked as awesome as ever.

  Darling was like a lioness, a queen—a powerful, strong, beautiful member of the royal family of humanity. She had massive, golden cat eyes, lined thickly with kohl like an Egyptian goddess and those ridiculously long, black eyelashes.

  Her Rubenesque body was encased in a peach silk jumpsuit. She wore high-heeled sandals, and her black hair fell down her back in elaborate br
aids.

  “Gia-Fucking-Santella,” she said with a naughty grin and held out her arms.

  I raced over and hugged her.

  “I swear, woman, you don’t age,” I said as I pulled back.

  “Same, girl. Same.”

  A woman dressed in beige slacks, high heels, and a coral silk blouse appeared behind Darling.

  “This is Cora,” Darling said. “She keeps me sane.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” the woman said. She had brown hair pulled back tightly in a bun and a no-nonsense attitude. “Your first meeting begins in one hour.”

  “I know, I know,” Darling said and fluttered one hand with long, gold-painted nails. “Gia, I couldn’t get out of some meetings this morning. I’m going to set you up by the pool with some margaritas and my favorite gals from the nail salon. They’re going to give you a mani-pedi while I’m doing business.”

  I laughed. “Not necessary. I can amuse myself for a few hours.”

  “Mmmhhhmm,” she said and winked. “Keep your hands off my pool boy.”

  “No promises.”

  We both burst into laughter.

  “Your juice is ready.” Cora said and then consulted her clipboard. “You have fifty-five minutes now.”

  “Come on in,” Darling said. “I’ve got to drink my green juice before I forget. Want one?”

  “Nope.”

  In the kitchen, Darling told me she’d become an angel investor.

  Hard-luck cases—all run by women—sought her funding.

  While she had a soft heart for anyone who was struggling, Darling was also a sharp businesswoman and wouldn’t invest in anything she didn’t think had a shot.

  For those who didn’t have a clue and approached her for help, she almost always pointed them to other resources to help them get to where they needed to be.

  She told me about a young woman she’d talked to the previous week who had run away to escape her alcoholic parents and was working as a waitress. She had several good business ideas but didn’t have the wherewithal to follow through. Seeing her potential, Darling wrote her a check to pay for a college education.

  “You start there,” she’d told the woman. “When you have your degree, come back and let’s talk again.”