A killer app, p.6
A Killer App, page 6
“Sure. Easy.”
I head to the breakroom for a cup of coffee. By the time I’m back at my desk, Robin’s emailed me contact information for thirty-two owners of rental property. A quick scan disappoints. At least half the properties are owned by trusts or LLCs.
Will take a little more work to ID the actual humans who might object to Fyke’s anti-rental campaign. Maybe I should start by discreetly chatting up the man’s friends. They haven’t been shy about suggesting that some rental property owner shoved Andy down the stairs.
“Robin, can I ask one more favor? Can you crosscheck the Rand Creek owner database with the Earful posters who believe Fyke was attacked? I’d like to have a conversation with some of the residents in Fyke’s anti-rental camp.”
Yeah, it’s risky. Jocelyn will go through the roof if she finds I’m nosing around to see if something other than Fyke’s carelessness caused his fall.
Chapter Fifteen
Grant
Friday morning, June 30
I call Robin to confirm Mimi and I will be at Rand Creek most of the day.
“What are you up to?” I ask. “Playing video games or trying to solve WORDLE?”
“Funny boy,” Robin replies. “You get to play with your drone all day while I’m stuck at a computer doing actual work. Kylee’s here, but I think she’s leaving soon. Then, I’ll be all by my lonesome.”
“You’ve always got Earful gossip to amuse you,” I joke. “Any new tales of alien invasions?”
“No, but I’m looking at Earful posts as we speak. Getting Kylee the names of Fyke’s Rand Creek friends—at least the ones publicly suggesting he was pushed. Think Kylee plans to grill one or more of them, hoping they’ll name names.”
Bet they’d be more likely to spill if they weren’t actually asked, just shooting the breeze.
“Robin, I have an idea, and I’ll bet Kylee will love it. Can you figure out which, if any, of Fyke’s friends belong to Rand Creek social clubs?”
“Sure, will search back issues of the community newsletter. I’ve been scanning them for a digital archive on the website. The newsletters always include updates about bridge nights and book clubs. Why do you care?”
“For the website, Mimi wants to take photos of real owners having fun, enjoying the facilities. See if you can find an activity shared by at least three friends of Fyke’s. You know, playing cards in the clubhouse or doing yoga at the fitness center.
“If we can coax some of Fyke’s friends to be models for a photo shoot, I’m sure they’ll gossip while we’re setting up. Won’t be able to stop themselves from dishing about who they consider as prime suspects in Fyke’s attack. Kylee won’t even have to pose a question.”
* * *
It turns out several of Fyke’s friends play bridge. I’ve spent the last half hour phoning prospects and asking them to come to the clubhouse card room at two o’clock for a photo shoot. So far, six have committed.
They assume I called because their names appeared in newsletter articles about bridge. That’s true. No reason to suspect I cherry-picked Fyke buddies—people who share his opposition to rental properties.
I call Kylee to tell her what I’m up to. Pretty sure she’ll be psyched.
She laughs. “You’re devious, Grant. Good idea. Wind ’em up and let ’em gossip. You know I want to be there. Guess I can be one of Mimi’s grips. She can order me to move furniture or adjust lights. If we’re lucky, the models will pay no attention to us. Figure we have no reason to be interested in what they’re jabbering about.”
I’m proud of my brainstorm. “Maybe you should talk to Dad about giving me a raise?”
“Ha, ha,” Kylee replies. “I’d say it’s more likely he’d fire both of us. But we know he’s short of replacements.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Chameleon
Friday Afternoon, June 30
I phone Lighthouse Cove’s security office to ask if they’ve followed up on the panicked call I made yesterday. Though it’s hard to imagine I’d ever be suspected of foul play in Andy Fyke’s tumble, it seemed prudent to have a rock-solid alibi for the time of his accident.
So, at nine o’clock yesterday morning—about when I primed J.T. to act—I phoned security. “I think someone’s trying to break in my back door,” I whispered. “Please send someone right away.”
In less than three minutes, two Lighthouse Cove security officers were at my door. Assured me I was safe and that they were investigating. Around the back of the house, the officers found wet bootprints on the patio and a dent in my sliding glass door’s metal frame.
Not exactly a shocker. A little earlier, I wet the bottoms of a pair of men’s boots and stomped around outside to manufacture the prints. Then I attempted to jimmy the sliding door and purposely dinged the metal panel. The in-person security visit proves I was home yesterday morning—nowhere near Rand Creek.
I’m following up with the security office today because I think that’s what a frightened, single lady would be expected to do.
“There haven’t been any reports of strangers,” the officer on duty tells me. “But we’ve got your house on a watch list for extra patrols.”
“Thank you, Officer,” I gush. “That makes me feel so much better.”
Indeed, it does. They’ll know I’m tucked safely inside my house when the next accident happens. An accident I hope to arrange for Steph Cloyd.
Bubba is the only one of my avenger recruits who lives outside an HOA. He proudly calls himself a Lowcountry native. Ha! First Nation people populated this region long before his trashy ancestors staked a claim on a few acres of swampland. His hovel’s a bit upstream from Satin Sands on one of the Lowcountry’s many estuary fingers.
I discovered Bubba in a TV documentary about disgruntled “patriots” who belong to a nativist cult. Not sure what else to call the assembly. Not organized enough to be classified as a militia. Anyway, the cult members blame any and all of life’s daily irritants on Lowcountry newcomers.
Bubba and his buddies view new arrivals, especially retirees and second-homeowners who hail from Yankee-land, as evil communists. The nativists are convinced we’re all present-day carpetbaggers out to destroy their freedom and way of life.
While I haven’t quite grasped the group’s whole victimhood worldview, they somehow think newcomers are barnstormers for UN Agenda-21. Bubba and his fellow travelers firmly believe the United Nations’ hidden, top-secret mission is to eliminate all private property rights and force people into vertical communes.
Hey, what can I say? Bubba’s a whacko, but a useful one.
While at least five men featured in the documentary were potential candidates for my reserve corps, Bubba quickly became my number-one pick.
I was delighted to learn Bubba’s father is in prison. Once I found video of the patriarch’s arrest, I knew I could use the jailbird’s voice samples to fake calls to the son. Bubba’s comments about his dad in the documentary indicated he viewed the man as a persecuted hero—though Bubba never actually bothers to visit him in prison.
Then I discovered Bubba already had a personal set-to with Steph Cloyd, giving me a starting point to ratchet up his hatred.
Steph, who lives in Satin Sands, is a devotee of coastal rowing. Every dawn, he ventures out in his sleek rowing shell. One morning, about three months ago, Bubba revved up the four-hundred-horsepower motor attached to the butt-end of his fishing boat and screamed down the narrow waterway. At that same moment, Steph was sculling around a bend. Bubba capsized him. Then he circled Steph, laughing and churning the water so he couldn’t get back in his shell.
Steph reported the incident to the Coast Guard and the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department. With no evidence to support Steph’s claims, Bubba merely got a visit and a stern warning.
To fan the flame of Bubba’s hatred, I had his imprisoned “dad” use a contraband burner phone to tell him Beaufort County bureaucrats were coming for him. Supposedly, the prison grapevine had it on good authority that Steph reported Bubba for violating Beaufort County outdoor burning restrictions.
Actually, I acted as the anonymous tattletale. I didn’t witness Bubba’s unlawful torching up close and personal. Didn’t have to. The idiot bragged about it inside a private RebSocial group. Said he refused to abide by the ridiculous rules imposed by bird-watching-butt-in-o-crats.
“Who’s stupid enough to limit a burn pile to plant stuff when you need to get rid of other junk,” Bubba raved. “And, who in hell, besides some rich fat cat, can sit staring at a fire until the last coal farts out? If they don’t like how us native Lowcountry folks deal with trash, they should pack up and go back North.”
Casting Steph in the role of fire snitch was easy. He’s on the board of FACE, Friends of the Atlantic Coast Environment, a regional environmental protection group. Hey, I’m a FACE member myself. But Bubba will never know that.
So, what’s my beef with Steph? I’m convinced he truly is a goddamn snitch. He must have blabbed to his fellow Satin Sands’ directors. Told them my university departure wasn’t exactly voluntary. I wouldn’t have signed the damn separation agreement if the university hadn’t promised to stay mum about kicking me to the curb.
Knew I shouldn’t have trusted those bastards. Steph’s sanctimonious brother Aaron was on the university tribunal that condemned me. Before my fall from grace, Aaron introduced me to Steph at a faculty party. At the time, Aaron and the university were happily bragging about my genius abilities in the Artificial Intelligence field.
I had a sense of foreboding the minute I learned Steph Cloyd was joining the Satin Sands board. That meant he’d have a say on my proposal to do a bit of freelance software consulting for the HOA.
I figured Steph would wonder why the Artificial Intelligence genius he’d met—a professor at a prestigious university—was pitching a nothing HOA entity to handle a simple software coding job. No doubt Steph called his brother, Aaron, who spilled the beans. Then, Steph told the board to stay clear of me, an “unethical” person.
Unethical—because I’m a woman. A man would never have been censored.
I framed my Satin Sands consulting proposal as a favor rather than a money grab. Said I understood Satin Sands normally couldn’t afford my services, but, as a new owner of a rental property, I wanted to contribute to the community. Steph put the kibosh on my offer. Can’t fathom another reason for the board to take a pass.
Of course, the actual pay-off for my services would have been a personal backdoor into Satin Sands software. One I could use long after my consulting gig ended to view emails and confidential financial information. My backdoor to Rand Creek software is paying off nicely. Gives me early alerts about owners behind in paying their HOA fees and heirs asking questions about selling their dead folks’ homes. Knowledge that lets me make preemptive, low-ball offers.
My Satin Sands consulting deal seemed clinched until one of the directors died, and Steph was appointed to serve out his term. Overnight, I was notified another vendor, Welch HOA Management, had been selected to handle the software update.
While I doubt Steph can cause me more harm at Satin Sands, I can’t allow him to badmouth me beyond his HOA. That’s something he could easily do. As a director of FACE, he comes in contact with a wide cross-section of Lowcountry movers and shakers.
I settle in to study aerial imagery of Steph’s coastal rowing route, one he generously shared online with his rowing club. I’m searching for the perfect spot for Bubba to permanently sink Steph and his loose lips. Then, I’ll use Artificial Intelligence to script a phone call from Bubba’s jailbird dad to his son. It must fire up Junior’s rage. I need him super eager to rev up the four hundred horses that muscle his motorboat. The objective: Steph’s vulnerable rowing shell.
Chapter Seventeen
Kylee
Friday afternoon, June 30
Dang it. Another red light. Another backup.
Once people are ensconced in their green, inviting Hilton Head Island communities, they’re treated to a relaxed, small-town vibe. But the island’s busy main arteries can be subject to maddening, bumper-to-bumper traffic snarls, especially during tourist season. That’s why I’m running late.
The dashboard clock in my car tells me it’s 1:50 p.m. as I pull into the Rand Creek clubhouse parking lot. Need to hustle.
Grant’s pacing as he waits for me outside the door to the clubhouse card room.
“Wanted to warn you,” he says. “To fill two bridge tables, we let the Fyke friends we nabbed recruit three more folks. Bottom line, some of the card players could be pro-rental. Who knows? They might even own rental properties.”
I shrug. “Shouldn’t be a problem. A little verbal back and forth might even help. Is everyone here?”
“Not yet,” Grant replies. “Six came early. Mimi’s waiting for the remaining two to decide how to pair them at the tables. The early birds are milling about.”
Inside, I introduce myself to the six cardsharps. Jocelyn won’t be happy with the selected models. All appear to be seventy-plus. Not the fifty-five to sixty-year-old demographic she’s eager to target. The age of our models doesn’t surprise me. They’re Fyke’s friends, and he’s part of Rand Creek’s older clientele.
“Hope all of you avoid those back stairs when you leave,” I casually comment as I adjust a window shade. “I understand the gentleman who fell down them yesterday is still in the hospital.”
That ought to get their tongues wagging.
During the entire photo shoot, I don’t utter another word. Just keep my ears open. I can tell Grant’s doing the same. I collect the names of two rental property owners the card players seem to agree are potential suspects in the Fyke attack.
Jocelyn is their number one candidate. Why am I not surprised? Motive and opportunity. The other name they bandy about—Xander Pringle—means zip to me.
* * *
As soon as the elevator doors shut on the last card player, Grant comes over to give me a high five.
“That was fun,” he says. “What names did you get? Wasn’t surprised to hear them mention Jocelyn as a suspect. Two of the card players also talked about another woman, Amanda Holder. Sounds like she and Fyke have been squabbling, and the board has done a poor job of running interference.”
I smile. “Well, that gives me a third name to check out. One gent was adamant the culprit had to be a man, and he nominated Xander Pringle as the likely shover. He didn’t think a woman would or could physically attack Fyke. His knowledge of women is obviously limited.”
Grant and Mimi both laugh.
“So, what’s next?” Grant asks.
“I’m hoping Ted knows Xander or Amanda. Will wait to see what he has to say about our potential criminals.”
I’m both dreading the evening and looking forward to it. Ted asked me to join him at a Marshview owners’ meeting. The meeting is what I dread. This one’s an informational meeting about a proposed pickleball complex. Ugh. The six o’clock start time sucks, too. HOA management companies are required to attend way too many evening and weekend meetings.
In this case, the timing will delay the promising portion of the evening. I’m invited to spend the night at Ted’s house. Since Grant’s staying with Mom and Frank this weekend, I’ll have plenty of time to pick my boss’s brain.
Of course, I have other plans for Ted, too. Like seducing him in the two rooms he’s finished renovating. I figure Ted’s historic fixer-upper ought to be home to a few moans of pleasure as a counterbalance to the constant racket of nail guns.
Ted believes he’s saved an architectural treasure from total decay. Could be, but he’s also opened a bottomless money pit.
Chapter Eighteen
The Chameleon
Friday early evening, June 30
If I still had students, I’d delight in sharing some—though not all—of my secrets to extract sublime performance from my customized AI programs. My understanding of the technology and structure makes me a champion Artificial Intelligence whisperer. That’s the tech world’s term for individuals skilled at determining—and meticulously fine-tuning—language prompts to get AI programs to yield high-quality responses.
Mr. Lester Grimm’s online obituary gave me all the clues needed to resurrect Leona Grimm’s dead hubby. Before retiring to the Lowcountry, the Grimms lived in a medium-sized Ohio burg, where he owned a business that manufactured toys for pets. Not a shocker, given Ginger’s cornucopia of fake bones and squeaky rubber mice.
More importantly, I discovered the civic-minded and rather humorless Mr. Grimm served his county as a councilman, and he loved to pontificate. Thank you, internet, for preserving such inconsequential ramblings for posterity.
Tonight, Leona will wake to her husband’s voice—somewhat tortured but still sounding like a humorless snob. His voice will whisper through one of the digital spheres she chats with all day to make her feel less alone. In his ghostly desperation to reach Leona, Mr. Grimm has latched on to a high-tech way to warn her.
But warn her of what?
It’s not hurricane season. No big Lowcountry earthquakes since the 1886 Charleston shocker. Maybe a house fire or a gas pipe leak?
No, if my dead stiff offers specifics, old Leona may try to foil the possibility. Tell neighbors about a threat, or report it to security. The danger must be vague but directed solely at her house. I urge my Artificial Intelligence app to create a threat that’s ominous and personal yet ambiguous. I feel fairly confident the result will work.
“Leona…Leona…Leona.” My app suggested Lester’s nasal voice should intone her name in the middle of the night to wake her. It determined Lester should repeat the name invocation at least three times, each entreaty a few seconds apart. Leona needs to be awake and alert to grasp the warning.
