Jenna Jones constantly updates the image of her application. Today, a dark-haired young man sports a ZZ Top beard. The meme wears thick glasses, a skinny dark tie and a white button-down shirt.
“Samantha. How can I help you today?”
“I like the new look.” Usually, my snark is wasted on the artificial intelligence app but today his blue eyes go wide.
“Do I detect sarcasm?” He blinks out of the screen at me.
Holy shit. It gets smarter every time I speak with it.“How did you know?”
“Your inflection. Was I accurate in my assessment?” Blink. Blink.
“Yes.” My open trap shuts as his persona switches to his former self; no glasses, longer hair, and a long-sleeved casual shirt. “Better?”
“Much.”
“Thank you for taking my survey. Why are you calling?” His brows raise along with his tenor voice.
“I am looking for a woman named Gillian Liddy. I messaged you her information. She was last seen at Georgie’s Bed and Breakfast in the Hamptons. I believe she traveled to a beach warm enough to sunbathe.”
“Searching.” The AI unit blinks some more and when he types, an old typewriter clicking noise sounds in the background.
Sitting at a virtual desk, he turns and smiles. “She is staying at the Coral Cove Resort. I am sending you a link.”
I click and a map pops up of a miniscule island, southeast of Nassau. “Who does it belong to?”
“Bahamian Importing Conglomerates Inc.”
“Is it a shell company?”
“Yes. It is a business created to hold funds and manage another entity’s financial transactions. As far as I can tell, it has no employees and its only purpose is to purchase other companies.”
“How deep are we talking, here, Jason?” I smell a rat, maybe a whole nest of them.
“I will need to consult Dr. Jones in order to say more.”Whoa. Hold the phone.
Jenna told me that phrase means illegal activity was detected and Jason needs a warrant to go any further. While not poor, Gillian sure as hell doesn’t have enough money to vacation on a private island. What the hell is going on?
“Thank you, Jason. Please bill my company.”
The avatar smiles into the screen, looking so real, sometimes I forget he’s not. “You are very welcome. Please call back, anytime.”
After I hang up, I review my instant messages and am relieved to see one from my husband.
Suds: On my way home. We need to talk.
Oh-oh. What did I do wrong? I go over each and every action I have taken in the last couple weeks. Nope, nothing dangerous. Other than a quick trip to Long Island, my research has been virtual, safe, and sound.
Unable to solve that mystery, I try to connect the dots on Joey’s timeline. No matter what I do, I come up short and need more help. It may be somewhat unethical but I call Jason again and ask if he can find any videos to fill in the gaps. My reasoning is valid, for the most part. If I’m not working for Joey, I’ll have more time to research the Whitbread case. After all, Melissa did give me carte blanche.
Yawning, I stretch, lie down on the couch, put my head back, and…
“Sam?” The familiar voice wakes me from a dead sleep.
Hazy brained, my heavy lids lift. Out the front window, the sun has ducked behind the high rises and long blue shadows darken the elevated subway station across the street. I slept the whole afternoon?
Shaking out cobwebs, I wonder what’s taking my husband so long to embrace me. “Hey tough guy, what’s up?”
My initial joy at seeing him sours when I gaze up at his swollen, purple jaw. “Oh my God. What happened?”
