“Get in touch with Landy. See what she thinks.”
“Copy that.” I glean nothing new from her and with all other options used up, I sigh, and press the expensive Jason application on my phone.
“Hello, how can I help you today?” The artificial man sports a white, button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Round frames surround the thick lenses of his glasses. He embodies the geek persona which is supposed to make me trust his judgement and I do, but only because his skills are better than any human.
“We are working for a man called Dashiell Montclair. He claims he’s employed by an insurance company investigating a lost delivery of Smart Sissy dolls. Send me whatever you can find.”
Seconds later, a driver’s license and a resume appear. Our client’s pristine past includes grade-school photos, a yearbook, and a college diploma. Nothing seems out of order.
Suds shakes his head. “Nobody’s that clean.”
“Please explain.” The meme lifts a brow, blinks, and waits.
Rolling his eyes, my husband silently begs me for help, so I give it my best shot. “Almost everyone has a parking ticket, a gap in employment history, or some unexplained data in their profile. Our new patron has nothing.”
The virtual being moves, an indication it is processing, then he smiles. “You are correct. Ninety-two percent of the random individuals I sampled have discrepancies such as you note.”
“The other eight are hiding something.” My partner’s grim mouth concerns me. Working for liars is a risk.
I don’t like this at all.“Jason, start a facial recognition search. Begin with law enforcement databases.”
My financially sound partner frowns. “What about the cost?”
I calculate the fee for using the AI hours and grin at the irony. “I’m going to bill every cent to our dearest best friend, Dashiell.”
“Works for me. While you perform miracles, I’m going to call Slate and see if he can arrange for us to meet with the DEA.”
Finishing my last bite of brunchfast, I wash it down with coffee. “Good idea. Jason, I need you to do something else for me.”
“How can I help?”
I type GPS coordinates in his chat window. “Can you tell me if chemicals were ever delivered to this factory in China?”
A few seconds later, a blurry satellite image of a building pops up on my screen. The application zooms in on a barrel, covered in Chinese characters, rolling off a truck.
This could be the proof we need. “What do the labels say?”
“Norfentanyl.” Jason, as I had hoped, can access translations.
I take a wild guess. “I assume it’s used in the manufacture of fentanyl?”
“You are correct. It is one of the three primary precursors.”
If the Feds want to go after Patten Securities for blowing up the truck, perhaps we can use this intel to negotiate.
Chapter Eleven
Suds
Inside, we kiss Mikey goodbye and descend the stairs. Before we leave the safehouse, I lower my chin and speak into the mic taped to my chest. “Are we good to go?
“Move.” With Slate in my ear, I take my danger magnet’s hand and rush her into the back seat of a waiting, bulletproof SUV.
Our driver glances in the rearview mirror, nods, then merges into traffic. “The DEA’s office is by the Chelsea Piers. ETA, fifteen minutes.”
“Copy that.” Weapon out, on my knees, I study the cars out the back window.
Certain we have no tail, I sit my ass down, and chill. If our plan works, by week’s end, the Chinese, the cartels, and The Kings, will be singing Vincent Vitale’s praises instead of trying to wipe out his entire family, including my son and my wife.
