A Killer App, page 1
Linda Lovely
A KILLER APP
An HOA Mystery
First published by Level Best Books 2023
Copyright © 2023 by Linda Lovely
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Linda Lovely asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Author Photo Credit: Danielle Dahl
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-68512-420-5
Cover art by Level Best Designs
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
For Tom Hooker, my husband
My steadfast partner
in life’s many adventures.
I couldn’t ask for a better friend.
Praise for the HOA Mysteries
“An excellent mystery written with charm, appeal and wry humor - and ex-Coast Guard Kylee Kane is a great main character.”—Lee Child, International bestselling author of the Jack Reacher Series
“Author Linda Lovely gives Kylee Kane a mission in keeping with today’s fast-changing technological times with a cadre of colorful characters that keep you guessing what could happen next…and to whom.”—C. Hope Clark, award-winning author of the Edisto Island Mysteries & the Carolina Slade Mysteries
“In A Killer App, Coast Guard retiree Kylee Kane, now an HOA security consultant, faces her toughest opponent. The sinister Chameleon will take any steps to sideline enemies. But how can Kylee track down an opponent who only seems to exist in cyberspace and uses Artificial Intelligence to influence, intimidate, and kill? A chilling preview of potential AI perils.—Gregory Stout, author of the Jackson Gamble Mystery series
“I was spellbound by the interweaving of treachery, artificial intelligence, and the effectiveness of the human brain. Between well-drawn characters and a story told in a linear fashion through different character points of view, the reader is consistently engaged in this well-paced novel.”—Debra Goldstein, award winning author
“Lovely excels at balancing the life-and-death stakes of her well-paced narrative with the character developments of her robust and memorable cast… A delightful, page-turner of a mystery, not to be missed.”—Jonathan Haupt, coeditor, Our Prince of Scribes: Writers Remember Pat Conroy
“Another masterful mystery by Linda Lovely. Filled with twists, turns, and interesting characters. Being part of an HOA can be dangerous business.”—Dana Ridenour, award-winning author of the Lexie Montgomery FBI undercover series
“Neighbors to Die For is filled with kidnappings, coastal intrigue, adrenaline-pumping action, and an intelligent sleuth—everything I need in my mysteries. Loved it!”—Melissa Bourbon/Winnie Archer, National bestselling author of the Book Magic & Bread Shop Mysteries
“Linda Lovely delivers another twisty mystery with the perfect mix of wry humor and quirky characters. Anyone looking for a fun, fast page-turner, here it is!”—Tami Hoag, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“… a distinctive setting, a tenacious female sleuth and captivating suspense.” —Katherine Ramsland, bestselling author of How to Catch a Killer
“Low Country murder, intrigue, and even a little romance… Kylee Kane is a welcome addition to the genre, and author Linda Lovely knows how to stir the pot with crackling dialogue and a tidy little mystery. Highly recommended!”—Richard Helms, Derringer & Thriller award-winning author of Brittle Karma
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
Artificial Intelligence (AI)—Programs structured like the brain’s neural network are given access to vast stores of information via the internet and other sources. This allows them to predict how to respond to queries or commands. The responses can take a variety of forms—text, spoken language, images, or videos.
Deepfake—High-quality, polished videos or audios that can convincingly insert people into settings they’ve never visited, and make them appear to say or do things they haven’t said or done.
AI Whisperer—A person talented in creating language prompts to cause an AI program to produce the desired results, whatever they might be.
Hallucinate—When an AI program delivers a bizarre response to a question or command.
Training—Feeding an AI program information it needs to perform a specific task or set of tasks, such as mimicking a celebrity’s speaking style, voice, and mannerisms.
Chapter One
The Chameleon
Wednesday Evening, June 28
I critique my fifteen-second video. Deepfake Andrew Fyke looks as wrinkled and decrepit as the real-life old fart. Virtual Fyke just needs to blink a bit more as he teeters at the top of the stairs. The deep shadow I placed behind him suggests someone or something lurks there.
I add a few more blinks and close the video to craft my text to J.T. It needs to achieve the perfect balance between outrage and pathos to convince J.T. to do what her social media pal, me, can’t—push Fyke down the stairs.
Rand Creek’s Home Owners’ Association office sits on the second floor of the clubhouse. Earlier, I spoofed an email from the HOA’s lawyer asking Fyke to meet him there at nine tomorrow morning to review covenant change procedures. When Fyke finds the office locked and no lawyer waiting, he’ll leave by the back stairs. Always uses them. That’s where J.T. comes in.
My minion believes I’m a wheelchair-bound oldster, who shares her outrage about sexual perverts allowed to roam free. Our shared mission? To protect grandkids visiting Rand Creek from pedophiles like Fyke.
Is Fyke a pedophile? Beats me. Never met the man in person. Have zero interest or knowledge of the old codger’s sex life, past, present, or future. Simply need him to disappear—incapacitated or dead—doesn’t matter.
I use AI—Artificial Intelligence—to prepare a text that touches on all of J.T.’s hot-button issues, then attach the video clip of Fyke at the top of the stairs. A like-minded friend supposedly captured the video.
“Look how easy it would be to give this perv a deserved shove. He’ll be there all alone at nine a.m. tomorrow. How I wish I could give that push. Dear Lord, no telling how many children would be saved.”
If J.T. had a brain, she’d realize the Fyke video is fake. A photographer would have to be Spider-Man to get that camera angle. Luckily, deep thought isn’t one of J.T.’s attributes.
Did I need to create the deepfake video? Probably not, but it offers J.T. a nice mental rehearsal. Shows her how easily she can become that vengeful shadow, give Fyke a fatal push.
All my correspondence with online idiots is encrypted and delivered via burner phones. I’ve even arranged for the attached Fyke video clip to vanish soon after J.T. views it. My somewhat hokey homage to Mission Impossible. Too bad I couldn’t incorporate a burning match and theme music.
To pull off the disappearing trick, I sent J.T. a free app to open videos. Told her it was much better than what she’d been using. Didn’t mention I added an instruction to the app. It knows to delete video files with my custom tags after they’re opened.
How many times will the real Fyke blink before he plummets down the stairs?
I’ll never know. Like the puppeteer voicing Mission Impossible’s off-screen assignments, I’ll be far away from the action. I prefer to direct God-like from the ether.
Should the mission fail, I’ll disavow any knowledge.
Then again, should the mission succeed, I’ll disavow any knowledge.
Chapter Two
Kylee
Thursday 10 a.m., June 29
As I drive along Hilton Head Island’s bustling main drag, Grant and Mimi, my nineteen-year-old passengers, argue about a dystopian movie’s outer-space aliens. Grant thinks they’re flawed heroes. Mimi disagrees.
Their passionate debate makes me smile. Not that I’ve seen the flick or ever will. My taste runs to romantic comedies and mysteries with hopeful endings. Working for Welch HOA Management, I have enough close encounters with folks who could be mistaken for alien lifeforms.
Grant is the son of my employer, Ted Welch, who’s also my lover. That’s a recent, unexpected complication. Growing up, Ted and I were Keokuk, Iowa, neighbors. Back then, Ted was my late brother’s best friend and a pest. Who’d imagine we’d reconnect in the South Carolina Lowcountry four decades later.
Since the teens have quit chatting, I glance at Mimi in the passenger seat and peek at Grant in the rearview mirror. Want to see if they’re hypnotized by their latest hobby, calling up the newest AI chatbot on their smartphones and competing to prod the AI to hallucinate. That’s what the industry calls it when an interactive AI goes off the rails and spouts nonsense, threatens a user, or declares undying love.
From what I understand, the one thing these AI chatbots never do is speak in tongues or misuse punctuation. Their command of whichever language they’re asked to employ appears flawless, even if the content is gibberish.
“Time to quit playing with your smartphones,” I say. “We’re almost to the Rand Creek gate. I’ll ask the guard to prepare security passes so you two can come and go as needed.”
> Grant speaks up. “Better let security know I’ll be taking aerial photos. Drones freak some people out.”
“Good idea. Show your commercial drone license to the guard when I introduce you.”
Grant worked for his dad last summer, but Mimi’s been on board less than a month. Both students are rising college sophomores on summer break. Grant’s a cadet at The Citadel in Charleston, while Mimi’s studying ornithology at Cornell University. The two began dating last summer and bonded in earnest during last Thanksgiving’s kidnap ordeal.
Given the unpredictable course of young love, I had qualms about Ted hiring the pair to work side-by-side all summer. But they’re great kids, and Ted’s having a devil of a time recruiting good—okay, any—employees. His woeful pleas about being short-handed are the sole reason I’m still on the payroll. Not how I envisioned spending my days after retiring from the Coast Guard. My seventy-nine-year-old mother, Myrtle Kane, is another Ted pushover. He’s sweet talked Mom into part-time receptionist duties.
At the Rand Creek gate, a friendly guard prepares security passes for Grant and Mimi and alerts the in-house TV channel to stream a message that any new drone sightings are authorized.
Mimi oohs and ahhs when we pull up at the Rand Creek clubhouse. “Wow, it’s Tara on steroids.”
A fair appraisal of the mega-mansion’s impractical Old South plantation vibe. Most owners in the 3,000-unit complex for the fifty-five and over crowd would never dream of huffing and puffing up the building’s front twin curving staircases. A sedately sloped handicap ramp around back gets ninety-nine percent of the traffic.
Mimi pauses to frame a photo of the ornate entrance. A birder, she’s honed her photo skills, capturing the aerial antics of our feathered friends. Taking still photos of Rand Creek buildings and amenities to revamp the community’s website should be a piece of cake.
“Who are we meeting?” Grant asks as Mimi snaps off more shots.
“Jocelyn Waters, the president,” I answer. “Haven’t met her, but based on the Island Packet’s profile piece, she’s a big-shot Realtor. Owns Be Shore Realty & Rentals and has an interest in several local restaurants and bars. She’s a major player in local politics.”
After we enter the main floor of the mansion from the back ramp, I lead the way down a wide, marbled corridor to a nondescript door. If you’re not averse to a little exercise, the door hides a back stairwell that offers a quick route to the top floor. Its well-concealed existence harkens back to servant passages, installed to ensure the master’s retainers come and go unobtrusively.
As we near the stairwell, a faint keening sound puts me on alert. An animal in pain? I cautiously crack open the door, letting light filter inside the dim vestibule. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
“Good Lord!”
An elderly man’s body is crumpled in a fetal curl. I fumble for the light switch, and harsh, green-tinged fluorescents react with staccato blinks before they hum at full power.
The garish lighting doesn’t improve the ghastly scene. Blood oozing from the man’s scalp looks like ketchup on his frizzy white hair. While the thin, pretzeled body doesn’t move, fluttering eyelids assure the oldster’s alive. A miracle considering the body-size crater in the drywall behind his stooped back. Bile rises in my throat as I notice a whitish bone peeking through his scrawny right wrist.
I kneel at his side. “What happened? Did you fall down the whole flight of stairs?” I babble. “Don’t worry. We’ll get help.”
Grant opens his ever-present cellphone. “We need an ambulance. An older gentleman has fallen. He has a head injury and broken bones.”
Mimi, tapping away on her own cell, holds up a finger to signal Grant. “We’re on the first floor of the Rand Creek clubhouse near the back entrance,” she says. “The address is 710 Rand Creek.”
The injured victim moans. I gently sweep the back of my hand across his forehead. He’s super-hot. Feverish? A concussion? Does he even know we’re here?
There’s no midpoint landing in this stairwell. The steps march in a straight line to the second floor. The man must have tripped at the very top and hurtled below like he was sliding down an icy chute without a luge. Given the drywall carnage, he hit with the force of a sledgehammer. He’s lucky to be alive.
“EMTs are on the way,” Grant says. “What should we do?”
“Go outside to direct them,” I suggest. “I’ll call the gate and keep this gentleman company until they arrive.”
Mimi starts to follow Grant, then pauses, wedging her camera bag between the stairwell door and the doorframe to keep it open. Good thinking. Oxygen feels at a premium in the coffin-sized space.
“So…dizzy,” the man mumbles.
“No wonder,” I reply. “You had a nasty fall and banged your head. Stay still. EMTs are on the way.”
The man’s thin lips twist as he labors to form words. Each syllable escapes on a breathy whistle of air. “Think teeth…broken. Feels sharp.”
“Don’t exert yourself. Don’t talk if it hurts.”
While I’m dying to go into interrogation mode—Who are you? Do you remember falling? Any idea how long you’ve been here?—I restrain myself. The man’s jaw may be broken. Asking him to chat isn’t a kindness.
I’m finishing my call to the front gate when a door creaks open at the top of the stairs.
“Who’s down there?”
The alto voice is brusque, demanding.
A tall, broad-shouldered newcomer is silhouetted in the door frame atop the stairs. Even though her stylish silver pantsuit looks nothing like a toga, her stance reminds me of a classic Roman statue.
“There’s been an accident,” I answer. “A man fell down the stairs. We’ve called an ambulance.”
The woman’s heels click on the uncarpeted wood as she descends a few steps to get a closer look. “Is Andrew conscious…coherent?”
She halts midway, waiting for my answer.
Is she afraid she might get bloodstains on her outfit?
Not fair. The cramped stairwell barely offers enough room for me and Andrew, whoever he may be.
“He’s conscious but dazed,” I answer. “I’m Kylee Kane. Here for a meeting. We found this gentleman a few minutes ago. Do you know him?”
“Yes, that’s Andrew Fyke, a resident.”
I hesitate, deciding how to describe Mimi and Grant. Since they’re with me as Welch employees, I don’t want to refer to them as teens or kids. “Two of my associates are waiting outside to direct the ambulance.”
“Nothing more to be done then.” The woman’s voice is cold, matter-of-fact. “I’ll wait for you in the conference room as long as I can. I have an important Realtor meeting in an hour. We may need to reschedule.”
Jocelyn Waters. Given her tone, she’s either an emotional iceberg or doesn’t care for Andrew. Since she feels no need to introduce herself, Ms. Board President must expect all us peons to know who she is—and feel honored to be graced by her presence.
She reverses direction and briskly climbs the stairs. At the top, Jocelyn firmly shuts the door.
Staring at the closed door, my brain cells finally fire.
There are light switches at the top and bottom of the stairs. That door at the top was shut when we found Andrew sprawled in total darkness. I’ve trekked up and down these stairs a few times. I can’t imagine a single scenario that would prompt someone about to descend the stairs to close the door behind him before turning on the lights. This man’s fall is no accident.
Someone shoved Andrew.
Then, once the deed was done, his attacker shut the door. If Andrew did have a chance to switch the light on, his attacker turned it off, leaving his victim to suffer and perhaps die alone in the dark.
Chapter Three
Kylee
