A Killer App, page 11
I smile. “You’re right. I prefer to stay as far away from Nick as possible. While he’s not the sheriff—thank heavens—he’s done his best to poison fellow officers’ opinions about me and Ted. Glad I haven’t needed to deal with the authorities this year.
“That may have to change, though,” I add. “Yesterday, when I asked for a Cliff’s Notes summary on HOA rental controversies, I didn’t mention a possible connection to a crime. Andy Fyke is the fellow leading the Rand Creek charge to ban rentals. Thursday, he was badly injured in a fall down a flight of stairs. While he has zero recall of how he fell, my gut tells me he was pushed.”
“Got any suspects?” Donna asks.
“Not really. Andy’s friends nominated a few Rand Creek owners who rent properties. Based on our prior conversation, you won’t be surprised to hear Jocelyn headed the list. They also mentioned a realtor, Xander Pringle, and an Amanda Holder, a high-tech software developer. I understand that these folks are foes. Yet, it’s hard to believe any of them would risk physically attacking someone over a little rental income.”
Donna frowns. “You say they mentioned an Amanda Holder? Dr. Amanda Holder? Now there’s a coincidence. A few months ago, Dr. Holder bought a Satin Sands house for a steal. The sellers wanted to unload it quickly since they live out of town. They were preoccupied with finding a good nursing home for their dad. He’d lived in the house for at least a decade.”
I nod. “Sounds like the doc definitely has a vested interest in rentals. Have you met her?”
“Sure have,” Donna answers. “She contacted me about updating Satin Sands software. Said she noticed some glitches, and, since she was a new owner, she’d help out for practically nothing.”
I frown. “Didn’t Robin just finish updating your software?”
“Yes, Dr. Holder made the offer before we signed off on the Welch HOA contract.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Hey, I realize you count Ted and me as friends, but I know you’ll jump at any opportunity to save Satin Sands money. Why didn’t you take Holder up on her proposition?”
“Well…Steph strongly recommended we pass,” Donna adds. “He wouldn’t say what he knew or how he knew it, but Steph said he had a solid reason to oppose giving the woman access to our data.
“I didn’t press Steph for details, because he was clearly uncomfortable,” she continues. “Prompted me to do my own checking. Dr. Holder had bragged about her computer research at a New York university. Since I knew Steph’s brother, Aaron, was a prof up north, I looked up Aaron’s bio, then checked the faculty roster. Sure enough, Aaron and Amanda taught at the same university. I decided Aaron talked out of school and warned his brother against any association with the ex-professor.
“Plus, there was something strange about Dr. Holder’s departure from academia. A year ago January, the school profiled Holder, making a big deal out of the fact she’d be teaching a course in Artificial Intelligence the next semester. A month later, she moved to Beaufort County. I bet she was sacked. While I don’t know why, Steph thought it serious enough to pass on her offer.”
Interesting, but probably unrelated.
I shrug. “Who knows? Could be Holder got fed up with the bureaucracy and quit. Or if she did get canned, it might have been for boinking a student. Whatever the infraction, it doesn’t move her up the suspect list as Andy’s attacker.”
We’ve reached my Camry, and I give Donna a farewell hug. “Take care. I’ll call if I find any hard evidence this Bubba Quarles is the hit-and-run boater who killed Steph.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kylee
Saturday afternoon, July 1
It’s Saturday afternoon. Why on earth am I inside the Welch HOA office staring at a computer screen. I thought when I retired, I’d be spending sunny days however I pleased. Taking a dip in the ocean. Sailing the River Rat up and down the Intercoastal. Reading a good mystery in a hammock.
But, no, here I am, cooped up in a stuffy office with anemic air-conditioning and windows painted shut.
Can’t blame anyone but my obsessive self. Hand me a mystery, and I can’t stop tugging at it. Did the same when I was a kid. Had to put the puzzle together, even if our dog, Brownie, chewed half the puzzle pieces into pasteboard mush.
I open the account Welch HOA keeps to do background checks on prospective employees and vendors. When I plug in the name Bubba Quarles with Beaufort, South Carolina, as a location, I get two hits. As Kay Barrett suspected, Bubba Quarles, Sr., is a jailbird. That makes Jr. my pigeon.
Oh, my, Bubba, you’re almost as well acquainted with law enforcement as your dad.
While Bubba hasn’t spent serious time in jail, he’s been hauled in three times on drunk and disorderly charges, plus a more serious domestic violence beef. Too bad Bubba’s ex-wife ultimately refused to testify. No doubt due to threats. His ex quickly left the county. Smart move.
After a few more clicks, I have a picture of Bubba’s shaky finances. Six different construction companies have employed him, but he hasn’t lasted at any job for more than four months. Currently unemployed, he owes back taxes on his property, and at least one of his payday loans is in default. Other than a deed to the couple acres of marshland his father signed over when he left for prison, Bubba’s possessions include an aged trailer, multiple guns (he does have a hunting license), and a three-year-old motorboat.
I jot down Bubba’s address along with the motorboat’s make, twenty-four-foot length, engine manufacturer, and hull color. The model is advertised as being able to maneuver in relatively shallow water.
I know how Grant and Mimi planned to spend this Saturday. Loafing at the beach. Probably dividing time between body surfing Hullis Island’s minuscule waves and roasting in the sun. I frequently remind them to lather up with sunscreen. The warnings tend to trigger eye rolls from both teens. While I hope they’re not blistered, maybe they’ve had enough rays and are tired of the holiday crowds. Think I’ll invite them on a boat ride.
Grant answers his cell on the fourth ring. “Hey, Aunt Kylee, what’s up? You know it’s Saturday, right? Now that you’re working with Dad, I get nervous if you phone when I’m off the clock.”
“Well, it’s mid-afternoon,” I reply. “So, asking a small favor doesn’t really count as ruining your day off, does it?”
“Shouldn’t have answered.” Grant sighs. “What’s the favor?”
“I’d like you and Mimi to join me for a short sail. I’ll provide cold drinks and snacks.”
“Un, huh, what’s the catch?”
“You need to bring your drone for a little aerial reconnaissance.”
“Heck, that’s not a deal breaker. You know I like to fly it. Let me talk to Mimi.”
I wait while Grant puts the proposition to his girlfriend.
“Mimi wants to know if the photography has something to do with Andy Fyke,” Grant says.
“No, but it’s for a good cause.”
“Okay, we need an hour. Meet you at the marina.”
When I get to my boat, the River Rat, I’ll map out the best route for our cruise. The tributary that skirts Bubba’s property is too shallow for my sailboat. Can’t chance my keel running aground. Need to find a deeper finger that runs parallel to Bubba’s creek. With the drone’s range, Grant can do a flyover from a fair distance.
A distance that’s beyond the range of the redneck’s shotgun.
Where would Bubba hide his stinkpot? Stinkpot being the derogatory term we sailing snobs apply to motorboats.
Bubba must have stashed it quickly. My guess is he beached it in a marshy area and covered it with palm fronds as camouflage. Since it appears to be the man’s most expensive and prized possession, I’m betting it’s stowed close by. He’d want it near enough to know if anyone messed with it.
Since I’m fifteen minutes from the marina and Grant and Mimi won’t be there for an hour, I have forty-five minutes to kill. Might as well do a little more background research.
I enter Amanda Holder’s name and her Lighthouse Cove address. No arrests for the lady—not even a speeding ticket. Interesting that she got a concealed carry permit as soon as she moved to South Carolina. Wouldn’t imagine it being high on to-do lists for most folks who work out of their homes.
The doc’s finances are solid. However, she’s mortgaged the Lighthouse Cove mansion. Probably to fund her recent real estate splurges. The LLC she created owns four rental properties—one in Rand Creek, one in Satin Sands, and two on Hullis Island. For some reason, the Rand Creek condo she inherited from her mother remains in her name.
I copy the addresses of all five properties. Wonder how Frank and Mom will feel when they learn the mysterious doctor owns a Hullis Island rental just up the block from Frank’s house.
Maybe worth a stroll after dinner to check it out.
After I finish the background check, I conduct a more sweeping online search with Amanda Holder and Artificial Intelligence as keywords. Too many hits to even begin to read them all. The doc apparently wasn’t BS-ing about her celebrity in the Artificial Intelligence field. Lots of technical papers under her name. And she was once a publicity hound. Granted interviews to a dozen reporters covering AI advances and potential applications.
Interesting.
I bookmark several lengthy interviews to read later. Time to head to the River Rat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Chameleon
Saturday late afternoon, July 1
I jerk awake with a start. Feel groggy, grungy. Naps never leave me feeling refreshed. I put my feet up for a sec when my unwanted company departed, and, bam, fell sound asleep. Shouldn’t work so late at night, but hate to quit when I’m making excellent progress.
I yawn and stretch. Must say Lighthouse Cove’s peace and quiet is a nice change from Manhattan’s cacophony.
Yip, yip, yip.
Dammit. That’s what woke me. Ear-splitting, high-pitched barks from Leona’s ugly mongrel. Will arrange for Mr. Grimm to visit Leona tonight. Make him sound downright hysterical that she needs to flee Lighthouse Cove with precious little Ginger in tow.
As I push up from the easy chair, I glance at the oil painting of Dad that hangs over the fireplace. Mom commissioned an artist to paint it ten years after he died. Dad was maybe thirty in the photo the painter used as a reference. The portrait looks nothing like the father I remember. The one I begged not to die and leave me alone with Mom. Missing from the portrait are the extra thirty pounds around Dad’s waist, the jowls that hung over his shirt collar, and the defeated look in his eyes.
I loved him. I was Daddy’s little darling. The year after he died, I’d sneak to his grave whenever I could to tell him my dreams, my plans. The ones I never bothered to tell my self-absorbed mother.
Mother never asked what I thought or felt. Don’t think she ever forgave me for inheriting Dad’s build—tall, big-boned, broad-shouldered. She’d wanted a little girl who shared her petite, pixie physique. Unable to promote me as her China doll, she settled for bragging on my brain power. A straight-A prodigy she could tell friends about while hiding me away at private girls’ schools.
Months ago, when I recalled the comfort my one-way graveside conversations once gave me, I realized Artificial Intelligence could deliver even greater peace. It could resurrect the dead. I had the power to restore Dad’s vanished voice and reclaim his soul. Now, when I’m lonely at night, I speak to my father, and he answers.
I captured his voice from 8 mm reels and digital videos of family outings. Sure, deep down, I realize when Dad answers me, it’s because I’ve pre-programmed his responses. The conversations still comfort me. A warm affirmation I remain his darling Wunderkind.
Because Dad’s business partner insisted the company purchase mega key-man insurance policies, Mom never needed to do a lick of work her entire life. Dad’s death didn’t interfere with her bridge, golf outings, or afternoon teas. Plus, she had the money to send me away to private schools and off to summer camps.
Dad’s death convinced me to grab any pleasure I want whenever I can. A lesson gleaned from the contrast between my father’s face at thirty and his sad demeanor before he died. Life is short. Why make it hard? My epitome was strongly reinforced by my university colleagues and Ayn Rand.
I’m not wicked. I’m an Objectivist. The twin events of my university fall from grace, and Mom’s simultaneous death plunked me into unfamiliar Lowcountry surroundings. No friends and nothing to do but fume. My so-called university colleagues vanished with my rebuke. Not a single one phoned to commiserate—even the ones I’m sure howled with laughter at my video prank.
That’s when I noticed Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged on Mom’s bedside table. Her book club had been reading controversial classics. Before I started that novel, I had only a vague recollection of what made Rand controversial.
Once I devoured Atlas Shrugged, I read everything I could find about Rand’s Objectivism philosophy. Suddenly, my funk evaporated. Screw those gowned university deans, who like to dress in ceremonial robes and act like tribunal priests certain of their righteousness.
It was as if Ayn Rand were speaking to me from the grave, telling me my happiness was my sole moral purpose. I memorized several of her quotes and recite them every morning when I wake. My very favorite? “There are no evil thoughts except one: the refusal to think.”
I now see I’m part of the natural objective, a catalyst. I let my imagination picture possibilities. Like my life minus Leona and her mutt.
If I happen to share visions of death and destruction with individuals who make them real, it’s on them. Their decision to kill or maim. Not mine. I didn’t push Fyke down the stairs. J.T. did.
I think about my other interactions. The little game I’m playing with Leona may even be beneficial. She’ll believe her husband’s love extended beyond the veil, and he labored to return and save her and the damnable yapper.
Time to concentrate on J.T. What would prompt her to confess and then pull the plug? Should I resurrect my avatar who convinced her Fyke was a child molester? It’s a bit risky, but it would certainly be easier than getting J.T. to bond quickly with a new online friend.
I can blame the sudden disappearance of J.T.’s buddy on identity theft. The thief took over the identity of J.T.’s friend and locked the online companion out of her internet accounts.
I have an epiphany. The old friend will suggest authorities are hot on J.T.’s trail. She’ll bemoan the horrible publicity certain to accompany J.T.’s eventual trial. Just need to stress how news coverage will scar J.T.’s children and plague them the rest of their lives.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Grant
Saturday late afternoon, July 1
I spot Aunt Kylee top side, polishing the River Rat’s trim as she waits for Mimi and me. My aunt seems to lack an off button. Wouldn’t exactly diagnose Kylee as hyper but she seems happiest if she can avoid sitting still for long periods. And, if she is sitting, her brain’s on speed.
It was a little weird at first, when Dad and Kylee hooked up. What with me thinking of Kylee’s mother as Grandma, it felt kind of like Dad was dating his sister.
Stupid. They’re not blood relatives. I’m over it. They both seem happy, though Aunt Kylee still squirms if Dad attempts a lip-lock when I’m in the room.
Puzzles me how Dad could fall in love with polar opposites. Kylee never wears makeup, and she dresses for comfort. She prefers pizza parlors to fancy restaurants, and she loves outdoor adventures. My mother’s another story.
Admittedly, I don’t see much of Mom since the divorce and her marriage to His Honorable Moneybags. Still, even when Mom and Dad were hitched, it practically took a bomb threat to force her out of air-conditioned luxury. And she always kept Dad and me waiting while she put on her face.
I knew both Mom and Dad were unhappy long before the divorce. The breakup was sort of a relief. Glad they both moved on to happier places.
Since I’m carrying my big drone and related paraphernalia, it’s impossible for Mimi and me to walk side-by-side down the pier.
“Lead the way, Mimi,” I suggest. The bonus? A nice view of Mimi’s tan legs from sandals to her bikini bottom.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” Aunt Kylee says as she welcomes Mimi onboard. “Hope I didn’t spoil your day off.”
Mimi tries not to shudder when she sees the beating Kylee’s face took last night. Dad texted me about the Marshview fiasco, and I told Mimi what to expect.
Kylee smiles at Mimi. “Yeah, I know. Maybe I should have you show me how to cover up the bruises with a little makeup.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mimi lies.
After a strained pause, Mimi assures my aunt she isn’t spoiling our fun.
“The beach was packed, and we were about to leave anyway,” she adds. “Besides, I love sailing with you. Brought my camera, too. May get a chance for some unique views of marsh birds in their habitat.”
“Hi, Aunt Kylee,” I say as I hop down to the River Rat’s wide deck.
I chuckle. “At least this time around, my drone reconnaissance will be under the watchful eyes of an investigator who packs heat. You have your Glock handy, right?”
Kylee doesn’t laugh. My joke seems to fall flat.
She frowns. “The man we’re investigating was last seen sitting on his dock with a shotgun in his lap. But I mapped out a water route that should prevent Bubba from ever seeing the River Rat, and even if he does, we’ll be safely out of shotgun range.”
“Do you want the drone to take pictures of this guy?” I ask.
“No, I don’t need photos of Bubba. Already have access to his mug shots, and he’s not my type for a pin-up poster. Steph Cloyd’s friends think Bubba Quarles used his souped-up motorboat to mow down Steph’s rowing shell and murder him. When the shell split, the motorboat’s blades finished the job. Bubba, or whoever was driving the boat, left and never called the authorities. I doubt Steph could have been saved, but we’ll never know.”
