Housebroken (3 page)

His trade partner, Barry Hadley, had suggested some aggressive movements, and though Blake tried to read the market and pretended to follow the trends, he’d probably just tell Barry to go ahead. He had done well for him in the past.

He toggled back through the screens, initiating his auto-e-mail generator. A-mail, they were calling it, the name not nearly as mind-blowing as what it could do.

“Accept proposal,” he said into his Bluetooth earpiece.

After the obligatory three-second delay, three windows popped up, each containing an e-mail reply varying in length. All three replies were written in the style of conversation Blake might have engaged in with Barry, yet each offered subtle changes, one even incorporating a hint of sarcasm, an ability that had been considered impossible when working within the confines of a programmed intelligence system.

It read, “Go ahead with the moves you mentioned. Keep up with this Milwaukee fever though, and I may find reason to start doubting your ‘better judgment.’”

Betti, the name they were using for their AI interface, as in
better
than Siri, had gone to the length of following up on a conversation he and Barry had had a week ago about the Bruins. Barry was probably their only fan, Blake had joked, though Barry had been insistent this was their year. Well, Betti must have cross researched the results of their last two games (the Bruins, of course, had been slaughtered) and incorporated that within the autogenerated reply. Blake doubted he could have done better himself.

He hit send.

The key to Betti’s success was the complete integration of all behavioral interactions captured on the Cyborg, literally
the
phone that would bridge the gap between home and mobile computers. Betti monitored every phone conversation, e-mail, or social media trend, every Google search and web interaction, even “listening” to the surroundings and conversation when the phone wasn’t in use. And the more you incorporated real-life habits into the phone—whether purchasing, banking, or mindlessly seeking entertainment—Betti would more actively be able to interpret future actions and desires.

A-mail and the Cyborg phone itself would instantly create a billion-dollar platform, but the yet-to-be-established interactive and predictive marketing industry was bound to break into the trillions, a market Blake and his new company, Symbio, would be on the forefront of creating.

It was the reason he had brought his family out to the West Coast, had halted all but a few of his consulting gigs, keeping only those firms he had worked with for years. He was betting the farm with this one, placing it all on red, and he didn’t see a single way he could lose.

Conrad suddenly lifted her head and barked once—yapped really, she had such a wussy bark—then bolted into the street.

Blake glanced up in time to see the black town car slam on its brakes. He pushed the button, locking the leash from extending farther, and yanked, ripping Conrad off her feet.

She hit the pavement on her side, inches from where the car came to a sudden stop.

“Sorry,” Blake mouthed, with a wave of the hand to the idling car. He stepped off the curb and knelt down next to Conrad. She was already up, licking his outstretched hand.

Blake patted her down, brushing her silky coat, feeling each of her legs, making sure she was all right.

That had been close.

The car rolled forward another few inches, then stopped, the rear mirrored window lowering. A flush bearded face, silver whiskers betraying the black mop atop the massive head, glanced from canine to human, assigning equal value to the two of them.

“You should watch your dog.” He had a deep voice as smooth as any radio jockey’s Blake had heard.

“Your driver should watch the road. I said I was sorry.”

The car started forward, then screeched to a halt at the command of the bearded passenger, a mere lifting of the hand.

“You’re the one purchased Welchsetzer’s place. Tom Jones, Esquire, the third. Neighbor.” He pointed to the massive home next door to the yard Conrad had been roaming in. At least Blake imagined the home was massive—a long driveway curved up behind a gated portico, disappearing behind the tall block wall that surrounded the place like a prison. The stones in the wall were black and rough, made of lava rock. Palm trees and landscaping peeked over the top of the walls.

“I’m Blake Crochet.” He extended his hand into the window.

Tom put a sausage index finger into Blake’s hand, as much acknowledgement as he was willing to offer. “Don’t read much?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Public information. These cliffs recede almost eight inches a year. Half a decade, they’ll be in the center of your home.”

“Eight inches? Sounds like a small man’s exaggeration to me,” Blake said. He had dealt with plenty of men like Tom before. The only way to earn their respect was to throw it back in their face.

“As you can see, I’m no small man,” Tom said.

“Well, it’s a good thing my backyard is as big as it is.”

“Halfway to your pool then. I’ve seen your yard. Never thought someone would buy that place, what with its history. Must have gotten it for a steal. What’d you pay? Two, two-five? Or’d they get you for three mil?”

Six point four actually, and this was the first Blake had heard of any questionable history. “Something like that,” Blake said.

The gates to Tom Jones’s driveway retracted. Blake took some pleasure in that his house was set against the ocean while Tom’s backyard was lost into the forested mountains on the opposite side of the street.

“Can you even see the ocean with those walls around your place?” Blake asked.

“Not about seeing out but keeping people from getting in,” Tom said. He flicked a business card into his pudgy hand like a cheap magician’s trick. “You go nuts and murder your family, give me a call first. Get you off with a lot less than ol’ Welchsetzer.” He laughed, a rumble like an avalanche.

A single laugh escaped Blake like a bark. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The card was glossy black with silver letters and a logo of two diamonds crushing each other inlaid with a picture of a much lighter, much younger Mr. Jones, Esquire. His cold stare in the photo was so intense he had either just witnessed a murder  or committed one himself.

The caption beneath the picture made Blake want to gag: “Because the only crime is letting them put you away.” He’d have to put it on the fridge. Jenna would get a kick out of it.

Conrad pulled against the leash, her collar catching and holding her back. Her tail began to wag.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blake caught movement—someone walking up the long, curved driveway to Tom Jones’s home. The individual had bright-orange hair with a heavy backpack slung across one shoulder.

A smile broke over Blake’s face. It was his buddy, Joje. He had to give the kid credit: he really put in the hours.

“Looks like you have company, Tom. I’d hate to keep you waiting.”

Tom followed Blake’s gaze. Without a word, the window began its ascent as the town car pulled forward, turning into the entrance and climbing up the driveway.

“Apparently, Southern hospitality doesn’t extend to So Cal, huh, Connie?” He ruffled the fur on her head like a toddler’s hair.

Jenna dipped her finger into her glass of wine, then brought it to her mouth. Leaning against the marbled island in the kitchen, she stared out at the room, her eyes wandering to each corner. Blake noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her tank top. Hard not to notice. They’d need to talk about it—Adam was approaching that age where it could become a problem.

He decided the argument could wait for another day.

“Just pretend you like it,” Jenna said.

Sitting on the red vinyl couch, anticipating the moment it would bounce him off like an ejector seat, Blake navigated through his presentation on his phone. Tomorrow would be his first official day at Symbio, and he needed to make an impression.

“I just wish we could have talked about it, that’s all.”

The house was quiet, Deb and her team of decor zombies gone for the day. The ticking of a square clock—
square clock?
—hanging above the TV was the only sound beyond the quiet hum of the refrigerator hidden behind faux cabinets.

“Nothing’s permanent. We can exchange anything we aren’t in love with.”

“Sounds like our marriage.” The words were out before Blake could recall them. So much for avoiding a fight.

Jenna drained her glass, filling it again from the bottle of Pinot. “I don’t have the energy to go another round with you. Not tonight.”

“I’m sorry. That was stupid. I know we’re . . . trying.”

“Is that what your e-mail was?” Jenna’s accusatory glance was lost in the shake of her head as she circled round the kitchen island with her wine glass. Just another dangling conversation.

Instead of exiting the room as he had supposed she would, she opened the back kitchen door, where Conrad slid out into the night. Blake hadn’t even registered the dog’s whines.

He peeled his arms off the sticky vinyl couch. “I want you to start taking Conrad on your runs.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“I met one of the neighbors. Let’s just say I was less than impressed.”

“So what, a creepy neighbor’s going to kidnap me? Hope he can keep up.” Jenna came back into the kitchen, pouring the last of the bottle into her empty glass.

“Women are ninety percent less likely to be abducted when accompanied by a large dog.” Blake held up his phone. “Read it yourself.”

Jenna’s hands came up, just like he knew they would. He had made the statistic up, his display revealed nothing more than the agenda for his meeting tomorrow, though Betti would no doubt be searching for an article related to their conversation.

“I’d just feel better knowing she’s with you, that’s all,” he continued. “This isn’t West Virginia. There are weirdoes out here.”

“Then we’ll fit in great, won’t we?”

“I’m serious, Jenn.”

Jenna’s chin crinkled into her pouty face. “I’ll think about it.”

“Be good for Conrad. Maybe help with the potty training.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

Which meant no.

There had been a time when he and his wife could hold conversations without someone having to win. He no longer kept score; they were both losing.

“If something bad happened with the previous owners here at the house, they’d have to disclose that with the sale, right?” he asked.

“Why? Neighbor say something?” In a previous life, Jenna had been a real estate agent. Before they had met. “If it devalues the property, then yeah, legally they’d have no choice. I don’t think Rob and Ann were pulling a fast one on us.”

“No, me neither.”

“You Google it?”

She of course knew that he had. “Didn’t find much. He had the previous owner right, though, a Jerry Welchsetzer. I don’t know. Hard to believe anything the neighbor said. He was an ass.”

Jenna chuckled, and Blake caught the it-takes-one-to-know-one implication. “What’s he do? Business consulting?”

“Lawyer.”

“Ouch.”

“Criminal defense.”

“Double ouch.” She laughed. Blake did too.

He stood, setting his empty Heineken on the counter and pulling out the business card Tom Jones had given him. “He wanted me to give this to you. Don’t expect a plate of cookies with it.”

“Wow, maybe I’ll let him abduct me.”

“Just multiply the size of that face by two or three.”

Jenna giggled.

“Wait till you hear him. Barry White would be jealous of that voice.”

Jenna moaned as if impressed.

“I can arrange a meeting?”

“Stop,” she said, resting her hand on his chest. “You’re probably more his type than I am.”

She smiled, and Blake joined her. It felt real, for a moment—their banter, their joking. He realized how much he missed her even though they saw each other every day.

The moment passed quicker than he would have liked. Jenna pulled her hand back, and Blake returned to his phone. “I’ll check on Adam,” he said.

“He’s fourteen. He doesn’t need Mom or Dad turning on the night-light anymore.”

“I’m glad you’re happy. With the house.”

She replied with a fake toast, holding her wine glass to the air before turning away and setting it on the counter. Whatever her silent toast had been, she didn’t drink to it.

Blake had done more than a Google search on Jerry Welchsetzer, and his neighbor had been right—the man was in jail, but not for murder. He had been picked up two years ago for tax fraud and evasion, not the most harrowing of crimes, though he had been sentenced to eleven years.

Jerry had been a movie producer, bankrolling a hoard of B movies, mostly tit and torture flicks, not a single title Blake had recognized. Up to November 2010, Jerry’s company had been involved in half a dozen releases a year—apparently the budgets on these movies created an opportunity for frequent productions; more productions meant more revenue.

As a movie producer, however, Jerry had overlooked one key demographic’s interest in his filmography: Uncle Sam’s.

Blake had read every article about the titan’s demise, the closure of his production company, liquidation of assets. The fact that the house they were now living in had come up on the market as silently as it had was another testament to Jerry’s fall. A few articles he found prior to the arrest harbored conspiracies about some of the titan’s films being less theatrics and more reality, snuff films sold under the umbrella of entertainment. Blake had earmarked the articles on his phone, deciding they warranted a further look.

What he hadn’t found was any mention of his family’s death or murder—probably just another gross exaggeration from Tom Jones and his eight inches. Or at least Blake hoped so. Either way, he would have to look into it further. Not that he fancied himself an investigator, but if there had been a cover-up, he’d certainly demand a renegotiation on the home price.

Upstairs, Blake passed by twin antique bookshelves against the side of the hall, sort of a pre-Victorian feel. He had to admit he liked them, though the empty shelves carried with them a feeling of nonpermanence, as if this house were determined to not become a home.