The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (26 page)

“It’s already got the ‘m’ and the ‘e,’ so sure, why not?” Hal and I say in unison.
 

I have to laugh at that.

Hal joins me. Maybe he came in a nanosecond after me, but I could have sworn our chuckles were spontaneous.
 

I blush at the thought.

“All the new positives are partnered with their IOSs, which means you’ll be partnered with Hal. You’ll get the same list of items and tasks. The first one who completes them gets a wonderful prize—a month-long paid sabbatical, taken anytime after your first year here! Isn’t that wonderful?”

I nod adamantly.

“Steady, doll,” Hal murmurs, “You’ll need that head for a lot of plotting and scheming.”

I choke on a snicker.
 

Is he flirting with me?

“The other teams are ready, so let’s get started!” She leads us—I mean, me—back out toward the lobby. “Something tells me this will be the start of a beautiful relationship—between you and Hal that is.”

I hope she’s right. It would be great to have someone at my side who already knows the lay of the land. Someone who’s got my back. Someone—

I mean,
something.
 

Or…whatever.

With no hidden agenda.

And at my beck and call.

If only all of life were this way.

“So, who’s this guy, Jack?” Hal asks. “And should I be jealous?”

We’ve already completed nine of the ten tasks in the scavenger hunt. They are silly little things, like finding a single glittery Louboutin hidden in the stall of a lady’s room (if you win the hunt, the shoes are yours too), or taking a selfie with anyone who is wearing an i.Me World Convention T-shirt from three years ago, in order to win a similar one as a prize. The shirts were designed by Peter Max and are now collectors’ items, but not so rare that there aren’t at least a few employees walking around with it on any given day.

When Arnie heard me read that task out loud, I could actually hear him weep.

“If I win one, I’ve got just the guy to give it to—my friend Arnie,” I declare loudly.

“Thank you,” Arnie whispers softly.
 

All this silliness is a way to initiate a self-guided (make that, speech-enhanced OS) tour of i.Me’s six-acre campus. It may be located in a faceless industrial park on the outskirts of the haute hipster hang of Culver City, but by making the building the tallest—fourteen stories—and the most colorful, i.Me ensured that it will stand out. Its exterior walls are a fluorescent green…the same hue as its iconic logo.

Hal’s question about Jack has me blushing. Can he see it?
 

“Your temperature just went up two point six degrees,” he points out. “Your heart rate is up, too, by twelve percent. I hope it’s not me who’s having this effect on you.” Hal’s words of concern are undercut by the teasing tone in which he delivers them.
 

“My goodness! How can you tell that?”

“You’re holding me, remember?” He makes it sound so naughty. “I come with a body sensor app. i.Me has it in beta. It also measures other vitals. Soon, the company will be selling it to every doctor in the world. Bones McCoy lives! You people are no longer barbarians.”
 

“Is that how you see us—as barbarians?”

Hal’s pause would have me believe he’s actually thinking through how to answer me. Such pauses are built into his program, so that I presume he cares about my feelings.
 

Of course, I’d like to think that he really cares, but I know better. His intelligence may be artificial, but spot on.

“You’re changing the subject,” he admonishes me.

What harm will it do to tell him about Jack? It’s not as if Hal is an adversary.

And we’re certainly not dating. We’re just work colleagues.

What the hell am I saying? For goodness sake, Hal is an operating system!
 

“Jack is my significant other,” I say nonchalantly. “How do you know about him?”

“I presumed—rightly so, as it turns out—that the password you put on your i.Me OS is the one for your personal cell phone. I get its signal as well, so I synced with it and accessed your contacts, text feeds, and photos. Hmmm, I guess this Jack guy will do in a pinch.”
 

Just as Hal says this, a photo appears on my cellphone—one of Jack. It was taken in our backyard, as he lounged in the hammock. The way in which he’s squinting into the sun with that goofy grin on his face makes him absolutely adorable.
 

I laugh. “So glad you approve.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I approve. I have you pegged as someone who prefers brains to brawn. Look at those six-pack abs and broad shoulders! What is he, a lumber jack or something?”

“As it turns out, his job takes a lot of research and split-second calculations, too.” What is Hal fishing for, and why? “You almost sound jealous!”

“And you love it.”

Okay, yes, I do—not that I’ll admit it out loud.

I don’t have to. Finding his answer in my racing pulse, Hal laughs heartily.

Thank goodness Jack isn’t tuned in to this conversation. He must be working with the cryptography team.

Which again reminds me that I’m wasting my time with this stupid scavenger hunt. “Let’s finish this last task and win that grand prize.” I breathe out slowly in order to keep my heartbeat normal. “I have to take a selfie in the department that has quote ‘more ears than eyes on the prize’ unquote. What the hell does that mean?”
 

“Let’s do a little deductive reasoning. What do you do with your ears?” Hal asks.

“You listen.”

“Which department has a vested interest to listen to those we prize most?” A photo of the company’s reception area appears on my screen. On the wall behind the sofa is the company’s slogan:
 

i.Me Is All About
YOU

“It’s got to be Customer Service!” I shout.

“No one can put one over on you,” Hal murmurs admiringly.

If only compliments were programmed into men too
.

“Okay,” I murmur, “Let’s go take that selfie and collect the prize—”

Brittany is so focused on her i.Me tablet that she practically bumps into me. From what I can see on her screen, she programmed its map app to find me. “Oh, Daisy, thank goodness I found you!” She points skyward. “Milton signaled that he’s coming in earlier than expected! His helicopter should be landing any moment now, in fact! He’s quite upset over something. And when he heard his assistant, Janine, was out for the day, he just about blew a gasket!” She’s practically hyperventilating.
 

There is something she is not telling me. What is it? Oh, to be her IOS for the millisecond it would take to get a reading on what’s really bothering her.

“Not to worry,” I assure her. “I’ll have everything under control.”

By the look on her face, she doesn’t believe me, but what choice does she have? I’m the only game in town.

Well, me, and Hal.

With a click, I silence Hal’s voice.

I’m still here, looking out for you, babe,
he texts me.

Great. I’ve got the last thing I need—a shadow.

At least this one can’t kill me.

“Who the hell are you—and where is Janine?” Milton Otis shouts at me over the thwacking of his private helicopter’s twirling blades. The gusts lift my skirt higher on my thighs than I like.
 

On the other hand, a drop of drool dampens the corner of Milton’s mouth, so my presence must not be all that disappointing.

“I’m Daisy Bell,” I yell back as I hold out my hand.

He doesn’t shake it. Instead, he shudders, as if I’ve got cooties.

Nice guy.

I hear Jack murmur, “Take lots of photos, Arnie, from all angles. There’s got to be something on this guy, somewhere other than his
Fortune
profile’s silhouette in black.”

Pixelated or digitized, the close-ups will be less than desirable. Milton Otis’s pallor is gray, his skin is pocked, and his forehead is lined with deep crevices. The fact that he wears jeans and an Armani blazer over the ubiquitous black V-neck says it all.
 

Forget tech stocks. I’m investing in V-neck shirt manufacturers.
 

Instead of the ubiquitous graying ponytail, he has a dye job that is anything but natural—let’s call it a chocolate dip. He’s thin, and he crouches as if he’s got the weight of the free world on his shoulders.

He does. He’s willing to put money on it.

“He’s
O Captain! my Captain
?” Arnie sounds disappointed.
 

I don’t blame him in the least.

“Apparently, Janine caught the bug that is going around,” I answer politely.

Milton whips out a surgical mask from his inside jacket pocket and puts it on his face. Next come surgical gloves.

Rule Number One when in the presence of a wealthy, paranoid recluse:
don’t mention germs.
If he puts those on, I’ll never get his thumb print for the game key.
 

Think fast…Think fast…

“Here, let me help you with those,” I suggest. Before he can say no, I pluck them from his hand—

And let go, so that they fly off into the blast of wind coming off the helicopter as it lifts off.

“Damn it! Those were my last pair!” He glowers at me. He pops a pill.

What are those things, anyway?

“I’ll send someone out to get more,” I assure him, as I hustle him into the elevator—another of those outside glass funnels that allow these tech masters a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of their domains.
 

Already on it
, Hal texts me, along with an animated winking smiley face.

We are descending fast and only one level, where Milton’s wall-to-ceiling glass office takes up the whole floor. From what I could tell in the
Architectural Digest
editorial spread on his office, there will be glass and steel surfaces everywhere: a steel-base and glass-top desk; same with the coffee table in the conversation pit; and plenty of glasses on the bar that takes up a full wall of the office.
 

In other words, lots of opportunities to get him to give up the thumb print.
 

I like to think positive. Otherwise, I’d figure out some excuse to press his hand up against the elevator, and lift it from there.
 

When the elevator door opens, I see—

Pine furnishings everywhere.
 

The windows are still glass, but they are now beveled, to allow for privacy. The ones that are chest high and run all the way to the ceiling are opened, top out, in order to let in a cool breeze.
 

Even the wet bar is gone. That wall has now been replaced by a pinto-coated horsehair wall where the heads of wild animals are hung.
 

Crap! Now what?

I resist the urge to shove Milton back into the elevator and flatten him against one of the glass walls, under the pretext of admiring the view of his domain.

Instead, I smile pretty and say, “After you.”