Sean McQueen’s award-winning Architectural Digest glass home was perched atop the most desired vantage point overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Ethan drove up the long waning driveway, wondering if McQueen traded up homes the way he traded companies.
Sean McQueen was at the peak of the Silicon stratosphere—literally and figuratively—a twinkling star in a culture so often compared to Tinseltown because of the hypersonic successes, disastrous failures, and all the hyped-up nonsense along the way. High school with fuck-you money. And because McQueen stayed out of the limelight, it added to his mystery, intrigue, and valuation.
The blog TechCrunch coined the terms “unicorn” to define start-ups that are worth $1 billion, “deacorns” that are worth $10 billion, and “super unicorn” that are worth $100 billion or more. These hacks billed Sean McQueen, the Wizard of Silicon, as most likely to reach super unicorn status this decade. They had also projected that his latest start-up—Hounddog—was likely to surpass Stalker and lead all transparency apps within a year. And it irritated Ethan to no end. Not only the overused, exaggerated tech speak and nescient speculation, but also how venture capitalists would blindly throw money at image entrepreneurs like Sean McQueen, who bought and sold companies on a whim and were surely creating another bubble that would burst all over the rest of the up-and-comers.
But as Ethan walked up to McQueen’s massive oak door, he thought of Brooke (the mindful Brooke he knew, not the killer-on-the-run Brooke) and how she would have called him on the real reason he thought ill of a man he had never even met: McQueen had poached his brother.
Ethan laughed at himself and the oak door opened before he could knock—right on cue.
Sean McQueen extended his hand and revealed a warm smile. “You must be Jack’s brother.”
“What was your first clue?” Ethan said, rubbing his scruffy beard.
“I’m Sean,” he said like his status didn’t require a last name. “Come inside. Please.”
Glad he didn’t introduce himself as “The Wizard.”
“Nice digs,” he said matter-of-factly as he looked around what might have been the most awesome home he had ever set foot in. “Where’s Jack?”
“In the shower,” McQueen said. “I can give you the three-dollar tour until he comes out.” McQueen pressed a remote that raised a motorized curtain. The floor to ceiling glass windows revealed a drop-dead 180-degree panorama of the sun setting over the bay. The view looked like an Albert Bierstadt painting, one of Ethan’s favorite artists who painted wonderful, almost surreal landscapes, and one of the reasons Ethan had originally wanted to move out west.
“I get so sick of looking at this view,” Sean joked. “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”
Ethan wanted to hate the guy but Sean had the kind of charm that made it impossible.
“I’m fine,” Ethan said. “Just tell my brother that I’m here. Please.”
Just then, Jack came out from the bathroom, skimpy towel around his waist, and he didn’t look happy. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see you,” Ethan said.
“How’d you know where to find me?”
“The FBI told me what happened and where you were. They know everything.”
“How? How do they know?”
“They used the Stalker app,” Ethan half joked. “They have no boundaries. Why’d you run?”
Jack stared back.
“They showed me the video—”
“I was standing over a dead body, holding a gun. Why do you think I ran?”
Ethan exhaled, relieved. “They believe that it was just self-defense and they’re going to clear you. You’re off the hook, they assured me. You’re good—”
“Good? Goons the size of this house attacked me because they thought I was you! They were looking for Brooke. I’m lucky to be alive—”
“I know. We’ve both been through a lot. Let’s sit down and have a little talk. I have a lot to tell you. And you have a lot to tell me.”
Jack glanced at Sean through the kitchen passway, as if looking for approval.
“Better to get it all in the open,” Sean said.
“Yeah, okay.” Jack went pale and headed down the hallway. “I’ll put on some clothes and we’ll talk.”
Ethan knew Jack would be shocked to hear about Brooke’s supposed crimes. But Jack was about to disclose a shocker or two of his own.
—
The marine layer was so thick that the bright multihued Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier was virtually undetectable from the shoreline.
Bailey trudged through the sand alternating his humming with periodic curse words, his breath heavy, his smoker’s lungs wheezing the entire time.
When he approached the third concrete caisson under the dock, Clinton Godeaux stepped into view and announced, “Good morning, Mr. Duff.”
Bailey gasped, taken by surprise.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Clinton said, “I told you I’d meet you here.”
Clinton had always controlled where they met, how long they met for, and what they discussed. It made Bailey uneasy, as did the oversized Tom Ford tinted glasses that hid Clinton’s eyes.
“It’s monkeys outside,” Bailey complained. “Our offices are not bugged. Hardly anyone shows up this early, not to mention that none of our employees would have any idea who you are.”
“I can’t take any chances, in the case you told some of them about our arrangement—”
“You made it perfectly clear that you wanted to be a silent angel,” Bailey assured him. “It drove my partners mad that they could never meet you.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mind so much when my checks cleared.”
“They whinged me about that, too,” Bailey told him, “why the checks were distributed from Highpoint Corporation, a dodgy, unregistered corporation.”
“I told you to tell them that it was a shell company.”
“I did.” Bailey took a few deep breaths and looked out at the crashing waves. “You need to answer some questions now.”
“You want to know why Highpoint wasn’t registered as a corporation?”
“For starters.”
“Because it’s the name of a place.”
“Is that right?” Bailey waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Bailey asked, “Did you finance our company to look for your sister?”
Clinton’s eyes turned cold.
“I know that you’ve had a Stalker account with your initials, C. G.,” Bailey admitted.
“So much for the privacy settings, I suppose,” Clinton said mockingly. “Stalker. The stalking company that stalks you right back. Brilliant.”
“Is that why you forced us to get the Face Match Mode online before it was ready?” Bailey pressed.
“I needed to find my sister,” Clinton professed. “I’m a satisfied customer.”
“You learned that your sister was using the name Brooke Shaw when she filed for a marriage license.”
Clinton laughed, but it was a contemptuous laugh. “Nothing is sacred.” He took off his large Tom Ford aviators and pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to clean them.
That was the first time Bailey saw Clinton’s face in broad daylight, and his eyes. “I can’t believe I never noticed…you look just like her!”
Clinton’s brow furrowed and his smile lines faded. “You’ve given me no choice. I’m going to have to shut you down.”
“What? Why—?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know that I had anything to do with Stalker.”
“No one knows—”
“Don’t be a daft cow. I have to eliminate any loose ends. You’re a loose end. It’s over. You’re finished.”
“No, you can’t do that. We are so close to profit!”
“Don’t take it personally. Ninety percent of all start-ups fail.”
Before Bailey could object again, Clinton pulled out a 9mm handgun that his contracted bounty hunter, Ace, had given to him when he picked him up at the airport.
Bailey backed away and tripped, falling on the sand, then scrambled like a crab. “You have my word, I won’t tell anyone anything, I promise—”
“I know you won’t.” Clinton squeezed the trigger and the bullet hit Bailey right between the eyes. “Dead men can’t talk.”
Pigeons flapped noisily as Clinton walked away through the dense fog.
—
The Black Box app that Brooke had installed in Bailey’s phone recorded everything: the entire conversation with Clinton, the gunshot, and the 911 call that a jogger made when he noticed Bailey’s body sprawled facedown in the sand.
The Santa Monica police was there in ten minutes. They taped off the area and questioned a few people. One of them told the police that he’d heard a gunshot. Another said he saw a man get inside a black Escalade in the nearby beach parking lot and the big car screeched away like he was in a big rush. None were able to describe the man.
The police found Bailey’s office information on a business card in his wallet. Stalker employees were summoned to identify his body. Since Stalker had been flagged in the hunt for Stella Godeaux, an FBI agent showed up an hour later and informed the police that the victim was related to a high-profile investigation. Per protocol, the FBI agent confiscated Bailey’s cell phone. If he had taken it back for full analysis, the FBI likely would have found the Black Box app and learned what Clinton Godeaux had done.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Bailey’s phone was sent up to San Francisco, per the request of Special Agent Shu, who thought of himself as digitally savvy.
But who wasn’t savvy enough.