Prodigal Son

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “We can’t get a surveillance position to identify him when he exits the building, so it’s unlikely.”

  “I’ll provide you with more dragonflies. So you’re better equipped for your next run-in. And there’d better be a next run-in.”

  “Understood.”

  “When are you handling the second target?”

  The gate arm lifted once more, letting out an old-school van filled to the brim with kids. Guy and his teenage daughter in a white Sentra. Elderly dude in a boat of a Caddy.

  “Tomorrow,” Declan said. “First thing.”

  43

  Cuddle Huddle

  Joey’s online excavations had revealed Dr. Brendan Molleken to be an enigmatic man. Grew up in Akron, Ohio, dueling Ph.D.s from Caltech and a raft of honorary doctorates on top of those. He’d founded and sold a string of artificial-intelligence companies, each for mogul-size hunks of cash. Wired magazine had termed him “the reclusive visionary.”

  Joey had dug up relatively little aside from that. No interviews, no TED Talks, no rousing commencement addresses. As opposed to many of his fellow tech luminaries, Molleken seemed to make a point of remaining low-profile.

  Evan and Joey had scouted his three-story Atherton mansion at dusk, taking note of the catering trucks and party planners rolling up to the residence. A Friday-night soiree would provide complications. But also opportunities.

  They’d bolted back to the Stanford Park Hotel and made arrangements for Evan’s solo return. Another quick online spin had acquainted Evan with what to expect at the event: the founder and venture-capital crowd on full sybaritic display.

  He coasted back up the street in an Uber now, the estates looking even more stately at night, uplit and grandiose.

  A San Francisco chill had crept down the peninsula, giving him a good excuse to wear gloves. His looked sleek and stylish, fine leather disguising the steel shot stitched into the knuckles for maximum impact in the event the evening got sporty. At Molleken’s place the party was already in full swing, luxury cars rotating through the quartz-stone circular driveway. A gaggle of snow machines turned the manicured front garden into a winter wonderland, a red carpet carving through the faux powder, fringed with models dressed as sexy Santa’s helpers. A platoon of publicists manning a Citizen Kane–worthy banquet table out front checked IDs assiduously.

  Evan thanked his driver and got out at the street, passing through the massive wrought-iron front gates unmolested. He’d left his truck a few blocks away, wanting to arrive under other cover. His attire was Bay Area founder-casual, a Giants hat low over his eyes, a pair of well-loved 501s, and a hoodie he’d picked up at the Gap. He’d shoved a thin line of chewing gum beneath his upper lip to thwart any facial-recognition software that might be in play and put in contacts that turned his eyes an arresting blue.

  The contact lenses, which Evan had acquired from a connection at a global corporation’s augmented-reality lab, served an additional function as a digital camera. The sensors embedded in the flexible electronics could differentiate between conscious and unconscious blinking patterns. Every time he blinked purposefully, a live stream would be fed to Joey’s laptop.

  When in Silicon Valley, do as the Silicon Valleyites.

  The ratio of women to men was extreme, as much as five to one, and there seemed to be a radical aesthetic differential as well. Evan drifted toward the red carpet with a stream of others who’d arrived via ride-hailing services. The portly guy ahead of him threaded through the high-end cars that the valet had left displayed in the driveway, four stunning younger women in a tight orbit around him. A swirl of hair bird’s-nested the man’s bald crown, which he patted with a handkerchief as he leered at the other women on the check-in line.

  “Now, those girls,” he announced. “Those girls know how to dress up.”

  His dates tittered vacantly.

  A few bouncers were interspersed with the Santa’s naughty helpers, who cooed from beneath bright red caps and adjusted their fishnets. A photo area was set up outside, a guy pouring Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac into the mouths of a trio of women on their knees, the tableau strobing at intervals under the mounted flash heads. The yard reeked of weed and expensive perfume, the party spilling out across the driveway. Electronic dance music pulsed from the interior, the bass thrumming deep enough to vibrate the petals of the massive poinsettia displays rimming the porch. A couple was having sex behind a hedge.

  Evan shuffled forward toward the check-in table, passing a champagne metallic Maserati Quattroporte, a vintage Aston Martin, a bright orange McLaren 570S Spider.

  Two bros in line behind him were arguing. “A Nissan GT-R will eat a Ferrari for breakfast and a Porsche for lunch.”

  “Yeah,” the other said. “But then you have to drive a Nissan.”

  The publicists handed iPads across the desk for guests to sign, their calming murmurs reaching Evan across the crowd. “—basic nondisclosure, just initial here—”

  “—of course you’re on the list and your female friends are welcome, but we’re not admitting any male plus-ones who aren’t preapproved—”

  There were about ten people in front of Evan, but nearly as many publicists at the long table, the line moving quickly.

  Someone stumbled past them, dropped a Baggie filled with capsules. A few broke open, puffing white powder out across the toe of Evan’s boot, mixing with the fake snow.

  “Shit.” The guy looked up at Evan, red-eyed, then gathered the intact capsules. “Chief, your foot just did five snorts of Molly. Your shoe’s gonna be seriously rolling in a half hour.” He cracked up, sagging weakly into his friend, who shouldered his weight and hauled him back inside.

  The EDM kicked up another gear, and the guy with the cognac fell over, taking one of the light stands with him.

  As everyone turned to the commotion, Evan thumbed up the key to his truck, dug it into the side panel of the McLaren, and scraped a two-foot line through the bright orange paint.

  He stepped wide of the line, waving his hands and shouting over the music. “Hey. Hey! You see this shit? That fucking bitch just keyed my car.” He pointed toward the side yard, where partiers gathered in clusters beyond the throw of lights, snorting and laughing.

  The bouncers stepped forward, on alert.

  “That’s a fucking McLaren 570s Spider,” Evan said, releasing his inner asshole. “You’d better find her. Red sequined dress, big nose, no shoes.”

  A pair of bouncers headed off, another touching Evan’s elbow. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ll track her down.”

  “You’d better.” Evan pulled his arm away. “I’ll be back inside,” he said. “At the bar.”

  He shouldered through the line and stormed past the publicists. The bouncers on the front porch parted deferentially.

  The foyer was packed, champagne flowing, dancers jumping to the music. Evan pushed through into an immense sitting room. People were paired off, making out on couches. Slicing through the bar, he wistfully noted the Stoli Andean Elit on offer. He scanned the room for any sign of Mimeticom’s mysterious founder, but Brendan Molleken was nowhere in sight.

  Evan headed down one of a half dozen halls. A long line for the bathroom, women rubbing their bare shoulder blades against the wall. A clot of men with honest-to-God pocket protectors blocked the far end, jittering in their Converse sneakers, noses in their phones.

  Evan squirmed through the hall, passing a home theater remade as a tiki lounge. One guy sat in a potted plant, licking his Breitling watch.

  Someone bumped Evan hard, spilling him into a conversation pit. The cushions caught his fall, plopping him between two women with blown-open pupils and massive press-on eyelashes. They took no note of him whatsoever.

  “You’re pregnant?” one continued, talking right across Evan’s face. “With Sergei’s kid?”

  “I had a miscarriage,” the other woman said. Evan pushed himself up, noting a glint of emotion in her eyes before they went flat again. She wiped a single tear
off her cheek. Her face hadn’t so much as quivered. She laughed, a drunken bray. “Did you steal my lighter, you bitch?”

  “Hey,” Evan said, interrupting. “Have you seen Brendan?”

  The women turned blank gazes to him. “Who?”

  He hauled himself out and into the press of bodies by the bar. He asked a few people if they’d seen Molleken and got shrugs. A sweaty guy with a hairpiece said, “No. Hell, man. You know Molleken. Guy’s a fucking hermit.”

  An older man wheeled around. “Don’t run him down, asshole. You’re here, aren’t you? Drinking his booze, enjoying his house? Don’t take advantage of Brendan’s good nature.”

  Evan left them to their dispute, finding a drunk woman at the fringe leaning over a vase, preparing to vomit. “Do you know where Molleken is?”

  She pointed to the ceiling, which Evan took to mean upstairs.

  The elevator was off-limits from the look of the no-neck bodyguard blocking it. It took a solid five minutes for Evan to make it through the crowd to the sweeping staircase, and he fought his way up.

  The second floor was quiet by comparison, the sounds of sex emanating through a few closed doors. A woman with glossy lipstick looked at Evan from a phone alcove, her mouth parted with pleasure. It took a beat for him to see the man on his knees in the shadows before her, her dress bunched up around her hips, his face buried between her legs. She looked at Evan, panting.

  He moved on.

  At the end of the thickly carpeted hall, a door, presumably to the master suite, rested ajar. Evan headed to it silently, pressed his glove to the wood panel, and slipped inside.

  Dim space, candlelight livening the walls with an aquarium glow. In the center a massive four-poster bed, the canopy drapes pulled wide. On the mattress there were two naked men and five women—no, six. A dozen guests waited half undressed on the dark-upholstered chaise longues rimming the room’s periphery like bleachers. The air smelled of sex, but the couples on the bed appeared to be resting for now, flesh sparkly with sweat.

  The women were all substantially younger and more attractive than the men. The vibe had all the subtlety of a Playboy Mansion party. Or a cattle auction.

  Three of the men at the periphery had naked women sprawled across their laps. They rested highball or martini glasses on the curved flanks before them, conversing as if the women weren’t there. A few additional girls, no older than teenagers, huddled together on the adjacent chaise longues, grinning nervously. One had long dark hair in a throwback center part. She wore a red off-the-shoulder blouse and aggressively ripped designer jeans, her hands clasped tightly on her bare knee.

  The man closest to Evan had an overdone gym body. He ran a hand up his thick beard, holding forth to his comrades. “—got to know your lines. The baseline runs from the jaw corners around the Adam’s apple. Gotta keep that shit clean so you don’t have a neck beard, right?”

  The others listened intently. One slugged back the rest of his drink. “We hitting the cocktail festival again this July, Rishi?”

  The densely bearded guy dismissively waved his martini glass, filled with an iridescent green liquid. “Fuck that. You know New Orleans has the most cases of STDs per capita of any city in the world? That’s like putting your dick in a roulette wheel. You know one of the best cities? Salt Lake. We’re gonna go there and bang Mormon chicks.”

  Evan watched the women giggle. The teenagers joined in on a delay. Except the one in the red blouse.

  An electronic chime sounded, and Rishi pulled out his Google Pixel phone and thumbed at it, his log-thick arm flexing. He groaned. The woman in his lap flicked her head to clear her hair over her shoulder and looked up at him. “What?”

  “New bullshit out of Sacramento. Look at this shit, Zack.” He showed off the screen to the friend sitting next to him. “Americans love drones. Over there. Kill a bunch of mujis, everyone’s on board. But God forbid a UAV gives you a speeding ticket here. Then it’s all moral outrage and restrictions and the fucking Constitution.”

  Evan stepped forward into the guttering candlelight, drawing their attention.

  Rishi looked up at him. “No more dudes in our cuddle huddle, man. We’re not turning this shit into a sausage party.”

  Evan said, “I’m looking for Molleken.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “He’s my boss. You’d bet your ass it’s my business. Do you know who I am?”

  “If you have to tell people you’re important,” Evan said, “then you’re not important.”

  The girl in the red blouse said, “I heard someone say Brendan’s prob’ly upstairs in his office.”

  “You,” Rishi said. “What’s your name?”

  The girl said, “Cammy.”

  “I tell you to talk, Cammy?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  Evan took a step back. Hesitated. Looked at the young woman. “You okay?”

  Cammy said, “Yup, fine.”

  Rishi laughed. “Got us a nice guy here, boys. A white knight.” He smacked the woman’s ass resting in his lap, and she shifted off him. He looked dense, muscle-bound, a gold s-chain nestled in carefully manscaped chest hair. “These girls are founder hounders.” He spread a hand, a waiter displaying the dessert tray. “They know what they’re looking for.”

  “Maybe they don’t.”

  “Oh. You’re a mind-reader, right? You know what’s best for the ladies?” Rishi sucked his front teeth, flicked his head at the door. “Go on back to the kiddie table now.”

  Evan didn’t move.

  Rishi tensed, flicking his martini glass at Evan, the green liquid striping his shirt, his chin, his mouth. A few drops landed on his lips, apple liquor overlaying a grape-based vodka, either Chopin or Finlandia.

  He didn’t want to fight Rishi. But the guy was drinking an appletini.

  As Evan wiped his face, his OCD ramped up and he breathed steadily to tamp it down. He steadied his gaze at Cammy. “Do you want me to leave?”

  Her eyes, heavily made up, darted away. “Yeah. I said I’m fine.”

  “Cammy,” Rishi said. “Come.”

  She rose and walked over to him.

  He reached up and fondled her breast through her top, then grabbed it and pulled her in for a kiss. The whole time he kept his eyes on Evan.

  Rishi released her. She was breathing hard and not, it seemed, from pleasure.

  “Now kiss Astrid,” Rishi commanded.

  Reluctantly Cammy leaned down and kissed the woman who’d previously been in his lap. Rishi pushed the backs of their heads together, laughing. Evan imagined Joey, just a few years younger. His hands had tightened, the buckshot rolling across his knuckles.

  Cammy straightened up, wiped her mouth, tried on a laugh.

  “Run along, now,” Rishi said.

  Evan looked at Cammy once more.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Leave me alone. Just go.”

  Rishi’s sidekick piped up, “You heard her.”

  Evan left.

  Across the floor, up another stairwell. The third-story hall was adorned with display cases showing off a collection of preserved insects pinned to black velvet. Butterflies, beetles, dragonflies.

  Evan was so focused on the collection that it took him a moment to notice the two bodyguards at the end of the hall, framing a doorway like pillars, as motionless as the impaled specimens.

  “This floor is off-limits,” one of them said, his mouth barely moving.

  “I’m looking for Brendan Molleken,” Evan said.

  “What makes you think he’s not busy with his guests?”

  “If he’s up here,” Evan said, “I’m guessing he’s as bored with the guests as I am.”

  A flat laugh issued through the doorway behind the bodyguards. “Finally,” a voice called out. “Someone interesting enough to talk to. Let him in.”

  The bodyguards didn’t move.

  Evan walked between them, entering a vast high-ce
ilinged study, and came face-to-face with Brendan Molleken.

  44

  Rorschach Blot

  Molleken sat behind an expansive walnut desk, polished sufficiently to reflect his upper body and the panes of the towering window behind him. He wore round spectacles that complemented round, boyish features, a face sufficiently likable to make Evan want to smack it with envy. A rumpled oxford shirt bore his initials over the breast. The lighting was cigar-parlor dim, a few scattered sconces warmed to a dull glow.

  Molleken’s elbow rested on the desk, one loosely clenched fist held before his face for no apparent reason. His other hand was placed over what looked like a flat, square computer mouse of sorts, a finger lazily tracing patterns on the sensor screen.

  Though the desk was spotless, the rest of the study was cluttered with filing boxes, stacks of computational notebooks, robotics parts, and discarded electronics. The walls held diagrams of various insects, their anatomic parts labeled down to the last seta. Various degrees framed in gold hung to the left of the window, which looked out across the parklike grounds of his backyard.

  “Sit,” Molleken said, and Evan entered and lowered himself into a plush leather armchair facing the desk. Only then did he notice Molleken’s unusual eyes, the pupils seemingly forming figure eights.

  Polycoria: multiple pupils.

  Fitting for an inventor of all-seeing drones.

  “You’re ordinary-looking,” Molleken said with a flatness that made him seem either stoned or on the spectrum.

  “That’s what I’m told,” Evan said.

  “Your eyes. That isn’t a real color.”

  “No,” Evan said. “I wear contacts.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “No.”

  A feminine voice issued from behind Evan, startling him. “Why don’t you ask who he is and what he wants?”

  He turned and saw an Asian woman—Korean?—sitting on a worn chesterfield to the hinge side of the door he’d just entered. Her legs tucked beneath her, she flipped disinterestedly through a magazine.