The Second Son

by Martin Jay Weiss

  Karmic justice.

  Ethan approached. “Any chance it’s been plugged in?”

  “Car’s exactly as you left it.”

  The driver sorted out the paperwork and handed Ethan the keys. Ethan got inside and checked the dashboard. His battery had enough of a charge to get back up to San Francisco.

  Ethan drove away and called Bailey. While the phone rang, Ethan thought of something Jack had often said: Every advantage has an equal or worse disadvantage. It was true with every app entrepreneurs created to make lives more efficient and convenient. It was true for his car that was invented to save the planet. Ethan realized that it was also true about people, and especially true for twins.

  Bailey sounded anxious when he picked up. “I’ve been calling all night. For the love of God, where have you been?”

  “Jail,” Ethan told him. “They thought I was Jack. They have a video of him running away from a dead guy holding a gun.”

  “We’ve all seen it,” Bailey said. “It was on the news, for Christ’s sake! The office was abuzz last night. Everyone stayed until midnight. Good thing we don’t pay overtime.”

  Ethan smiled. “Glad you always put the business first.”

  “Somebody has to, especially since your brother quit on us and you went AWOL.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I find her.”

  “So you’re out? They released you?”

  “Yeah, and the FBI will make Jack’s charges go away if I help them find Brooke,” Ethan explained. “But you’ll never believe why they’re looking for her.”

  “At this point, I’d believe anything.”

  Being the first time Ethan said it out loud, he nearly swerved off the road when it came out of his mouth. “She’s wanted for the murder of her father. They think she was after her family fortune.”

  Bailey fell silent, for once.

  “You still there?”

  “High-class problems never cease to astonish,” Bailey said. “I should have known. Her being from the Royal Borough of Kensington and all. Is she a princess, duchess, lady, majesty—?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll bet her surname is Mountbatten or Windsor—”

  “Godeaux,” Ethan told him.

  Bailey’s voice dropped an octave. “What did you just say?”

  “Her real name is Stella Godeaux.”

  “Bugger!” Bailey blurted. “Please, don’t tell me this!”

  “Why? Is she really a duchess?”

  “We should only be so lucky,” Bailey said. “You know our angel investor—?”

  “No,” Ethan reminded him, “because I’ve never spoken to him.”

  “Well, his name is Clinton Godeaux, an Englishman with a French surname, for fuck’s sake! He’s also the guy from Kensington who’s been looking for her with the initials C. G. Now we know why he wanted to remain nameless. I’m such an arse, I should have known!”

  “He obviously didn’t want you to know.”

  “Maybe Emily was right about her,” Bailey said. “Maybe she was already married when she came to America. I can find out in a jiffy.” Bailey moved over to his desktop computer. “A quick search will suss out if Godeaux was her maiden or married name.”

  “The FBI told me that she had a brother who contested the father’s will. Clinton Godeaux is probably the brother—”

  “Eesh!” Bailey shrieked as articles emerged from The Sun, The Mirror, Daily Mail, and local tabloids. “This was a big scandal. It’s all over the red tops.” Bailey skimmed a few articles and then read out loud, “‘Stella Godeaux fled the country after the autopsy proved that her father, Arthur Godeaux, was poisoned to death.’” Bailey paused to consider the weight of this, and then asked, “What if the reason CG backed Stalker was just to find her? That must be why he pressured us to put our Face Match Mode up before it was ready, and the reason I can’t get ahold of him now. I have three calls into him.”

  Ethan reasoned, “Funding a company just to find someone is pretty extreme.”

  “Not if you’re looking for your sister who murdered your father and messed with your inheritance. Says right here that her father, Arthur Godeaux, was a successful businessman and her mother, Beatrice Goodchild-Godeaux, was the daughter of an English aristocrat. This doesn’t look good, Gov—”

  “I still don’t believe it. She couldn’t murder anyone. She couldn’t.”

  “All evidence is pointing to the contrary.”

  “She told me that she loved her father, that they were close. And she never lied. You know her. She was blunt and forthright about everything.”

  “About everything that she wanted you to know.” Bailey’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She avoided talking about anything personal. That’s not normal. Women love to share everything. They love to talk. At least, all the women I know do.”

  Ethan stared out at the road. Was it possible that her brother financed Stalker just to find her? Could this be an elaborate cat-and-mouse game that he had gotten mixed up in?

  “Remember how you originally pitched Stalker?” Bailey reminded Ethan, “For people who are too preoccupied and hung up on the past—?”

  “To help people find resolve in their past so they can have a future,” Ethan corrected.

  “Same difference. It’s for desperate people, if we’re being honest.”

  “Desperate measures!” Ethan countered. “It’s for people who can’t move on until they have answers…” His voice went raspy and dire. “Like me now.”

  “This has been a rough patch for you, Gov. But you’ll get through it. You’ve taken Stalker this far because you’re a believer. You think everything is possible and it’s a great quality. It’s contagious. It’s the reason we’re all here.”

  “My brother calls it blind faith.”

  “You can be starry-eyed at times. It’s true. And that’s why you can’t see Brooke—or Stella—for what she really is, maybe.”

  They both went silent for a bit. Ethan felt ridiculous for being so mulish, despite the facts.

  “Your blind faith or optimism or belief in the underdog or whatever you want to call it, is rare,” Bailey said, “and it’s the reason you’ll get through this. You’ll find love again. There are plenty of fish in the sea, some of whom are not wanted for murder.”

  Ethan appreciated the encouragement but the thought of moving on from Brooke was too much to bear. “The FBI gave me the address of where my brother’s hiding. I’m on my way there now. Do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Keep trying Clinton Godeaux and see what his intentions are?”

  “Sure,” Bailey promised. “I’ll call if I get through to him.”

  It was the last time they ever spoke.

  CHAPTER 29

  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, e
xaggerated 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 bi
g 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.

  CHAPTER 31

  Ethan sat with Jack in Sean’s living room reliving the past twenty-four hours.

  Ethan asked Jack about his abduction, knowing Jack was still reeling from seeing a man die, and feeling responsible.

  “It was the first time since I declared my atheism that I wished I had a God to absolve him,” Jack told him.

  “And I thought you were hopeless,” Ethan teased.

  “Right now, I’m just glad to be alive.”

  Ethan explained what had happened when he went back to Dancing Rabbit, how he had been mistakenly identified, arrested, and told that Brooke was wanted for the murder of her father.

  “Everything I thought I knew about her is a lie,” Ethan said. “She played me like Grand Theft Auto.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Sean said as he joined them, sitting next to Jack, as if Jack were his. “She’s in love with you. She wanted to marry you.”

  Sean made Ethan uneasy. He was his direct competitor with an unfair advantage, who had lured his brother away, likely for some insane amount of money.