Broken Build: Silicon Valley Romantic Suspense

by Rachelle Ayala

  Jen went to the refrigerator and opened a can of juice. “Wearing makeup doesn’t mean she’s with a boy. I wouldn’t start worrying unless she doesn’t come home by eleven. She might have gone to a movie or to a friend’s house, although she should have called.”

  There was a pause before Mrs. Walker replied, “Okay, I’m off to church. Text me if you hear from her.”

  Jen promised she would and disconnected the call. No doubt Mrs. Walker took a few deep breaths to remind herself she was only a foster mother. Or she scowled at Jen’s lenient attitude. Jen crushed the juice can. Most likely Christy didn’t want to go to church. Weren’t foster parents disallowed from pushing their religion?

  She tossed the can into the bin. The Walkers were the perfect couple. They had raised five children, all law abiding, upstanding citizens. They prayed before meals, made pumpkin pie from scratch, had a real Christmas tree, baked Christmas cookies complete with colorful frosting and sprinkles, and made their own peppermint bark.

  Max licked her fingers and wagged his tail. Jen filled his doggie dish with food and changed the water. She hugged Max, rubbing her face in his fur. She had always wanted a dog, a swing set in the yard, a father at the barbecue, and a mother baking cookies. A real family, like the Walkers, who ate together, played catch after dinner, and toasted marshmallows in the fireplace.

  Jen’s phone buzzed. A chill swept the back of her head.

  Rey’s number popped on the display.

  Chapter 5

  Dave combed his fingers through his hair, untangling the ends. He needed a haircut but had no time. More importantly, he needed money to keep his company afloat through Black Friday. Maybe Melissa, his other angel investor, had forgiven him for ditching her in the hot tub last Sunday. He texted her. You free this evening? I’m at the office.

  Eddie, his Chief of Security, tapped at the doorframe. “We haven’t paid Anderson Alarms for three months. They’re cutting off monitoring. Are you okay with this, given what happened this weekend?”

  “It had nothing to do with our company. Street racing or drug deal. Besides, they never told us our cameras were broken. What were we paying them for?”

  “Archiving the tapes and responding should an alarm be triggered.”

  Dave scratched the side of his face. “Ask him to hold until Cyber Monday. I have a cash infusion coming in.”

  “Okay, boss.” Eddie gave him a mock salute and strode away.

  Dave straightened the items on his desk, pausing at the photo. His bride, Jocelyn, smiled back, her teeth white behind rosy lips. He’d never forget the thrill in his heart when she walked down the aisle, with downcast eyes that flicked shyly beneath her veil. His fingers had trembled when he lifted the white veil, and he had been filled with endless hope and bliss when the pastor declared them husband and wife. He opened the drawer and laid her picture down. He had failed her. They never caught the driver, and her family preferred to believe it an accident. Dave rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.

  Jen Jones’ personnel file lay on his deskpad. Sheila from HR had warned him about firing an employee for circumstantial evidence. Of course, she didn’t know Dave had spotted Jen at Il Forno. But then, Dave couldn’t afford to admit he’d been there with Claire, a married woman. The hostess had raised an eyebrow, seeing him with Mrs. Tyler. He rubbed the bruise on his forearm. Claire had pinched him when he called her ‘Mom’ on the way out.

  Jen Jones. So unlike Jocelyn. Jen was statuesque, Jocelyn petite and a wisp of a girl. Jen seemed to be a fighter but strangely vulnerable. His wife had been demure and confident. Foul-mouthed and luscious against sweet and tidy. Wait. Why was he comparing her to his wife? He pushed the badge photo under a stack of papers as guilt crawled over his chest like a disturbed nest of fire ants.

  He pulled Jocelyn’s photo out of his desk and kissed the glass over her precious lips. No one will ever replace you. I vowed before God not to love anyone but you.

  He didn’t need distractions or trouble, and Jen Jones was definitely trouble—definitely hiding something and definitely involved. The victim had dropped her off. Perhaps he had hung around to do a drug trade or meet with his buddies. And what was that text message about? Of course the build was broken that night. No, it hadn’t even been built. The servers were all down. He probably texted her when he got impatient waiting. Then what?

  He slid Jen’s picture from the pile. She had wept for the dead man with real feeling. The remembrance of her body pressed against his stirred his heart. She fit perfectly in his arms, her face against his jaw. He could dance cheek to cheek with her and kiss her without dislocating his neck. His extremities tingled while warmth bubbled inside. He pictured her in an evening gown with a band of diamonds and rubies around her long, elegant neck. He’d trail his hands down her sleek back…

  His Blackberry rang. Melissa. Dave pushed aside all thought of Jen’s trembling lower lip and the soft curve of her chest. He had to focus on the cash flow he needed to keep the doors open.

  He affected a casual tone. “Hey, you outside?”

  “Not yet. Getting off the freeway. You coming to the Tarot reading tonight?”

  Dave swallowed a groan. “I’m thinking more along the lines of giving you a back rub while I tell you about the brilliant Black Friday launch that’ll have your insides quivering and glistening.”

  “Oh… sounds starry.” Melissa gushed and slurped over the phone. Starry, indeed, like maybe three million stars.

  Dave’s stomach twisted and tumbled. This would be the last time. He ended the call and brought up a browser to check Shopahol’s bank account. Claire had not made her deposit yet. And if he didn’t perform, neither would Melissa.

  Jen’s iPad lay on his desk. A trace of her fragrance lingered. She smelled fresh, clean, and warm, like Jocelyn’s sparkling sunshine scent. His mind wandered. What would Jen feel like in his fisherman weave sweater sitting in front of the fire at his Tahoe cabin? They could share mugs of hot apple cider, decorate a real Christmas tree, and collect pinecones in the snow. The suede iPad cover was as soft as her hair. He swept it aside and thumbed through the icons. The few pictures she had were with a skinny teenage girl, probably her sister. Nothing with Rey or any other man. Her reading app was full of books with male torsos on the cover. He flipped one open and gulped. Nothing like his mother’s inspirational romance novels.

  His body flushed with heat, he looked back at Jocelyn’s angelic face and shoved the iPad under Jen’s file folder.

  He waited for Melissa.

  * * *

  Jen stared at her phone. Rey’s phone number. Missed call. A text message popped on the screen. You’ll pay for breaking the build.

  She scrolled through the rest of the messages. Same phone number. She ought to show the police. But if the killers took Rey’s phone, why did they stick the code on his body? Unless Rey grabbed it from them, and they killed him after she went back into the building. But then they would have taken back the memory stick. Nothing made sense.

  A new text message flashed from Praveena. Jen, check your email. We need a new build.

  Jen turned to her laptop. Marketing needed the demo package, and the engineers had checked in fixes to all but the price queue memory leak. The mock-ups worked, but should the Mississippi executives decide to put in live bids, any changes to the price queue would time out. She located the changes and started another build.

  A wet nose touched her forearm, accompanied by a low whine. Max’s tail thumped against the table leg. Jen closed her laptop. She had not signed up to be a dog sitter. Sherry was supposed to have walked Max before leaving for her shift. Wait. She didn’t need Sherry’s rent money anymore. With Rey out of the picture, she’d have an extra four hundred a month.

  Jen swallowed a sour lump. What a selfish thought. What had his last moments been like? Had they taken him by surprise or overpowered him? Rey had been a trained assassin, a member of some special forces. Perhaps it was an accident. Illegal races occurre
d in the empty parking areas between strips of buildings with cars maneuvering around the speed bumps. Oh jeepers, Rey had to have been a huge one.

  She listened to her voicemail. Rey’s sister, Vera, wanted her to go to the funeral Saturday. Nope, she’d have to beg off. With her luck, some OgleTeer would have his cell phone trained on her and blast her picture to OgleShare. Not-grieving not-girlfriend not weeping at funeral of ex-Marine turned lowlife. Check her bumper for blood?

  Max thumped around her feet, bouncing with eagerness. She attached the leash and shoved paper towels into a plastic shopping bag. They jogged across the street to the park.

  Her cell buzzed while she stood under a tree waiting for Max to do his business. Her lawyer, Owen.

  “You’ll never believe what happened,” she said without greeting him. “I got a missed call from Rey’s cell phone. Don’t you see? The murderers kept his phone and are using it.”

  “I’m sure the police are monitoring all calls from his phone. I bet that’s why they gave yours back, to track Rey’s phone. It’ll be interesting to see where the calls are coming from.”

  She let Max have more leash. “The more I think about it—it’s those guys I saw outside the building around eleven-thirty.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “No. They drove by too quickly.” Jen lied, not wanting to disclose the robbery of her memory stick. “Did you find out the time of death?”

  “Yep,” Owen sounded confident. “It’s a range, of course, but off the record, the coroner told me it could have occurred no earlier than ten o’clock and no later than one am.”

  “The last text message was just before midnight.”

  “Right, but you have no alibi for the later range. We can show you bringing servers online between ten and eleven. Why did he text you? Was he expecting something from you?”

  Jen yanked at the leash when Max barked at another dog. “I have no idea. But someone using his phone to call me shows I can’t be the murderer.”

  “Doesn’t prove a thing. We have to find where the calls originate. They can claim you’re calling yourself.”

  A nagging knot twisted Jen’s stomach. “Is that what they’re saying? I can’t believe it.”

  Owen chuckled. “They’re not that smart. I’m anticipating their moves. Champion chess player that I am. Anyway, I told Detective Mathews you won’t be talking to him again. But you’re still hiding something from me.”

  “Can’t you just trust me?” Jen stepped on the leash and bent to pick up Max’s droppings. An oozing warmth permeated the paper towel. How did she get stuck with this? She breathed out with her nose, held the bag at arm’s length, and swept the paper towel into the bag.

  “I’m also a lawyer. You’re the one who panicked and asked me to go to the station with you. Sure there isn’t something else you’re worried about?”

  She tugged Max’s leash and threw the plastic bag into the trash. “Did they tell you anything else about the body?”

  “I’m not telling until you tell me everything.” Owen mocked in a sing-song voice. “How about going out with me? Ya wanna go to the Swamp Thugs gig at the Hoot?”

  “Is this blackmail?” Jen hoped her voice didn’t sound stuck to her throat. She ran her tongue across her upper palate to clear the itch.

  “Nope, tit for tat. I don’t do pro-bono work, you know.”

  Great, just great. Jen twisted her lips and swallowed a snide remark. Owen had been hitting on her since she emerged from her self-imposed cocoon. A sixty pound weight loss shouldn’t have made such a difference except with shallow men. “I don’t like feeling forced to go out with you. I thought we were friends.”

  “Got me there. No pressure.” He cleared his throat. “Think you’ll be free Saturday night? The Swamp Thugs have a dance contest at Moose Hall. You know they toured with your dad?”

  “I didn’t know.” Jen wiped her brow. “We’re on a tight schedule for the Black Friday field trial. The software engineers are desperately fixing bugs, and Greta’s got the whip out. We won’t have time off until Cyber Monday, if all goes well.”

  “I’m checking the schedule. Your dad’s making an appearance at Club Luz in mid-December. Want me to get tickets?” His voice brightened across the line in an obvious effort to sound upbeat and confident.

  Jen suppressed a sigh. “My dad couldn’t care less about me. Maybe something else?”

  Perhaps she was just as shallow as the men, feeling no attraction to Owen. His baby face was perennially red with bulging blue eyes over a cherubic double chin, and his hair had already started to thin.

  Unbidden images of the CEO, Mr. Jewell, crowded her visual field. Her heart did that flip flop thing again, and she shuddered with a mixture of fear and curiosity. His hair was just a little longer than civilized, thick and dark, over an intensely masculine face. A strong nose dominated his features yet did not distract from the generous mouth—dangerous, like that vampire in an old TV series, someone not to be messed with, especially by someone as guilty as she.

  “Did you even hear what I’ve been saying?” Owen’s voice jolted her out of a cloud of sweet noogies. “I was asking you which band you wanted to hear.”

  “Oh, sorry, whatever you like.”

  “Great, practice that Cajun shuffle because I’m feeling like zydeco night at the Hoot.”

  Her phone buzzed with a second call. “Hey, Owen, have to go. Mrs. Walker’s on the other line.”

  “Okay, I’m looking forward to our date.”

  “Sure, see ya.” She switched to the second call.

  Mrs. Walker’s voice screeched, “There’s been an accident. Christy is okay. But they were all taken to the precinct. I’m on my way.”

  Jen’s hair tingled to the roots. “Where?”

  “Fremont Police Station.”

  “I’ll be there.” Jen dragged Max up the stairs and threw him a doggie biscuit.

  Don’t think about it. She said Christy’s okay. But what if Mrs. Walker’s definition of ‘okay’ was ‘barely hanging onto life?’ Jen’s pulse galloped, and she grabbed her keys and ran to her car.

  The traffic had lightened up, and she made good time, arriving at the imposing Fremont Police Station right behind Mrs. Walker’s minivan. Together they jogged up the stairs.

  Officer Walker met them at top. “Not to worry. Christy is fine. I brought her here to deliver a serious message. One of the young men is in the hospital. Illegal street racing.”

  Jen’s indrawn breath was covered by Mrs. Walker’s strident voice. “I should have known.”

  Officer Walker lowered his head and put an arm around his wife. “Please try to calm down, honey. Christy is very emotional about this. She witnessed the accident.”

  Jen stumbled over a chair in the waiting area. “Where is she?”

  “Holding cell,” he replied. “To sober her up. She’d been drinking.”

  He led Jen past the set of double doors and down a sterile corridor of drab walls and steel grey doors.

  Mrs. Walker’s sturdy heels clip-clopped behind them. “I knew there’d be trouble. I knew she went out with guys. The way her girlfriends rolled their eyes while swearing she was at the library. She should have gone to church with me. The ladies’ Bible study was about Michal’s rebellious spirit.”

  Mr. Walker drew his wife aside. “Mitzi, drop it. We’re foster parents. I know you want the best for her, but our job is to provide her a stable home environment and support her.”

  Officer Walker gestured to a female officer. “Miss Cruz’s sister is here.”

  Christy was huddled on the cot with her jacket over her head. The officer opened the jail cell, let Jen step through, and then locked it.

  Jen hugged her sister and kissed the top of her head. “Oh, sweetie.”

  Christy’s trembling expanded into loud gulping sobs. “It’s my fault he’s hurt.”

  “No. Mr. Walker said there was an accident.” She tightened her hold to clamp Christy’s chatteri
ng shakes. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Sammy was at the finish line.” She stopped to catch her breath. “H-he wanted a beer s-so I threw him a can. But… it went wide and rolled back toward me. I ran to pick it up, and he pushed me out of the way. And… and…”

  Sharp choking sounds hiccupped from Christy’s windpipe. She buried her head in Jen’s chest.

  And Jen recalled another evening. The silent impact. The shock of a body tossed across the windshield like a rag doll. The red, expanding spider web. The screeching tires and smell of brakes and rubber, the whooshing judder of air, and her best friend had spun to the ground, dead on impact.

  Chapter 6

  Jen unlocked her apartment. Christy and the Walkers filed in. Max sniffed at them and wagged his tail, but no one patted him. Christy would be spending the night with Jen.

  Mrs. Walker tapped Jen’s shoulder. “You’ll keep an eye on her at all times?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Mr. Walker set Christy’s backpack on the couch. He looked at his cell. “Sammy’s out of surgery. Busted spleen and a few broken ribs. Thank God it wasn’t worse.”

  Christy grabbed Mr. Walker’s cell phone. “Can I call him? What’s the number?”

  “I’m sure he’s asleep,” Mr. Walker replied.

  Jen took the cell phone from Christy and handed it back to Mr. Walker. She guided Christy toward the couch. “Honey, it’s late. We’ll go tomorrow during visiting hours.”

  “Christy, dear,” Mrs. Walker said. “I’ll swing by at six to pick you up for school.”

  “Mitzi?” Mr. Walker prodded his wife. “Perhaps she should take a sick day. I’m sure she won’t be missing much tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Walker put her hands on her hips. “No, I think it would be best if she went. Nothing’s ever solved by sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Christy ignored them and slouched on the sofa. Jen stepped to the door. “I’ll drop her off, don’t worry.”