by Lee Winter
The stranger turned her head sharply, meeting Lauren’s eye with a furious expression.
Uh-oh.
“You King? Lauren King?”
“Yes.” Lauren pointed her over to a seat.
“Fiona Fisher. You put me in the paper.” Her lips turned into a snarl as she dropped into the seat.
“The missing-food-delivery robot story.” Lauren nodded, sitting beside her. “You were one of the witnesses who interacted with it as it passed.”
“Witness, my ass. I just stuck my face in for a look, and next thing I know you run my picture with your story. People think I stole that damn thing.”
Lauren frowned. She’d made sure she hadn’t worded it that way. So had the Post’s lawyers. “Sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t say that. I mentioned how dozens of people stopped and engaged it in funny ways before it disappeared. We ran photos of ten people, not just you. And in none of them did we say the people had anything to do with stealing it.”
“Bull. Lady, you out and out called me a thief.”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry you see it that way, but I really didn’t.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Fiona pulled out a cell phone and scrolled to an app button that had the initials “MET” over a picture of a balaclava. “My daughter’s friends were playing with this stupid thing at school. It’s called My Evil Twin.
“Okay.” Lauren hadn’t heard of it. “What’s it do?”
“You give it a photo of a person and it matches it with a criminal—the criminal who looks most like you. Now look right here who my Sadie’s picture was matched with.” Fiona spun the phone around with a soft growl.
Lauren examined it. A teenage girl’s photo was next to one of Fiona. Except the photo of Fiona had prison bars running down the picture, “Evil Twin” stamped on her forehead, and the words: “Suspected Thief” underneath. She frowned. “But what’s that got to do with…” Lauren suddenly noticed the orange top in the photo. It was the photo taken by the robot’s camera. The same photo her paper had run.
“See? Now tell me, why are you giving my photo to those app people to tell lies about me? I’m no evil criminal. Worst I ever had was a parking ticket. My girl’s a laughing stock and so am I.”
Lauren shook her head. “I’m really sorry this has happened, Ms. Fisher, but it has nothing to do with me or my paper. Now, Antonio’s Pizzeria gave a copy of those photos to police. And, I mean, it’s just a guess, but it looks to me like the police have uploaded the witness photos into their database, probably looking for a match with a criminal, and somehow that Evil Twin app has found your photo from that.”
Fiona Fisher blinked at her and then rose to her full height, towering over Lauren.
“That sounds like ass-covering bull to me. How could some stupid free app like this be able to get into a police database?”
Now that was a really good question. Lauren thought hard. “I really don’t know. Look, I think you’re right; it’s something to investigate. I will do my best to get to the bottom of this. Can you leave me your contact details?” She held out her notepad and a pen. “I’ll let you know what I find, okay?”
“This better not be some brush-off. ’Cause I’m mad enough to sue someone.” She reached for the pen and notepad and began to scribble. “Sue someone real hard.”
“I can understand why. I’d be mad as hell, too.”
The woman shoved the notepad back at Lauren, turned, and stomped out of the foyer, muttering under her breath, “This ain’t damned right.”
No. It really wasn’t.
Lauren felt a familiar sensation creep along her skin. It was similar to how she’d felt at a business launch party two years ago when something seemed very wrong indeed. Curiosity mingled with excitement. If her hunch had been right once…
Returning to the seventh floor, Lauren sat at her desk and typed My Evil Twin into her search engine. Ouch. 527,000 results.
“Okay.” Lauren hitched up her sleeves, rolled her shoulders, and got to work.
She started with her half a dozen contacts at the Metropolitan Police Department. They seemed mystified, and each confirmed no one had been supplying photos to anyone beyond their own police databases. No security incursions, either. No hack attempts. She knew these officers well. They were straight shooters, and she believed them.
She phoned Antonio, who denied passing his photos to anyone but her and the police. Then he cheerfully offered her a lifetime pizza discount if she found his robot-napper.
Next, she did a series of corporate searches. Far from being shady, My Evil Twin belonged to a regular brick-and-mortar DC company, Lesser Security. It offered a suite of respectable protection and security software programs and hardly seemed the sort of business to offer such a lowbrow app at all.
She downloaded My Evil Twin onto her phone and emailed the ten photos from the robot-napping story to her device. It was the easiest way she could think of to find if they were all in the app’s criminal database or just Fiona. She presumed the program would just match each person to themselves.
One by one, she loaded up each of the witnesses’ faces. One by one, they were paired with other “evil” people, but not themselves.
Lastly, she put Fiona’s photo in. Sure enough, she was matched with her own picture. Lauren studied the image of Fiona behind cartoon jail bars and Suspected Thief stamped underneath it. What was it about Fiona that made her different from the others caught on camera? All ten witnessed the same thing that day. All ten had had their photos given to police by Antonio. But only Fiona was now in My Evil Twin.
Two hours later, Lauren decided to simply ask Lesser Security. The company CEO insisted on handling her call himself for some reason. He agreed immediately to an interview but insisted it happen face to face. How unusual.
She stared at the company website on her phone as she waited in the foyer to be admitted up to his office. The business’s other apps were mostly run-of-the-mill, such as My Security Hours, a staff-management tracker for security companies. Another one, My Suspect Customer, tracked “problem” customers in real-time and flagged them to a mall or store owner’s on-site security guards to keep an eye on. She wondered how the app decided who was a problem or not.
She added it to the growing list of questions for the founder and CEO of Lesser Security.
Douglas Lesser was thin, tall, and pale, with a smile that was only just on the polite side of condescending. He was not the sort of man you’d expect to be running security apps at all, Lauren decided as she eyed him over his enormous power desk.
She’d been surprised to find his office, in a prime real estate location, was lavishly furnished in dark woods. Was security really this profitable?
Lauren showed him Fiona Fisher’s photo on her phone. “So, as I explained during our call, I was wondering how this woman ended up in your My Evil Twin database? She has no criminal past. Police tell me they have no particular reason to suspect that she’s the one who stole the food-delivery robot this photo was taken from.”
“I’m sorry,” Lesser said. “I can’t discuss proprietary information.”
Lauren gritted her teeth. He’d made her come out to visit him for a no comment? “Your app is free. You’re not exactly going to be losing money if you tell me.”
“Retaining confidentiality gives us our competitive edge.”
“What competitive edge? There are no other criminal-matching apps out there.”
Another almost-mocking smile was his answer.
“Okay, well, can you at least tell me if the database info comes from DC’s Metropolitan Police Department?”
“It doesn’t.”
Lauren shifted in her chair. “If it’s not sourced from the local police, and only they and I have a copy, how do you explain this?” She waved at Fiona’s photo.
“All my data is obta
ined legally, Ms. King. That’s all you need to know.”
“Fiona could sue you. You’ve plastered her face as a suspect all over America’s most-downloaded app.”
“Who, her?” He peered at the photo, studying Fiona’s bright outfit in detail. “She won’t.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am sure.” He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “She’s wearing a ten-dollar Walmart top and three-dollar plastic earrings. She’d hardly be a compelling witness, either.”
“How can you say that?”
“She’s too stupid. It’s clear from the photo she can’t even work out what an autonomous delivery unit is.”
“Come on, these robots are brand new. Not something you see every day. That actually makes her intellectually curious, not stupid.”
He laughed. “I know people. I study people. She won’t sue. Next question.”
So smug. She looked about his office, thinking hard. “Why are there so many number twelves in here?”
For the first time, he seemed surprised. “No one usually notices. Twelve’s my favorite number. By the way, you seem familiar and I’m good with faces. Hell, look at my apps. They’re all about faces, aren’t they?”
It was creepy when he said it like that. She shifted in her seat. “Why are you based in DC and not, say, Silicon Valley?”
“This is where the real power is. No, really, how do I know you?” He squinted at her.
Lauren ignored the question, well aware she’d never seen him before in her life. “What’s the deal with My Suspect Customer? How does it work out who’s a threat or not?”
“All customers are possible threats. Doesn’t matter how innocent they appear.” He leaned forward and put his palms on the desk. “But I wrote an amazing algorithm that takes into account many factors. Those factors are proprietary information, too.”
“An algorithm.” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “So, it just…guesses.”
“Educated guesses.”
“I’m sure the lucky customers getting side-eyed by security guards love that. ‘Don’t be offended, ma’am, I’m watching you because of the algorithm.’”
He shrugged, but it was too practiced to be casual. “Simply put, my software isn’t designed with human sensitivities. If there’s a potential problem, it highlights it, no matter how unpalatable that truth may be for some. That’s it. Tell me, Ms. King, are my clever little algorithms what really interest you?”
She glanced around his office to avoid his intense gaze. On the walls were photos of him with various politicians—none at the top of the food chain—a framed photo of a bulldog, and a few odd symbols on paperwork on his desk that seemed meaningless.
“I take it by your silence that you’ve run out of questions?” Lesser’s voice contained just the barest politeness. “Was there anything else?”
Lauren shook her head and stood. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lesser.” She held out her hand. When she met his eye again, there was a shift in his expression. It now contained recognition.
His eyes gleamed, hands unmoving. “Enjoy Iowa.”
She froze. “Why do you say that?”
“This is DC, Ms. King.” Lesser stretched back in his chair. “I told you: I’m good with faces.”
He laughed as she strode quickly out of his office. She could still see his smirk the whole time she hailed a cab and raced back to her office.
Lauren’s work phone rang just as she was settling into her chair, her nerves thoroughly jangled.
“Washington Post Metro desk, Lauren King speaking.”
“Mmm, I do so love your professional voice. It’s why I call your work phone so often.”
A warmth filled her. “Catherine,” she breathed.
“How did it go?”
Lauren blinked in confusion. How did what go?
“Is Mrs. Potts officially our wedding planner?” Catherine continued when Lauren didn’t reply. “Or will we have to employ the spirited and opinionated services of your Meemaw?”
Wincing at that frightening mental picture, Lauren said, “Mrs. Potts says she can do it. She’ll come by Dad’s place on Monday at nine.”
“First thing? Good.”
“Mm.” Lauren fiddled with her cell phone and stared at the picture of Fiona again. She puzzled at the mystery before her.
“What are you up to? You sound distracted.”
“I just had the weirdest meeting with an app company’s CEO. He was creepy as hell. As I was leaving, he called out ‘Enjoy Iowa.’ I hadn’t even mentioned Iowa.”
Catherine went silent. Then her words were small. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“My spontaneous outing of us. I should have thought it through better. By inviting everyone to Iowa for it, I informed the whole world where you were from. I took away your privacy. And then the video of my proposal went viral, so now complete strangers recognize us.” Catherine’s disapproving tut would have been funny if Lauren wasn’t so disconcerted.
“Yes, but he said ‘Enjoy Iowa’ like he knew I was going back there next week.”
“He was just fishing, Lauren. Trying to get a reaction. Chances are you’d have to return home sooner or later, given our wedding’s there in three months. Besides, everyone knows everyone’s business in DC.”
“I guess so.” Her tension eased a little. “That’s true. You’d think they’d have something better to talk about than us.”
“Oh, they talk about that, too. Look, try and relax. You’ll have forgotten him by tomorrow.”
“Probably. He was just so annoying.”
“Sounds like it. Meanwhile, I’ve been researching Iowa. It’s frankly alarming the things I’m turning up.”
“Is this about Hickory? God, what’s he up to now?”
“No, it’s about me. I thought I should have at least some idea of local culture before I landed in it. Did you know there’s this thing called a Combine Demolition Derby?” Catherine’s voice rose to incredulous. “Combine harvesters collide into each other for fun. What will they think of next?”
“You’re adorable.”
“Mmph. Lies.”
Lauren laughed and glanced at the time. “Hey, I gotta go. I have the crime briefs to file now.”
“Until tonight, then,” Catherine said. “I’ll present you with the rest of my disturbing findings then.”
“Can’t wait.”
Chapter 3 –
Baggage Handling
The next evening, Catherine lowered her book as the front door to her DC apartment unlocked. It closed again with a loud snap. A backpack-sized clunk sounded on the floor. Then came two smaller, matching, boot-weighted thuds. She glanced at the clock. Almost ten.
A blur of girlfriend flew past in a sea of brown hair, shedding shirt, and flushed skin.
She cocked an eyebrow. Well. This was getting interesting.
“Oh, hey!” Lauren hopped back into view with one leg out of her jeans.
Catherine regarded her in amusement. “Hello.”
Lauren toppled back toward the bathroom. There came a bang, an “oops,” and one final thud.
Catherine didn’t ask. Shower time for Lauren could be a loud and uncoordinated affair when she was home this late and this exhausted.
She contemplated returning to her book, but Senator Hickory’s butter-dish-shallow worldviews were not holding her attention.
A head reappeared around the corner. “How late am I?” Lauren asked, yanking her hair from its ponytail. “Did I miss dinner?” Her look of hopefulness warred with her tone of sorrow that she’d maybe missed out.
“That depends on your definition of ‘missed.’” Catherine slid a bookmark in between the pages and placed it on her bedside stand. “I left you some. It’s in the oven.”
“Ooh!”
Lauren beamed. “Thanks. I’d kiss you, but I still smell of that factory fire today. My hair reeks of smoke and something weird. I think my notebook may have to be put into one of those bunkers for nuclear waste.”
“Well, by all means,” Catherine said with a wave, “get decontaminated. Try not to leave a glowing towel.”
Lauren laughed and disappeared. There was another familiar crash as Lauren skidded into the bathroom cabinet, courtesy of socked feet on shiny tiles. The teeth-rattling noise was accompanied by a pitiful “Crap! Sorry!”
Catherine picked up her book again. She glanced at the next page and dropped it with a sigh. Did Hickory really think people cared that his wife grew the neighborhood’s best pickles? Catherine was still having a hard time reconciling that the senator waxing lyrical about vegetables was also spearheading revolutionary new technology. It was like two different people.
She was tempted to ask him about it, but her column on his veterans’ data chip program had already come out, and she was definitely on Hickory’s black list. Again.
The hiss of the shower stopped.
Moments later, Lauren, in a white robe, stumbled into the bedroom, her hands furiously working a towel through her hair. She slung it over the back of a chair and flopped onto the bed with a hearty huff of air.
With a long look at Lauren’s wild hair and exhausted blue eyes, Catherine reached across, combed a stray tendril from her eyes, and smiled. Even when Lauren was too tired to see straight, she looked adorable. Well, adorably rumpled. “A late one tonight. Feeling better now?”
“You know, I think I do. Got my second wind. Whatever you’ve done in the kitchen smells amazing.”
“It’s seared tuna with scallops cooked in a reduction of lime butter, bok choy, and yellow pepper, and a corn salad with turmeric dressing—plus basmati risotto, of course.”
“Of course.” Lauren gave a tired laugh.
“Just something I threw together. I put the fish and scallops on when you texted me that you were on your way. There’s nothing worse than overdone fish.”
“Nothing.” Lauren broke into a smile. “My God, I live with someone who sears sesame tuna.” She sat up, rummaging under her pillow, and dragged out a pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top. Flinging off her robe, she slid on her clothes and rolled over toward Catherine. She planted a kiss on her cheek. “You spoil me.”