Dive into a Sneak Peek at The Brooklyn North Murders
CHAPTER ONE: CUSTODY OF THE EYES
Custody of the eyes. Up until now, it had been an abstract concept I had associated with the medieval and theology sections of the library where I worked – and a half-remembered anecdote about an obscure saint who always walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, so as not to inadvertently ogle any passing woman. This habit (pun intended) had caused him to be run over by a carriage – and wake up surrounded by the nursing sisters of the convent to which he had been conveyed.
Now, it was a practical challenge. Who knew how hard it could be not to look at the tiny red Speedo being worn by the man who had pulled me close for our Triathlon Team Photo?
Only a year ago, this triathlon had been the Morgansburg Annual Fun Run that had consisted of a single lap of Battlefield Bluff. Now it was the Billings Sprint Challenge Series, and had apparently attracted the combined populations of Brooklyn and Poughkeepsie via a social media campaign that had pronounced it one of the ten summer events in the Hudson Valley not to be missed. The transformation – excuse me, rebranding – was also the reason why I was shivering by the edge of an icy lake at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, trying not to examine the all too evident assets that a hedge fund manager named Cam Billings was scarcely hiding beneath an entirely indecent red Speedo.
I was not wearing a swimsuit – or even a wetsuit, as the other competitors were. I had managed to weasel my way out of the swim by claiming a rotator cuff injury, and so was wearing running tights and a reasonably warm wind shirt. It’s not that I can’t swim – a summer camp instructor who fancied herself a Navy SEAL had made sure of that. But that statement only holds true if you consider the dog paddle a recognized stroke of the U.S.A. Swimming Association. I’m not particularly good with bicycles either. Toe clips remain an enigma. My mechanical abilities begin and end with forcibly rebooting a computer.
But as the hot tech star destined to transform Morgansburg, N.Y. into the next Silicon Valley, I was expected to represent De Sales College, and so I was taking on the last leg of the College Relay Team. All that was required of me was the same brisk shuffle around Battlefield Bluff as last year’s Fun Run. My athletic abilities are as limited as my mechanical ones. I walk, run, and hike – all activities that require no more skill than putting one foot in front of the other.
Paul Morgan flanked me as we locked arms for the camera. He was wearing a pair of bicycling shorts that did little more to disguise his assets than Cam’s had. But I didn’t have to imagine what lay beneath that thin, Lycra barrier. Paul and I had dated during our first year at Yale, back in the days when having sex seemed to be the done thing. Victorian brides were taught to lie back and think of England on their wedding. I lay back and rehearsed conjugations and declensions in my head in order to pass the time. Our relationship fizzled out somewhere around the Greek Middle Voice.
That didn’t stop him from grabbing me in a bear hug as he said, “Look, after the swim, I need to be ready to tag in at the changing area. So can you go ahead and get some video of Cam when he comes out of the water for our real time followers?”
“Real time followers?” I grumbled to Doyle. “Who would really sit down and watch this in real time on their phone? My mother?”
“I regret to inform you that Helen Watson is not among the 12,467 subscribers to the Sprint Series webcast,” Doyle informed me.
“It was a rhetorical question.” My mother was not what you’d call a doting parent. When I presented her with a copy of my published dissertation, she had asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”
The response I squelched was unprintable.
Okay, so I was complaining to my phone. Pretty weird, I suppose – at least if you’ve been living off the grid for the past five years. Some people talk to Siri. Some talk to Alexa. Hell, my ninety-year-old grand-mother binge drinks Cosmopolitans with them while they cheat at online bridge. So, sue me if I talk to Doyle.
Granted, Doyle was different from those virtual assistants he dismissed as “the Code Girls.” For one thing, the Girls simply crawled the web and retrieved information. Doyle didn’t crawl. He extrapolated. Or as Doyle would put it, the Code Girls were artificial intelligence; he was the real thing. I’m not quite so sure. For one thing, I’m the one that programmed Doyle. I know where the bodies are buried – or to put it in programmer-speak, I am aware of a few significant glitches that need working out. Primary among them is the fact that Doyle is a complete and utter ass.
