Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,89

in getting to the second target. Now we have more data.”

“Yes we do,” Declan said. “We are so very appreciative of you.”

Queenie side-eyed him. Careful, little brother.

“Can you follow the stranger?” the doctor asked.

More vehicles flashed through the gate, drifting up the blacktop and past the parking lot. Officer in a spit-shined Lexus. Two dykes in a pickup. A food-services truck driven by a wetback.

“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