Page 17 of Identity Unknown
“She wanted all of us to have dinner tonight at that French place she’s been bugging me to try, which is the last thing I feellike after the weekend from hell.” He’s chomping on the gum, his jaw muscles flexing. “I asked why we couldn’t have a quiet night at home just me and her. She said it would be good to see everyone. Like she’s lonely after being around mobs nonstop. Which I don’t get.”
“I’m sorry you two are having a rough patch. Even so, I would have assumed you’d let her know that you’ve been called out of town and aren’t sure when you’ll be home. I didn’t expect that you’d leave it up to me to let her know,” I reply, and he’s pulled this before when he doesn’t want to be the messenger.
“She’s already irritated enough.”
“About what?”
“Supposedly I ignored her the entire weekend,” he replies in frustration. “After I followed her from slot machine to slot machine three nights in a row? And I was right there for her karaoke contests acting like her bodyguard. You wouldn’t believe the people wanting to buy her drinks. And throwing shit at her. Room keys. Money and notes folded up. A sports bra.”
“That sounds pretty stressful and chaotic.” I study his tense face, and my sister wouldn’t be easy for anyone to manage. Maybe none of us are, if we’re honest.
“When Dorothy’s in front of people, I can see how happy she is.” Marino takes the gum out of his mouth, dropping it in the trash bag hanging from the gearshift. “If everyone’s clapping and cheering, she’sover the moon, as she describes it. She used to feel that way about me.”
“You know how much she loves an audience.” I sidestep what he’s really saying. I’m wading in deep enough and resistingfurther detail. “You’ve always known how outgoing she is. And yes, she craves attention, and it’s not new.”
“It’s worse, and we’re getting along like crap.” He’s out with it. “We argued most of the drive home. What the hell did I do to screw this up?”
He seems genuinely hurt and lost. I’ve seen the look before when my charismatic sister goes through men like Kleenex, as our mother used to say.
“You and Dorothy have big personalities, and it’s to be expected that you’ll clash from time to time.” I hope their relationship doesn’t crash and burn. “That’s why it’s for better or worse.” I’ve worried about them ever since they suddenly married during the pandemic.
“You predicted she’d get bored with me, and I guess you were right,” he replies, and I’m taken aback.
“I’ve never predicted or intimated any such thing.” I can’t help but sound indignant.
Past the Sunoco gas station where I often stop, Marino turns left on North Quaker Lane. The name is ironic at the moment, nothing peaceful about our conversation.
“Please don’t take it out on me,” I say in a quieter voice. “I can’t be in the middle of what goes on between you and my sister.”
“I know.” He blows out an exasperated breath.
“Just remember that people don’t always get along, and she’s complicated. She’s also worth it.”
“Not always.” Turning on the blinker, he guns the big engine, switching lanes. “She’s not a fair fighter, spends a huge amount of time plotting and planning. Then there’s hell to pay when you least expect it,” he explains, and how well I know.
My sister mastered the art of mean tricks and slights early on. Hiding my homework and textbooks or the school uniform I’d laid out the night before. Making untrue comments to the nuns that came back to haunt me. Mislabeling the test tubes in my chemistry set. Telling the neighborhood bad boy that I had a crush on him.
“I’m sorry you had an unpleasant trip to Atlantic City, and of all times for you to be out of town,” I say to Marino. “I wish you’d been with me at the Briley scene yesterday, truth be told. I would have been better off. As would Fabian. You know how thin-skinned he is, and the Brileys sensed it. I don’t know if you’ve seen him today but he’s a wreck.”
“People like the Brileys eat the Fabians of the world for breakfast.” Marino picks up I-395, the traffic not terrible at this hour. “Anybody wide open like him is an easy target for jerking around.”
“That’s rather much what happened. Ryder Briley was relentless.”
“He’s a lot more dangerous than most people would imagine,” Marino says. “Fabian needs to stay the hell away from him and his Stockholm syndrome wife. The minute I got to the office this morning I started doing some deep diving. Looking for shit you’re not going to dig up from the regular news. What I’m finding out so far is pretty damn disturbing.”
Bydeep divingMarino means he’s logged into Lucy’s AI chatbot that’s now a handy app on our personal computers and phones. We don’t have to sit at her office workstation if we wantquestions answered instantly. Opening the ashtray while keeping his eyes on the road, Marino digs out a pack of Teaberry gum, offering it to me.
“No thanks,” I reply, and to our left is the golf course at the Army Navy Country Club, a rolling sea of green grass dotted by white carts.
“I wanted information that’s not easy to dig up. The kind of stuff Fruge’s never going to find. And Fabian sure as hell won’t either.” Marino crams two sticks of gum into his mouth, the sharp minty fragrance reminding me of my childhood. “So, I ran it past Janet. I asked her to find out everything she could.”
He doesn’t mean it literally. My niece’s partner, the Janet we once knew and loved, is dead. But her animated AI avatar created in her likeness is alive and constantly evolving. She’s personable, user friendly, and it’s been only recently that Marino has felt comfortable enough to start querying her without going through Lucy. How quickly something becomes a habit.
“I wanted to see what Janet could find, asking her to look for any references to Ryder or Piper Briley,” Marino explains. “Not just reports made to the police that were a dead end or shit people say about them in interviews. But anything posted on social media or anywhere else that’s been missed over the years. And what I’ve been finding out is pretty alarming.”
We curve around the Pentagon City shopping mall as Marino tells me about an internet journalist named Mattie Fey. Six years ago, she complained to the police that the Brileys had been harassing her about a fence she was building. Around this time her service dog was poisoned with fentanyl, and soon after Mattie Fey crashed down the cellar stairs in her wheelchair.
“She lived alone and had been dead for days by the time her body was found.” Marino continues telling me what the AI chatbot we call Janet has uncovered so far. “And what do you know? Her tox screen was positive for a high level of fentanyl when she wasn’t known to take it. She worked remotely, and had most things delivered to her house, including food.”