“Maybe you will. I’m not an expert on the matter, of course. I’m just an engineer who happens to be good at writing code. It’s a binary occupation, one thing or the other.”

“But that’s not all you do, is it?”

“Isn’t it? Perhaps we can chat again. In the meantime, I hope you’ll take care. Intelligence is a…rare gift. But in your line of work, I would think it’s equally important to know when you’re close to danger.”

Eden looked back and met his eyes. “What makes you think I don’t know?”

Chapter Thirty-One

(i)

(FRIDAY, 10:03 A.M.)

“What kind of place is too good for a Starbucks?” Rivas came out of the coffee shop on the corner of Howard and Third in San Francisco’s South of Market district. He maneuvered around a crowd of pedestrians waiting for the light and turned his back against the chill, damp wind blowing down Third.

“Six bucks for a small.” Handing one of the coffees to Holland, Rivas yelled above the roar of a jackhammer across the street. “Something called Ethiopia Sidamo.”

Holland smiled, opening his coffee. “This is what the world looks like when high-tech money takes over, Rivvie. Different scene back in the eighties when my dad was on the job here. Then it was bathhouses, leather bars, junkies shooting up in the doorways. Now it’s the Digital Renaissance. Hipsters and posers. Skinny jeans and designer glasses in every sidewalk cafe.”

Rivas took the top off his coffee and watched a cyclist change lanes in front of a Muni bus. “Man, I feel like a fish out of water. Where the fuck are we going?”

Holland looked at his phone. “End of the next block. By the way, I texted Frames on the drive down. Told him we’re close to the boys who put the dogs in his car. Thought he’d want to know.”

The offices of DivingBell were the ground floor of a renovated, century-old stone building. The entrance was etched with the company’s logo—a windowed canister, with a chain rising upward—which the detectives had seen on Elise Durand’s computer. Entering, Rivas and Holland stepped into an empty lobby. Their attention was immediately drawn to a glass door on the left side, with a view of a cavernous space where tables of computer workstations spread across the floor and an army of Holland’s hipsters stared at screens.

A large, blank television hung on the lobby wall in front of the detectives. Cheery musical notes sounded, and an earnest-looking woman with a mass of curly hair appeared on the screen. She seemed to be sitting behind a desk in a bare room. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. “May I help you?”

Holland held up his badge. “Police. Here to speak with the owner.”