Chapter Text
Jack stood at the end of the long conference table holding an iPad aloft. Below TattleCrime’s red header was a headline:
BLOODSUCKER ON THE LOOSE! Venture Capitalists aren’t the only vampires outwitting law enforcement in San Francisco
Freddie had put a picture of the latest crime scene front and center. The body of a young woman had fallen out of a storage closet after a product launch party. It was a break in pattern, the only one that wasn’t staged. But the corpse was completely bloodless like the rest; unless there were two bloodsuckers on the loose, it was the same asshole.
“SFPD has officially invited us to take over the case,” said Jack. “The missing kid is Arthur Holmwood’s, of Holmwood & Associates. My understanding is that they’re responsible for funding half the products in here.” Jack jabbed a finger at his phone on the table.
“So the PD doesn’t want this shitshow?” Zeller said.
“Nope, it’s our shitshow now. The kid was at an ‘investor social’ last night. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a party.”
“It’s a party where startup founders meet investors. Basically corporate dating,” Price said. “But I don’t know why they don’t just question the founder of the blood transfusion startup.”
“Coporate dating,” Jack murmured. Then, frowning as he registered what Price had said, “The what?”
“There’s a startup that’s charging like 10k to transfuse young blood into old people. They claim it has health benefits. There’s also a blood testing company that’s being investigated for fraud. It was paying its employees for blood.”
“What.” Alana said, voice flat.
“Yeah! They convinced a ton of important people who should’ve known better that they could run basically every blood test on a single drop of blood. Except it’s physically impossible, the microfluidics—”
Zeller and Katz froze him with a look.
“I didn’t know you followed technology news,” said Jack. “That’s good, Price.”
“Selling blood isn’t like selling organs,” said Alana. “Sure, it’s…legal. But that’s not safe!”
“The FDA told people not to buy it, but tech bros are all about everlasting life and nootropics,” said Price. “They’ll do anything to live longer except sleep 8 hours a night and get adequate exercise, though some of them—”
“The kid’s been missing ten hours,” said Jack, running roughshod over Price’s excited explanation. “We fly out this evening. I made sure everyone has time to go home, pack up, and come back. Locals have already looked at ex-boyfriends and the usual suspects, but they’ve hit a wall with competitors and anything business-related. Those are the loose ends we’re hanging from.”
Though most stood and began to gather their things, Beverly stayed seated. She sighed. At Jack’s pointed look, she said, “Do y’all know much about this culture?”
“What culture?” Jack said.
“Startup culture. Venture capitalists, tech people.” Beverly waited.
Alana shook her head. Jack didn’t immediately say of course he did, so that was also a no.
“First, the techy areas of San Francisco are about 80% male under 40, mostly white,” she said. She didn’t need to add that most serial killers matched that demographic.
“Hell of a suspect pool,” agreed Price. “And I know the whole scene is pretty cutthroat. No pun intended.”
Before Jack could brush her off, Beverly pressed on. “More importantly, these folks don’t like any kind of prying or investigation that could make investors nervous and devalue the company. Everyone is going to act guilty by our standards. Nobody will want to talk to you.”
Jack’s mouth hardened. “They’ll talk to me because we’re the FBI.”
“Jack, their lawyers will tell them to give you a tour of the office and a cup of good coffee, make you think they’re answering your questions while they’re basically giving an investor pitch, and you’ll be blinking back out in the sunlight wondering what the hell just happened,” she said. “And it won’t even necessarily be because they’re guilty. Just that an investigation could make their investors nervous and lose them tens of millions of dollars overnight.”
“I’m sorry you think I’m that easy to bullshit,” Jack said.
“I didn’t say that. These people have ‘helipad and flee to islands with no extradition’ money. You push, and all of a sudden they’re made of lawyers. Then you’re spending weeks for every crumb of progress until you run out of budget. You could be bullshit-proof and it might not matter.”
“And you know this how?” Jack said, rubbing a palm across his face with a rasp of beard.
“My dad is one of the lawyers. This is the shit he tells them to do.”
Jack leaned over his propped elbows and rested his chin on clasped hands, digesting. After a long pause, he looked at Beverly again. “Fine. So we don’t go in straight. What’s our story? What makes these people play ball?”
“Money, their in-group, a chance for a deal. They trust people like them.” she said. Before Jack could speak, she added, “And that means white and male. They wouldn’t take you or Alana seriously. Not any of us, really.”
Jack’s brightening expression soured. “Here I was thinking I’d done something good by pushing for a more diverse FBI. Would anyone like to propose something actually useful?” he asked, in the dangerously patient voice that suggested imminent explosion.
The room was quiet for a long moment. For once deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Price sipped his coffee.
“I have an idea,” said Alana.