8. Cali #3
I shake my head. "No. I used a personal contact of mine."
"Oh," he says, "so, like, a volunteer?"
I smile viciously. "… Not exactly."
Todd whimpers, then turns it into a coughing grunt.
But he gets it.
Even in this dark room, with only the glow of the screen to illuminate his face, I can see how ashy and sickly he looks. He knows what the next slide contains. In one more click, everything he knows turns to shit.
"Cali," he growls, in that hushed mutter he uses in public whenever he thinks I'm embarrassing myself—or, worse, embarrassing him. "I don't think this is the— Maybe we step out and—"
"This data set is comprised of eight streams in total," I announce over him. "Let me walk you through them."
Click.
The dashboard rebuilds itself.
Gone are the trucks and invoices. In their place, eight rows snap into view, color-coded, stacked, every one timestamped, every one cross-referenced against the others.
"Stream one," I say. "A smart bathroom scale. Mine, to be specific. But how was I weighing in from three thousand miles away? And weighing in at forty pounds less than my actual weight? Strange, right?"
The room has gone quiet in a new way. I think Todd might vomit before I reach the end.
"Stream two. On the Spotify account I share with my husband, Todd Bradshaw, a single song has been played repeatedly, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for the last three weeks.
Wonderful Tonight, Eric Clapton, in case you're curious.
I love that song. Well, I used to. A little less so, these days. "
Click.
"Stream three. The location history of my husband's iPhone, rendered as a heat map.
You'll notice a few anomalies that the program caught.
For instance, what's an investment banker doing at home on Tuesdays and Thursdays?
Why does a man with a brownstone on the Upper West Side seem to regularly visit a one-bedroom bachelor pad in Murray Hill?
Better yet, why was he there an hour ago? "
"Cali." Todd is growing paler and paler with every slide. "Stop."
"Stream four." I'm looking right at him now, merciless. "Starting eighteen months ago, Todd suddenly seemed extremely eager in picking up our kids from school. He used to suggest we make them Uber home. What could be drawing him to PS 234? Will the engine find out? Let's see."
Glover has uncrossed his arms. He's looking between me and Todd with equal parts irritation and disgust.
"Stream five starts to make the picture clear.
We've got text messages. Lots of them. The overlap with the school pickup line timestamps is fascinating, if you ask me.
Can't wait 2 c u. Wat r u wearing today?
i hope nothing under that skirt. You gentlemen get the idea.
I won't read them all out loud. Some of them aren't suitable for a work setting.
" I pause and purse my lips like I'm deep in thought, then add, "Though I suppose neither was the activity they describe. "
Somebody at the table coughs. Todd has both hands flat on the table now, like he's trying to hold himself down. "Cali, for God's sake."
I keep going, ignoring him totally. It's a miracle anyone in the room can still breathe, because all the oxygen seems to be gone.
"The other party in these messages is also someone I've known for fifteen years.
My son's teacher, as it happens. And, until recently, my best friend.
" I smile. "It really is a small world, isn't it? "
Click.
"Streams six and seven." A document unfurls across the screens, clean and official, full of signature lines and DocuSign stamps.
"Paperwork. The first element is a lease for that charming Murray Hill bachelor pad I mentioned.
The second is a retainer agreement with a law firm, based off a template historically used for aggressive divorce cases.
The third and fourth bits—and this will be interesting for you all as bankers—form a Delaware LLC, listed as 'Bradshaw Holdings,' whose sole purpose will be to hold what it calls a 'founder's interest' in a data sciences company.
" I let my eyes travel slowly around the table.
"My company. The one whose product you're all watching right now. "
"This is—you can't—" Todd is half out of his chair now. "This is a private matter. This is my family—"
Click.
"Last but not least: Stream eight."
Travel reservations light up the room, two of them, side-by-side, with the changes clearly highlighted.
"Eleven days ago, my husband modified our tenth-anniversary travel plans. You'll note that my name was removed, and the name of my son's fourth grade teacher, Paula Sampson, was inserted."
I click one more time, and the screen goes dark as the slideshow ends.
"The engine works," I say in a soft voice into the stunned silence. "I built it to catch supply-chain fraud." With a deep breath, I conclude, "Turns out it works just as well on a cheating husband."
I turn to Todd and give him my best smile.
"What do you think, honey? Wanna invest?"