The Southwest flight to Salt Lake City was turbulent, mostly due to the terrified shudders of the passengers with peanut allergies. I was trying to rest my head against a new parka that I got at half price from Macy’s, wondering what a nice Silicon Valley boy like me was doing heading to the icy reaches of Layton…
It started a few days earlier. I was sitting in my office – I’m a PI – Private Investigator – working the streets of Silicon Valley from the hipster neighborhoods of San Francisco, to Sand Hill Road, to the hills of San Jose where rusted signs on fence posts point to the future of software development.
A creaking sound from the stairs announced my next clients. From the sound, I knew they were real heavyweights. They didn’t bother to knock.
The guys were big – muscle. The kind of guys you don’t mess with. I was about to reach for the gun I keep in my desk drawer, but one glance from the leader told me that would be a bad idea.