Page 58 of Sharp Force
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know the details. But he has a robotic dog named Robbie that he brings to work on occasion, using it for show-and-tell,” Benton says. “I’ve seen it doing tricks for dignitaries, all sorts of high-level visitors to the White House. His uncle gets a big kick out of it.”
“That seems risky if the robot is capable of recording whatever’s going on,” I reply.
“It’s not allowed in secure areas like the Situation Room,” Benton says. “And having robotic dogs around isn’t new. The Secret Service is already using them in certain situations. To patrol the fence line around the White House, for example.”
“I’ve seen videos of them at Mar-a-Lago,” I recall.
“Part of Zain’s internship involves R&D of this sort of thing,” Benton explains. “I guess when your uncle is a U.S. senator who may be the next president, you get special privileges and access.”
“Sounds like Zain Willard might be capable of causing all kinds of sophisticated trouble such as signal jamming and hacking?” I suggest.
“Maybe so.”
“And most of all, would he have the ability to use holograms to stalk, spy and create a public panic?” I ask.
“Maybe. But the timing wouldn’t make much sense.”
The phantomlike hologram was seen by first responders while Zain was bleeding on the sidewalk, Benton points out. Some fifteen minutes later, Marino and Fruge saw the same projected apparition as Zain was driven away in the ambulance.
“Marino mentioned something about a drone,” I tell Benton, and surprise glints in his eyes.
I explain what Marino told me about the two men he believes are CIA spies.
“I hope he doesn’t run his mouth about that,” Benton says.
“Then you think the Slasher is using a drone?”
“In fact, we know he is, and not the sort of thing your average hobbyist buys off the internet. It’s been detected intermittently in the earlier cases. And it was picked up by sensors on Mercy Island before and after this morning’s home invasion.”
“Then I don’t see how it could have been Zain at the controls,” I decide. “He was in the ambulance when Marino saw the phantomlike hologram.”
“And if Zain’s the killer, what happened to the weapon?” Benton is putting on thick socks and Chelsea boots. “How could he hide it after the fact without tracking his own blood everywhere?”
“He couldn’t. As much as he was bleeding, he would have left a trail no matter what.” I’m looking at my phone, checking the internet for a mention of this morning’s attack.
So far, nothing.
“I remember when Calvin Willard first ran for office long ago, about the time we left Virginia thinking we’d never be back.” Skimming through a slew of emails, I mark them as unread for later. “Andhere we are, and he’s likely going to be the Democratic nominee for president. Favored to win in the latest polls.”
“Let’s hope that never happens,” Benton says.
“And of course, the Secret Service would have no reason to watch Zain?”
“No.” Benton clips his badge holder, his pancake holster to his belt.
“Does Calvin Willard know what’s going on?” I ask from my closet, grabbing a winter tactical jacket.
“Yes, the senator knows.” Benton slides his pistol into the holster. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Kay?”
He looks at me as he walks to my bedside table, and I know what’s coming.
“No, I didn’t forget. But I wish you would,” I tell him.
“Statute eighteen-point-two.” He retrieves my Glock from the bedside drawer.
“Do we really have to think about this today?” I tuck a lip balm in a pocket of my cargo pants. “Don’t we have enough to deal with?”
