Page 99 of Sharp Force
I remove evidence from my scene case, receipting the swabs to Clark so he can carry them to the labs when he returns to my headquarters. Benton and I take off our PPE, and it goes into the red biohazard bag that by now is almost full.
We walk back through the house, stepping around blood and evidence markers.
“Lucy and Tron will be here any minute,” Benton says. “They report that the media is out in droves. All the major networks.”
“It would seem that Zain and his robot are very close,” I observe.
“I could tell that when I’ve been around them. Zain treats him like a pet.”
“And I thought talking to an avatar was mind-scrambling enough,” I reply. “Until it started feeling normal. Now, a robot dog that I had a bizarre impulse to pet. I’m beginning to question the meaning of consciousness. And when we feel love for AI, does it feel love back? Or is it just the programming?”
“We’re all programmed, Kay.”
Light streams through the front door’s borehole as we reach the foyer, putting on our coats, collecting our belongings. It’s getting close to ten o’clock when we step out on the porch to the sound of dripping water. The sun is bright, the temperature fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit on the brass outdoor thermometer attached to a portico column.
The FBI crime scene unit has reconvened on the driveway, getting ready to invade the house at long last. Fabian is inside our black transport van. He rolls down his window, wishing us a happy holiday.
“I caught Pinky!” he calls out proudly, happily. “Boursin on a Ritz did the trick. I have a little mouse house for him in the on-call room. He’s safe and sound.”
“I’m glad something is,” I answer as Lucy and Tron pull up in a black Tahoe.
They climb out in tactical clothes and flak jackets.
“Did someone call for the dog catcher?” Lucy says drolly, her eyes masked by dark glasses.
She’s lean and fit, her keen face serious, her short rose-gold-streaked hair shining. If she stayed up all night at the FBI Academy, I can’t tell. She looks wide awake, energized.
“Robbie’s battery is dead,” Benton lets them know.
“Sounds about the way I feel,” Tron answers, dark and exotically attractive with a smile that’s hard to resist.
“But before he conked out on us, he said he went into autonomous mode when the Wi-Fi was signal jammed,” I tell them.
I explain there appears to be blood on the bottom of the robot’s feet, and it could be Zain Willard’s. But it might be Georgine Duvall’s. After the attack Robbie must have come downstairs.
“In autonomous mode he would be disconnected from the internet and completely reliant on his sensors,” Lucy informs us. “He would respond to noises and images, also motion, light, possibly odors.”
“Odors such as bleach?” I ask.
“Maybe even blood,” Tron volunteers. “Depending on what he’s programmed to detect and respond to.”
“Screaming, arguing, running, the sound of Zain’s voice, it could be anything he alerted on,” Lucy adds. “But I can’t say for sure until we take a look at how he’s designed and what the parameters are.”
“We’ll be extremely interested in anything the cameras may have recorded,” Benton says. “If Robbie went downstairs while the killer was still inside the house, we might have just won the lottery.”
“I would imagine he has I.R. capabilities,” Lucy adds. “Meaning he can navigate and film in complete darkness.”
“If only we could be so lucky.” I open my briefcase, pulling out the foil-wrapped device Benton removed from the undercarriage of our car.
I give it to Lucy as we tell them we’re off to the hospital onSeminary Road. Benton intends to question Zain Willard while I look at his injuries. Lucy stares at the former chapel, sunlight shining on the stucco, illuminating the stained-glass windows on either side of the door that’s now missing its brass handles and lock.
The soggy yard has small ponds of standing water, the brown grass patched with snow in the shade of old trees and boxwoods. I wonder what she’s thinking about Georgine Duvall, but now’s not the time to ask her.
“How’s your mom?” I ask instead.
“Last I talked to her, she was getting ready to head to our place.”
“Our place?” Then I remember.
