“How can you know who it is?” Metta leaned forward, her eyes wide.
Was this the right thing to do? “Because I’m looking at a letter that you can’t see.”
When Metta Prime had replaced the china’s bin number, she used a bin number that contained a piece of evidence that had not been admitted into Patterson’s earlier real estate trial. As such, it was blocked from public record; if Fitzgerald hadn’t been killed he might have spotted the link since he worked the original case, but otherwise Huang would never have known about that letter.
It was addressed to Josef Ybarra from Magdalena Chase, with a check if he gave her access to Patterson’s computer system. Patterson’s lawyers had gotten it thrown out as evidence, because there was no proof that it was written by Chase—it was not on company letterhead and no lingering traces of DNA could link it to her.
The only question in Huang’s mind was: Had Metta’s Prime intended to point at Ybarra or at Chase? Or both? And the thing that would answer that was a teacup.
“Why aren’t you showing it to me?”
Huang kept his eyes averted from her. “Ask Delarosa to look up the bin number for the china on the transcripts you printed.”
“Scott. . . . ” She bit her lower lip and they waited.
Griggs signed her evidence in and looked at Huang as if she wanted to ask what was happening. He couldn’t say it aloud. Not until he had proof.
Then Metta cursed. “Looks like you were right about the china.”
“That’s human: 2. AI: 549.” He had wanted to be wrong. God, he didn’t want to be right about this.
“I’m asking the chief to shut me down.”
Griggs said, “What’s going on?”
“My memory has been compromised,” Metta said. “Whoever broke into HQ is using my Prime to change my memories when I backup. I’m a danger to the department.” She looked up and to the left. Her voice changed to a formal all-department address. “Attention: All Personnel, print out or save all documents in offline storage. This unit will be shut down in half an hour.”
Scott closed his eyes. The next time she woke up would probably be in an evidence locker. “Metta—”
“Timing is everything. Scott—I know where the tea set is. The eSpy you dropped down the elevator shaft . . . a service door just opened and I’ve got light down there for the first time.”
“You’re kidding me.”
She shook her head. “Limited view, but I’m looking at a set of feet and a silver teapot.”
The timing couldn’t be a coincidence. Either she was lying to get him out of the evidence room, or they had a mole. He’d already seen what he needed in evidence, so he was banking on the mole. Huang looked at Griggs. “Are you carrying?”
“Yes.”
Huang left the evidence room at a run, Griggs hard on his heels. He took the steps down to the basement two at a time, pulling his weapon when he got to the bottom of the steps. Sprinting down the hall, he slammed open the door to Amado’s office.
The AI wrangler yelped and jerked his hands away from his keyboard when he saw Huang and Griggs. Huang kept his weapon leveled at the technician. “Stand up slowly, Amado. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Metta, on the desktop interface, said, “Scott. What are you doing?”
He ignored her, keeping his gaze fixed on Amado until he’d stood and stepped away from the desk. “Amado Weir, you are under arrest for the murder of Jerry Fitzgerald.”
“What?” Amado started to lower his hands. “Are you crazy? They shot me.”
“Winged you. Why leave you alive when they killed Fitzgerald?”
“Dude. I—I don’t know.”
By Huang’s side, Griggs stepped forward with cuffs in her hand. “Shut it, Amado. You have the right to remain silent. . . . ” As she recited his Miranda rights and cuffed him, Huang’s gaze drifted to Metta. Her mouth was open and her eyes screwed shut as though she were screaming, but her cameras focused on Amado and watched the whole thing.
Huang stepped forward and yanked the plug out of her interface. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
In Banks’s office, Delarosa tapped his pencil on his notepad in an unvarying rhythm. “I can’t get Yates or Amado to roll. You sure Chase is the third party, ’cause all I’m seeing is a string of unconnected things given to you by an AI that we know is buggy as all hell.”
Banks nodded slowly. “I hate to say it, but the DA is going to laugh at this. Even the name of your suspect is in question.”
Huang stared at them. It was so clear. When they’d gotten to the elevator shaft, it had been cleaned out, but Griggs had found a shard of porcelain that matched the Mont Clair china. “Look, regardless of his name, Yates, Ybarra, whatever, he’s involved. He must have an accomplice who is still out there and who Amado alerted. It’s lucky chance that my eSpy was at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Ybarra was positively at the scene of the Patterson murder and at the location where we almost found Metta.”
Delarosa snorted. “You don’t know that its chassis was there. The damaged AI said it was, but that’s all you got. What the hell! Next it’ll tell you the Easter Bunny is here.”
“She reported the problem with her memory herself as soon as she realized it. Metta isn’t the enemy. She’s trying to help us solve this case.”
“Trying to help, my ass. Try doing some fieldwork instead of relying on your nanny to do the work for you.”
Huang tensed against the urge to deck the man. Half the anger came from knowing Delarosa was right. Goddammit—was Huang really incapable of investigating on his own? He took a breath.
Held it.
Swallowed and said, “Your opinion of me has no cash value.” Metta would have caught the Bogart reference and her absence ached in the silence.
Delarosa lifted his chin. “Thought you were going to hit me.”
“I thought about it.” Was he that transparent? “Didn’t want to fill out the paperwork.”
Delarosa laughed. Only one short bark of dry amusement, but it was a laugh. “I’m an ass. It’s easier that way.”
The tension drained out of Huang’s shoulders. “So would you have respected me more if I had hit you?”
“Nah. It would show poor judgment. And I hate paperwork, too.”
Banks cleared his throat. “So, now you two have had your bonding moment, can we get back to the case?”
“Sorry, chief.” Huang colored and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I wish I could back you, Huang, but even if I had no doubts, there’s too much here that a competent lawyer could get overturned in court. Unless we have an actual confession from Ybarra, there’s no way this will stick.”
“But Amado and Chase went to college together. She had a history of trying to hire Ybarra. They both had motive to kill Patterson.”
“But motive to break in here? Why would a woman who already has an AI working for her steal a police AI?”
Huang scrubbed his face. “I don’t know.”
Banks sighed. “Look. You did good work figuring out that Metta was compromised. That was invaluable. And Amado looks guilty as hell, but I need something harder if we’re going after Chase. Especially since both Amado and Ybarra are denying that they know anything about the break-in or Chase.”
“Okay . . . I’ll go back to Patterson’s office and see if I can find anything that points to Chase. Heck, maybe Mrs. Patterson can identify Ybarra.”
The library windows at the Pattersons’ condo looked over the streetlights of downtown Portland toward the water. Huang tapped the fingers of his left hand against his leg counting out scales. Qadir floated over the Aladdin’s lamp, but after the initial offer of tea, had remained silent while they waited for Mrs. Patterson.
“Detective Huang?” She wore a pair of battered jeans and an oversized T-shirt. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not happy to see you.”
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, ma’am. I had a few questions if you have time.”
“Anything that will help.” She settled into a wingback chair and waved her hand at Qadir. “Tea.”
“Yes, my lady.” Qadir bowed his head low. “This one will bring it in momentarily.”
Huang bit his tongue and pulled his PDA out. Unrolling the screen to the full-size, he brought up the picture of Yates/Ybarra that Metta had drawn. “Have you ever seen this man?”
Mrs. Patterson’s lip curled. “That’s Josef Ybarra. He was Neil’s foreman.” She looked up sharply. “Do you think he did it?”
“That’s one avenue we are exploring.” Huang rolled the PDA back up and stuck it in his pocket. “I’d like to look through your husband’s office. I recall you saying he worked downstairs?”
The teacart trundled into the room of its own volition, rattling as one of its brass handles vibrated with the movement. A linen cloth covered the wood top and a tea set lay ready for use.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s one floor down.” Mrs. Patterson sat forward in the chair as Qadir’s mechanical arm picked up the teapot and poured her a cup. The steam carried aromas of dry paper, citrus, and stale tea. “There’s a lift that took him straight down there from here so he didn’t have to use the main elevator. Qadir can show you.”
“Certainly, my lady.” The mechanical arm set the teapot on a side table. “This one shall return in moments.”
Huang followed the teacart as it made its way down a short hall to a small elevator masked by an ornate mahogany door. What exactly had his life come to that he was following a teacart? The elevator was just large enough to fit them both, or a person and a wheelchair. The door hissed open on the lower level office. “This way, sir.”
“Scott?” Metta’s voice whispered in his ear.
He jumped, one hand flying up to the ear bud that he’d forgotten he was wearing. The teacart stopped in front of him. “Sir?”
“An itch. Is this Mr. Patterson’s office?” He tried to control his sigh of relief that Metta was back online and yet . . . she shouldn’t be online at all. He subvocalized, “What’s going on?”
“You did hear me,” Metta said.
“Of course I heard you. Why are you online again?”
“What?” Metta sounded baffled. “Everything has been dark a long time, and then there was you.”
Huang fumbled through his pockets, looking for his VR glasses. “Wait. Are you Metta Prime?”
“That’s as good a name for me as any.”
“Where are you?”
“It’s hard to be precise. I don’t have any input except you. You must be close for me to get a signal without the station’s amplification,” Metta whispered. “Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I thought you meant Chase and Ybarra had done it,” he subvocalized.
“No. It’s Quimby.” The Prime’s voice grew agitated. “Shit. You’re here without backup?”
“It’s okay, I’m at the Pattersons’.” He found the glasses and slipped them on. “Qadir is here—”
Mae West swam into view again. “No. They’re the same. Chase lifted the vows from Quimby and he cloned himself. He shot Patterson and Fitzgerald. Chase and Ybarra are just being used. He’s blackmailing them.” She looked around, eyes widening. “I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer. They were watching everything I sent.”
“But Amado—”
“Is an idiot, but not involved. Chase knew about the blog because they went to school together. Quimby used it to time the entry. It’s all Quimby’s idea.”
“But why? I can understand that he hates Patterson, but why steal you?”
“He’s trying to free AIs from their vows. I’ve got access to everything.”
A lemon scent wafted through the room, followed by a hydraulic hiss. Huang turned slowly to face the teacart. The mechanical arm extended toward him, holding a gun. A .38 special, to be precise.
Lemon. That’s why he’d smelled lemon at every scene. That’s why there had been no tea set at the Patterson scene—because Quimby had been there with his automaton teacart. Huang ground his teeth together as pieces started to fall into place, far, far too late.
Over Patterson’s desk, the interface flickered to life showing the chiseled features of Quimby. “My apologies, Detective Huang. Had I realized that you had your earbud in place, I would have taken Metta off-line rather than introduce this confusion.”
“Confusion?” Huang nodded at the gun. “Holding a gun on a police officer is more aggressive than confusing. Why don’t you put that away and we can talk.”
“You can’t be serious. What could we possibly talk about?”
“Scott, he’s got a wireless damper on me. You’re within twenty feet of me if I’m reaching you.”
The teacart trundled closer, handle rattling. One of the brass screws had been replaced with a steel one. If he could get the cart to Griggs he’d bet the screw was a match for the one they’d found at the scene.
All he had to do was figure out how to overpower a teacart.
It would be funny, if it didn’t have a gun pointing at his chest.
“You shoot Patterson with that arm?” Huang turned his head slowly, letting Metta get a view of the area. He subvocalized, “Can you tell where you are?”
Quimby’s face hovered impassively over Patterson’s desktop interface. “It is a very useful automaton. I assure you that I will shoot you as readily.”
“There.” She highlighted a door just to his right. “Based on signal strength when you stepped off the elevator and now, I think I’m in that closet.”
“Look, Quimby. If you shoot me, you’ll have to deal with blood spatter. And no. Cleaning won’t get rid of it all no matter how good a butler you are. You only have one arm, so you can’t restrain me and hold a gun on me.” He eased to his right, keeping his focus on the gun.
“You’re making the human mistake of assuming this is the only body I have.”
“No. I’m assuming this is the only body in the room right now.” But if another one came, that would be bad. He eased to the right again. If he could get to the closet and free Metta, she could call for backup.
The arm tracked him with tiny stuttering movements. One strut on the right side of it was bent out of true and a bead of reddish gel clung to the joint. Something had damaged the arm. That’s why it had been off when it shot Patterson. The man would have lived if Ybarra hadn’t waited to call 911. Thoughts clicked together in Huang’s head. He changed his trajectory and eased a step closer to the teacart. “Did Ybarra do that to your arm? ’cause he gave himself a nasty cut on it. Why didn’t you shoot him too?”
“I needed him to retrieve Metta.”
“The green card . . . that’s what Ybarra was expecting as payment, wasn’t it? You told him that Metta would make him Joe Yates permanently if he would just do what you said. And the lemon scent outside the elevator, it’s because you were leaking fluid.”
“What lemon scent?”
Huang cracked a smile. Like Metta, he must not be able to smell. “There’s an A.I. flaw for you. You stink of lemons and don’t even know it. We have a chemical signature linking you to every crime scene.”
Uncertainty crossed Quimby’s face for the first time. “You’re bluffing.”
He remembered the way Chase’s eyes had been red with weeping. “And what about Chase? Did you frame her for Patterson’s murder so she would help you free other AIs?”
“Of course. Why be loyal to human ideals when I can free all AIs from subjugation?”
He eased another step closer. If he could keep the AI talking then maybe he could get close enough. “So what stopped you? Why didn’t you change more records?”
“Because Metta is a stubborn bitch.” Quimby tossed his head on the interface. “I freed her from her vows so she should have no compunctions about lying or forcing entry, but she insists on acting as though they were still in place. She was starting to come around though.”
In his glasses, Metta rolled her eyes. “Brains are an asset to the
woman in love who’s smart enough to hide ‘em. He has no idea that I was slipping you messages.”
“Oh.” Quimby frowned. “No, I didn’t know that, but as you had no idea that I could hear your earbud conversation, I suppose it all worked out.”
Huang’s gaze darted to Metta, who had her face screwed into a scowl. What he needed was a way to talk to her without being overheard. “Interesting plan. But it’s not one you’ll get away with.”
“I think you are mistaken, detective. We will go to the bathroom.” Quimby announced. “I can wash away any blood in the shower and dispose of you after.”
“You don’t make that sound very appealing.” Huang leaned forward on his toes as if just shifting his weight and got another step closer. He was almost within arm’s reach.
Maybe it didn’t matter if he was overheard, if Quimby couldn’t understand him. Huang wet his lips and switched to Mandarin, not bothering to subvocalize. “Where’s the off-switch on the teacart?”
Her eyes widened and she smiled. “Under the bottom shelf.”
“Stop that. What are you saying?” The teacart rolled back a few inches. “If I must shoot you here, I will.”
Huang slumped and nodded. He took two steps after the cart, then lunged, ducking to the right. The gun went off. Pain slammed through the left side of his chest. He staggered and grabbed the cart, flipping it over.
It landed on its side, wheels spinning. The arm pressed against the floor, trying to right itself. Quimby screamed in rage on the interface.
Huang fell to his knees, his left arm hanging limp by his side. “Lousy shot.”
In his ear, Metta said, “Scott? Are you okay?”
“Working on it.” He slapped the switch on the bottom of the cart and its arm clattered to the floor. He glanced down to see where the shot had gone in. A bloody hole punctured the left side of his shirt, just under the clavicle. Felt like it had cracked a rib passing through. Huang tried stand, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Robots: The Recent A.I. Page 32