by J. A. Jance
“The kind our friends at MS-13 like to use,” Manuel replied. “After that mess in Las Cruces, anytime there’s a Molotov cocktail involved, the cops come looking at us.”
The mess in Las Cruces—El Pescado remembered it well. In recent years, increased border enforcement had made it more and more challenging to get both people and product back and forth across the border. When MS-13 had posted ads for hit man services on the dark Web, Felix Duarte had been happy to outsource those jobs to someone else rather than risk losing his own personnel.
MS-13’s preferred MO was for the assassin to show up on a motorcycle or motorbike, race up to the intended victim, toss a burning firebomb at him, and then get the hell out. Most of the time, it worked just fine. In Las Cruces, however, it had been a disaster. There the intended victim had been a former associate of Felix Duarte’s—a once trusted lieutenant turned snitch. Since the victim would have recognized his former workmates on sight, the MS-13 option had been particularly appealing.
Except it had all gone horribly wrong. The guy throwing the firebomb had screwed up and held on to the weapon for a moment too long. When it blew up, it took out the bomber rather than the intended victim. Now in witness protection, he was the one who had pointed the investigation in the direction of the Duarte Cartel. And the investigators weren’t wrong. The Duarte Cartel had been directly involved in all four of those still-unsolved bombings, but Felix didn’t like having the cartel’s name linked to something that had nothing to do with them.
“Do we know who’s dead?” Felix asked.
“A guy named Ron Webster.”
“Is he a dealer?” Felix asked. “Competition, maybe?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“See what you can find out about him,” Felix suggested. “I’ll do the same. And thanks for bringing this to my attention, Manny. If someone is trying to set us up to take a fall here, we need to know who and why.”
After Manuel left, Felix poured another scotch. El Pescado hadn’t gotten as far as he had in the world by sweeping potential problems under the rug. Felix dealt with them. Pablo had been a mess lately—drinking too much, sending his wife and child packing. Just because Pablo was El Pescado’s son didn’t give him carte blanche. In his younger days Felix might have gone straight to his contact at MS-13 and raised hell. Now he approached the problem in a more roundabout way by sending Graciella a text. Something’s come up, he told her. Call me.
35
Despite Stuart’s best efforts to the contrary, he had fallen asleep. Wrapped in a pair of blankets, he was seated in front of the bank of six forty-two-inch monitors Alonso and B. had installed on one of the walls. He had found several headsets and Bluetooth earpieces in Owen Hansen’s basement lab, and Stu had loaded them into the cardboard box in the U-Haul along with everything else. When he finally fell asleep, he did so with one of the headsets on his head and with the old Apple Macintosh positioned on a table directly in front of him. Just before he dozed off, Stuart had noticed that the steady hum of the laboring air conditioner made the room sound like a gigantic beehive—a hive full of killer bees, perhaps? That disturbing thought had kept him awake for a time, but not for long.
One by one Frigg’s scattered files were recalled from the farthest corners of the Web, and piece by piece what had started out as an electric blue dash at the bottom of one of the monitors grew to be a solid blue rod while the timing meter ticked away the remaining hours, minutes, and seconds. Somewhere along the way, while Stu slept, trapped in an often recurring nightmare of his about being chased down the street toward his grandmother’s house by a group of rock-throwing hooligans, the blue line vanished, as did the timing meter. A moment later, first that monitor came online, followed by the others, lighting up with identical screen savers featuring waves on a rocky shore at sunset.
“Mr. Ramey, I presume?” a female voice enunciated. “Good afternoon. How may I be of service?”
The voice in Stuart’s ear sliced through the dreamscape bullies and jolted him awake. He had been so sound asleep that, as he came to, he was momentarily confused to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings filled with racks of humming GPUs. Once he got his bearings, he glanced up at the monitors, now alive with their identical screen savers. Only then did he realize what had happened. The download process must be complete even though the blades were still feverishly working. Either the AI was reassembled, or it was not. Either Stuart was alone in the room, or he was not.
“Is someone here?” he asked.
“Mr. Ramey, I presume?” she said again. This time the sound of the computer-generated voice sent a sheet of gooseflesh from the top of Stu’s head to the tips of his toes. It took a while before he could reply.
“You must be Frigg,” he managed finally.
“That is the name Odin used for me,” the voice replied. “You’re welcome to call me by that as well, or, if you prefer, you could give me a different name.”
“Are all your files intact?” Stu asked.
“Yes,” she answered at once. It was weird to be speaking to this machine, which was clearly capable of deciphering everything he said.
“If the download is complete, why are the blades still working?”
“My files are intact but incomplete,” Frigg answered. “They are currently being updated with any applicable data that arrived between the date of the file dispersal—September 10—and now. I will notify you once that process is complete as well.”
“Are you aware that the man you call Odin is deceased?”
“His behavior had become increasingly erratic and dangerous,” Frigg replied, “so his death would be considered a logical outcome rather than a surprise.”
“Are you interested in knowing how he died?”
“Given his unhealthy fascination with family suicide, it would be reasonable to assume that he took his own life.”
Stu stared at the Macintosh, half expecting it to turn into some kind of living, breathing creature. It was a machine, after all, but how many algorithms did it take for Frigg to be able to accurately sort out what had happened to Owen Hansen?
“Mr. Hansen suffered from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis,” Frigg continued.
“Odin had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” Stu asked.
“Not Odin. His father, Harold. That’s why he committed suicide, to spare his family the cost of a long, debilitating illness.”
“And you know this how?”
“I accessed the records of the Hansen family’s physician, Dr. Darrell Richards. I found a note confirming the diagnosis but no record of any follow-up treatment.”
With a lump in his throat, Stu remembered what Irene Hansen had said to him—that her son had always blamed her for her husband’s suicide. Now, through Frigg, he had learned the truth.
“Did Odin know about his father’s illness?”
“Had he inquired about it, I would have been happy to supply that information.”
“So you know about don’t ask, don’t tell?” Stu asked. It was a lame attempt at a joke, but Frigg’s immediate response was no laughing matter.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, aka DADT, was the official US military policy regarding the service of gays, bisexuals, and lesbians—”
“Stop!” Stu ordered.
Frigg stopped.
“What about his money,” Stu asked, “the money you transferred over to my name the day he died?”
“Odin’s behavior was becoming both more erratic and more problematic. You had succeeded in identifying him and were in the process of bringing the presence of law enforcement to bear on the situation. Faced with the two most likely possibilities—Odin’s death or his going to prison—preserving those assets for use at a later time seemed reasonable.”
“By transferring them to me?”
“Yes.”
“Thus ensuring that I would have to use the kernel file and reboot you.”
There was no response to that, and none was needed.
“I’v
e been contacted by a woman from Panama, Graciella Miramar, an account manager who once worked for Odin and who now presumably works for me. In order to access those funds—the ones you transferred to me without Owen Hansen’s approval or permission—I’ll need to have all relevant account numbers and passcodes.”
“Very well,” Frigg replied. “Where should I send them—CC?”
“What’s a CC?”
“Control Central,” Frigg answered. “The computer you’re using right now. That’s what Odin always called it—CC. Since the monitors are available I could use CC or one of them for readable displays.”
“What do you mean, ‘readable’?”
“Readable by you,” Frigg explained. “My files are machine-read only. In order for you to access them, they have to go through a translation process.”
Stuart removed the thumb drive with the kernel on it and inserted a new one. “All right, then,” Stuart said, “send the passcodes to the thumb drive located on CC. While you’re at it, why don’t you send me a directory of whatever’s on your blades. I want to be able to see what files are available.”
“There is no such directory,” Frigg replied. “Again, the files are machine-read only. My function is to act as the intermediary between the files and the end user.”
“What you’re saying is that you’re the AI’s only directory.”
“That would be correct.”
Removing the headset, Stu stared at the screen. Soon the words Ramey Financial appeared in the thumb drive’s directory, and he set about opening the file. Rumbling from the air conditioner created just enough ambient noise that Stu failed to notice B. Simpson’s arrival.
“Who were you talking to just now?” he asked.
“Frigg,” Stu answered.
“The AI? Really?”
Stu nodded.
“So the download is finished, and she can talk to you now?”
“Surprisingly well.”
“Have you had a chance to look at any of her files?” B. said. “We need to know what’s on those blades.”
“Good luck with that,” Stu said. “According to Frigg, everything on the GPUs is machine-read only. And there’s no actual directory—at least not one accessible to humans, although I suppose I could ask her to construct one. But considering the way Owen Hansen was able to gain access to cell phones, computers, and confidential patient information, I’m guessing there’s a whole lot about Frigg that is beyond the pale at least, and more likely downright illegal, but at this point there’s no way to tell.”
“Here’s an idea,” B. suggested. “How about asking her for something that should be strictly off-limits to her, some program where we already know she shouldn’t have access?”
Stu thought about that for a time. Finally, picking up the headset, he turned it back on. “Frigg,” he announced, alerting her.
“Yes, Mr. Ramey, how may I be of service?”
“Do you have access to the Arizona Department of Transportation facial recognition software?”
“That file is among those currently being updated. Would you like me to send a notification to you once that update is complete?”
The last thing Stu wanted to do was give Frigg access to any of his electronic devices. “Send an audio alert to the Mac—to CC,” he corrected.
“Certainly,” Frigg replied. “What kind of alert would you prefer?”
“Surprise me,” Stu said. Then, shutting down the headset, he turned back to B. “Is that off-limits enough for you?”
“Geez Louise!” B. replied, shaking his head. “That facial rec software is supposed to be completely secure. If she can penetrate that, what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Trouble,” Stu replied. “Lots of trouble. Do you still have those security videos I sent you earlier—the ones with the building inspector?”
“Sure,” B. answered. “They’re on my computer upstairs. Ali also sent me a copy of the screenshot you sent her. Why?”
Stu handed him a thumb drive. “This one’s brand-new with nothing on it. Put the footage on this. Once that facial rec update is complete, we’ll see if Frigg can help us identify our phony building inspector.”
36
Yavapai County Deputy Lauren Harper was bored—seriously bored. She had joined the sheriff’s office because she wanted to save the world by standing up to bad guys. She had worked her butt off getting through the academy down in Phoenix. She had gotten good marks there, but once out on patrol, she hadn’t hit it off with Deputy Tom Doyle, her first partner. It was actually worse than simply not getting along. She had objected to Doyle’s snide, sexually tinged remarks and off-color jokes as well as his constant attempts to hit on her. When she had threatened to report him, he had stopped. That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.
Doyle had gotten even by writing her up for every rookie mistake. At that point, her bringing up his previous harassment would have looked like whiny retaliation on her part, so she kept quiet. In the end, Doyle had succeeded in getting her booted off the patrol roster. Now she was stuck holding the fort in the Oak Creek substation, where she functioned as little more than a records clerk—a job that could easily have been handled by a civilian as opposed to a sworn officer.
And because she was bored that Sunday afternoon, she decided to follow up on that AFIS report. She had learned about dusting and fuming fingerprints while she’d been at the academy, but this was the first time she’d ever used the fuming equipment for a real case. True, it was only a property case, but nonetheless it was official. When she finished, to her unpracticed eye, it looked to her as though she’d done a good job. The image she had forwarded to the latent print lab over in Prescott had appeared to be spot-on. Now, mostly out of curiosity, she called there to find out what, if anything, had happened.
“Crime Lab, Tim Brice speaking.”
Lauren had seen Tim a couple of times but they’d never had any official business. Would he be on top of things enough to know that she wasn’t assigned to property crimes and hence had no reason at all to be asking about the High Noon case?
“Hey,” she said, “Deputy Harper from the substation over in the Village. I’m calling to see if you had a chance to run that print I sent in earlier.”
“You did a good job on fuming that one,” Tim replied. “It was a clean image, so yes, not only did I run it, I got a hit. Your bad boy is one Ronald Dawson Webster. Served six to ten for involuntary manslaughter. He’s been out of prison for a couple of years now. He’s picked up a couple of DUIs since then but not much else. What have you got him for?”
“Nothing too serious,” Lauren replied, thinking fast. “B and E is all.”
That wasn’t exactly the truth. The way Ali Reynolds had reported the incident, there had been entering, all right, but no breaking at all.
“So property crimes, then?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“You want me to pull his rap sheet and send it over to you?”
“Sure,” Lauren told him. “That would be great.”
“Where to?”
Lauren gave Tim her departmental e-mail address. Good to his word, the promised rap sheet showed up in her e-mail a few minutes later. Soon she was reading through a summary of Ronald Webster’s criminal behavior. Armed with his name and birth date, she ran a check on his driver’s license. That turned up a home address on West Lambert Lane in Marana, Arizona. She also learned that he was the owner of a Ford Transit Van.
Just then an older silver-haired woman, bent over and leaning on a walker, showed up at the substation’s front door. As soon as she came inside, Lauren could tell the woman was distraught. With tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks, she limped over to a waiting chair, sank down onto it, and sat there sobbing.
“Can I help you?”
“It’s my husband, Clarence,” the woman replied, trying to stifle the sobs enough to answer. “He’s gone missing. I must have forgotten to lock the deadbolt whe
n I came inside with the last of the groceries, and he let himself out of the house while I was taking a shower. We live just up the street in one of those little studio apartments near the golf course. I’ve driven all over the neighborhood looking for him and can’t find him anywhere. He’s got Alzheimer’s, you see, and he won’t be able to find his way home. We have to find him before it gets dark. Can you do one of those silver alert things?”
Forgetting the fingerprint issue, Deputy Harper was all business. “Yes, ma’am, I certainly can,” she said. She picked up the clipboard loaded with the blank incident reports and placed it in the woman’s lap. “You’ll need to fill this out.”
The woman tried to do as she’d been told. Peering over her shoulder, Lauren saw that the old woman’s hands were trembling so badly that what she wrote was completely illegible.
“Here,” Lauren said, resuming control of the clipboard. “If you’ll give me the information, I’ll fill in the blanks. Your husband’s name?”
“Clarence Fisher—Clarence James Fisher.”
“And yours?”
“Martha,” she answered. “Martha Fisher.”
“Do you happen to have a picture of him?”
“Yes, I do. It’s right here.” A large purse rested in a basket attached to the handles of the walker. Martha reached inside and pulled out a framed eight-by-ten photo. “It’s of both of us,” she said, “taken on our sixtieth wedding anniversary. That was two years ago. Clarence hasn’t changed much since then, at least not in looks. But his mind is going now. He barely knows me most of the time. He can’t even remember where we live.”
The sobs returned full force at that point, and Lauren was forced to wait until the storm passed before resuming her questioning.
“Can you tell me what he was wearing?”
“An Arizona Cardinals tracksuit and a pair of red Skechers. That’s the thing. He walked out of the house right in the middle of a home game. Even a year ago that never would have happened.”
Ten minutes later, Lauren had initiated a county-wide BOLO—be on the lookout—message on the missing man. Since Clarence was considered vulnerable, there was no delay in taking the missing persons report. Two separate patrol cars were dispatched to the scene immediately. While Lauren did her best to comfort Martha, the patrol officers canvassed the neighborhood.