The Dolls

by James Patterson

  Thankfully, his phone beeped before I could shape a response.

  “Ted.” He answered the phone, putting a finger up and whispering to me, “I’ll be quick.”

  He tried to keep his discussion low, but failed.

  “How the hell have we not found it?” he said urgently, walking away from me. “What about the tracking? Yes, we need to figure out why the fuck it’s not working. Why are you even asking me that?”

  As he walked farther out of earshot, I wandered quietly back to the last room, the darkened studio, bracing myself. I wasn’t sure I could handle another eyes-wide-open doll. A flash of relief came when I found the light switch—no dolls and no body parts.

  All I found were whiteboards mounted on walls surrounding filing cabinets to the left, a set of cubicles to the right, and a long couch in the center. I don’t want to know what kind of testing happens there. I peered over the cluttered desktops, with pictures tacked to the fabric on each side of the enclosures. They were images of women and body parts—some magazine clippings, some photographs, and a few sketches on drafting paper.

  I stopped, suddenly short of breath, at the last desk.

  Holy shit. I could hear my heart hammering in my ears.

  A large printout of a facial profile—my face—was pinned to the inside of the cubicle, mixed in with shots of other women. This is too much. I’m out.

  I ripped it down and my flight response kicked in, fully and finally. I tapped a nonexistent watch on my wrist as I passed Elliott, still talking on the phone, and found my way up the stairs, past Dawn still at her desk, and out the door.

  Chapter 17

  Crouched alone at a table near the entrance to the crowded café, Marlene looked like she had been watching the door, waiting for me.

  “Is he still there?”

  I nodded. My hands still were unsteady from the series of unsettling discoveries. I was winded, either because I’d run most of the three blocks, or from fright, or both.

  “I don’t like when he’s there after I leave,” she said in my direction. “Maybe I ought to go back and check.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine without you.” I sat down without a drink, still trying to calm the jittery feeling in my chest. The last thing I needed was caffeine.

  “I’m not worried about him,” Marlene said. She pressed her hands together, anxious. “You saw today how he gets. It was worse because it didn’t go well at the board meeting this morning. He struggles under direction. He gets frustrated—irate, really—when someone else can’t envision what he does.”

  “So he takes it out on you?”

  “That doesn’t bother me so much.”

  I waited for her to elaborate after a long pause. She pushed the glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, trying to focus in the noisy environment.

  “He can make truly beautiful products. Magnificent. But when things aren’t going exactly as he planned—well, you saw how he acted with our new receptionist—”

  “Dawn. A robot.”

  “He told you?” She looked shocked, doe eyes exaggerated by thick lenses.

  “He did,” I said. “He was pretty open, talked about the technology and the software—”

  She was nodding along, and I saw my opportunity.

  “— the cameras and the recordings.”

  She kept nodding. I knew it. Sandra had been telling the truth. Elliott had invented a way to keep his eyes on the dolls—at the factory and maybe after, too.

  My thoughts started to stretch to the edges of Elliott’s skin-crawling capabilities—a shudder creeped up my spine as I wondered whether he might have watched my visit with Sandra. Marlene was saying something.

  “I hate that part.” Marlene cringed. “I think it’s just mean. Unnecessary.”

  “The recordings?”

  “Yes, and the memory,” she said, squeezing her coffee cup.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked around, like Elliott might be over her shoulders somewhere. I copied her, beginning to wonder what would drive someone to stick beside a person like Elliott. Someone who used his understanding of human nature to cut right down to desire—and fear—and customize accordingly.

  “You’re not writing this down? You won’t repeat it?”

  I shook my head.

  “The recordings, they’re going all the time. They create a memory bank in the robots—the same as memories for you or me, except more vivid, of course, because they are recorded in exact detail,” she said, leaning over the rough-hewn wood of the tabletop, closer to me. “But he also uses that as a control mechanism. I’ve never liked that.”

  I didn’t know what she meant, or what to say. According to Marlene’s whispered descriptions, the recordings were moving in a different, more perverse direction, worse than I’d imagined. I jumped a little every time someone opened or closed the café door behind us.

  “He will use a memory of escape to manipulate them.” She whispered so quietly it was hard to hear her. “He’ll mix a memory of something designed to be pleasant, so they’ll go over it again and again, with something jarring, terrifying—something to really scare the heck out of them—so they’ll never try to leave, poor things. Even if they do, there’s a script…”

  She trembled, like it was something that made her feel afraid—or maybe like it was something that fueled a motherly instinct.

  “That’s the kind of stuff that pisses me off,” she said, still shaking, and then covered her mouth. “Forgive my language. The thing is, it’s all a lie. The escape is a memory of something that never happened.”

  Chapter 18

  My new apartment didn’t quite feel like home yet, but it was the safest I’d felt all day. I locked the dead bolt, turned on every light, and checked each room and closet until I was satisfied.

  But the comfort was fleeting. I dropped into a chair around the dining table, facing my handbag. That picture could be destroyed, but it was just a copy. The original was still out there, probably on Elliott’s phone or on a monitor in a locked, windowless room.

  The idea that part of me could become part of one of Elliott’s “girls” made me cringe.

  Maybe I was wrong and just freaked out.

  Printed out on computer paper, the picture was crumpled from my walk back home, but there was no question. It was my face on that paper, tacked to the roboticist’s desk.

  Detective Davies had warned me.

  I sifted further through my handbag for his card.

  “Detective Davies?” I said. “It’s Lana. And you were right.”

  “Almost always,” he said. He sounded glad to get the call, but distracted, like he was walking. “What happened?”

  “Elliott happened,” I said. “Remember when we were talking at the meetup?”

  “You mean last night?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Anyway, I went to his microfactory—”

  “Lana.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Never again, not without me. I’m telling you, it’s worse than you think.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I said. “He had a picture, of me.”

  He groaned.

  “He’s a creep, I don’t care how smart he’s supposed to be,” he said. “Stay away—far away—from Elliott and any man connected to PrydeTek. Listen, can you trust me to help you get the info you need, instead?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s something to get us started. You might want to head back out.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t feel like I could handle any more bombshells, at least not today. There was little that could convince me to leave the security of my apartment again. So far, hunting this story had brought me closer to a seedy world I didn’t know existed, but no real answers and no breakthrough bylines. I desperately needed a quiet night.

  Davies cleared his throat.

  “We’ve got another murder.”
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br />   Chapter 19

  A half hour later, regretting not getting a coffee at the café, I waited for Kat, about the only person I actually wanted to see. It was getting dark and the street lanterns were already lit on Beacon Hill. Charming neighborhood—except that today someone was slashed to death here. My phone said I was two blocks away from the murder house.

  I looked up just in time to see a burly man in a baseball cap round a corner and make a beeline for me. I started to back away, clutching my purse tight against my side. Quickly, I looked around for other bystanders nearby. No luck.

  I’m screwed.

  My heart beat faster the closer he came. He stared right at me, deliberately picking up his pace.

  I was about to break into a run when I saw the camera.

  “Lana?”

  “Yes.”

  “We haven’t met. I’m Matt, the night-shift photog. Kat said she’d meet us.”

  “Oh, my gosh.” I took a moment to catch my breath. “You spooked me.”

  Just then, a door slammed near us. It was Kat, stepping away from her Uber. She dashed toward us.

  A police car buzzed past.

  “That’s a safe bet,” Kat said, breaking into a jog.

  We all followed behind for a block and turned left, straight to a hilltop town house in the end of a long row. We weaved through marked cars and ducked under a yellow-tape perimeter, stopping next to a van marked OFFICE OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER.

  Then the front door swung open wide—the light inside outlining a crowd—and a uniformed officer held the door while others in blue gloves carried a body bag down the front steps.

  The unsteady procession passed us and then missed the medical examiner’s vehicle entirely, and headed toward a crime lab van instead. Commotion continued inside, but I couldn’t see how many investigators were gathered or hear what they were saying.

  Then a shout rang out: “What the hell!”

  It was one of the officers. I thought for a second he was screaming at us, until I heard the bag drop—hard—onto the cobblestone. I saw what made him scream and clutched Kat’s bicep, covering my mouth with my other hand to keep from screaming.

  An arm had burst through the front.

  The officer shouted again, backing away.

  “Put it back in, Rick!” the other bag-carrier said. He was keeping his distance, too, though, and then he opened the van’s back doors, letting each flop heavily to the side. “Hurry the hell up!”

  Another officer came down the front steps, rushing to help and ripping strips of duct tape with his teeth. He slapped the tape down fast to keep the body part inside the bag. Kat touched the hand I’d put on her arm and whispered to me: “It’s time for you to break this doll story. This is crazy.”

  Matt was shocked, too, for a second, then he lifted the viewfinder to his eye and started clicking, white light flashing. The frenzy of the investigation seemed to come to a halt.

  “Wait, Matt,” Kat put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Not a dead body, right?” he said, shaking her off and starting again. “Fair game.”

  The bag shook again. Moving quickly, the officers pulled it from the ground and heaved it into the back of the van, shutting the doors behind it with two loud crunches.

  When the bag was safely deposited, the officers turned their attention back to us. Despite Kat’s pleas, Matt’s exclusive photos got us escorted away from the scene, behind the cruisers, about four brick town houses downhill.

  “Who let you three in this close anyway?” the officer said harshly.

  In fairness, the officer had to be having a rough day. He was shaken from the unsettling encounter with what I knew had to be one of the dolls, and we’d only made the moment worse.

  Kat didn’t answer his question, but posed one.

  “Who can we talk to here?”

  “You three can just stay here,” he said. “And no more pictures. I’ll ask someone to come and speak to you when we’re able, and not a minute before.”

  It was another hour before Detective Andre Davies made it out. Kat had already started calling in to the city editor, Elaine, giving her snippets from the scene to use as breaking news online. From my phone, I saw the story pushed out, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before other news outlets picked it up, too.

  “Sorry about Rick,” Detective Davies said, wiping his forehead. “Ready for a name?”

  “More than ready,” Kat answered.

  “Craig D. Walsh, 38, pronounced dead at his home,” he said. “Appears to be fatally stabbed—though the final determination will come from the medical examiner’s office. It was called in at 7 p.m.”

  I was already scanning social media profiles, but there were, of course, a lot of people who shared the murder victim’s name.

  “What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

  “The DA’s press secretary is preparing a statement,” Davies answered. “Anything we can release—”

  “What about the thing that stuck its arm out?” I was getting irritated. This story—the whole story—needed to make it out. All this work had to get us somewhere.

  “Lana, I’m telling you two as much as I can,” he said. “That was evidence, part of the investigation.”

  “Can you confirm that Mr. Walsh owned one of PrydeWare’s products, a robotic sex doll?”

  “Listen,” he said. “That’s not something you can attribute to me.”

  I sighed and threw my hands in the air.

  “But can you confirm it?” I pushed. “‘Authorities confirmed’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think other product owners should know about this?” I asked. “We’ve kept a lid on a lot—too much—this week.”

  “I can confirm that the department is investigating links between the PrydeWare products and the homicides. Anything else would have to be something you discovered independently.”

  “Last question: If we’ve confirmed, independently, that one of the other two victims owned a doll, is that doll in evidence?”

  He hesitated. From the corner of my eye, I saw a TV news van pull up near us. Come on.

  “We believe they were removed from the crime scenes,” he said.

  “‘They’?” I asked. “In both previous murders?”

  He nodded. “Authorities confirmed that, too.”

  He kept his voice low, but the message was loud and clear: the dolls most certainly were part of this story.

  “Who removed them?” Kat jumped in. “By who? Where are they?”

  Detective Davies cleared his throat and whispered, making sure the next news crew couldn’t hear. I heard them unloading behind us, then moving closer and closer. Please, please, hurry up.

  “They have not been recovered.”

  Chapter 20

  A shiny new kitchen, and it was the first time since I’d moved in that I’d actually used it. The weekend had finally come, bringing a greater reward than I could have imagined on that first nerve-racking day of work at my new job: my first front-page byline in Boston, shared with Kat. She’d insisted.

  Sex Dolls Linked to Millionaire Murders

  I pulled a tray of blueberry muffins from the oven and maneuvered a fork around the edges of one. I dropped it onto a dessert plate and enjoyed a few hot bites while I pored over the front page, spread over a countertop. There were still so many questions, but we were getting closer. Bet those missing dolls would bring more answers.

  I grabbed my phone to look at what other news outlets had reported after our scoop. Davies wouldn’t let them in on what we worked so hard to find. I hope.

  Others were reporting the doll angle now, too, but attributing us. I’d just gotten to the burnt sugar muffin top when my phone began ringing in my hand.

  “Lana Wallace.”

  “Detective Andre Davies.”

  “You didn’t catch any grief over the story, did you?”

  “Not unless you count getting the boot as grief,” he said.

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nbsp; “What? No—”

  “I’m teasing you,” he said. “I’m good.”

  “I hope I wasn’t rude.”

  “Just doing your job. I can respect that.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Any updates on the killers?”

  “You cut right to the chase, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But, yes, actually. Well, maybe.”

  “Yes?” It was Saturday, but I was instinctively scanning the floor for my work shoes. That front-page story had revived my impulse to get to the bottom of this twisted story.

  “Well, what we have is a hacker, it seems.”

  “Someone manipulating the dolls?”

  “Well, using them, in a way,” Davies answered me.

  “I knew it!” I slapped my hand on the counter. “I knew it wasn’t the dolls.”

  “Easy there,” Davies said. “He was arrested, but not on murder charges. Not yet, anyway. Special Prosecutions traced transfers from the men who are now deceased to an ex-PrydeWare programmer, over the past three months. Nearly a million, total.”

  “Okay.” I sat down. “So if he was getting the money, what reason would he have to kill them? To make good on a threat? And what does that have to do with the dolls?”

  “It turns out, he hacked into their video streams and got some scandalous video—racy enough to use as blackmail.”

  My mind flashed back to Sandra’s closet—the toys and the outfits.

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “You or Kat should be able to get the criminal complaint with all the details.”

  “Look at you being so helpful,” I said, then stood and sneaked in a last bite of muffin.

  “I told you so,” he said. “Now, do you trust me enough to show you the North End’s best pizza?”

  I already was shaking my head, though he couldn’t see it.

  “Or how about cannoli? Have I reached cannoli level?”

  I laughed and averted the question.

  “What about your boys? What are you guys up to this weekend?”

  “They’re with their mom and her husband. Not sure what they have planned. I’m just working on leads in a homicide investigation.”