by Lior Samson
“I don’t know any Gwen Seabrook. A business contact? Who knows, maybe one of his lovers, his many lovers.”
“You knew.”
“Who didn’t. We had an understanding. Nothing too explicit, not like a contract or a pre-nup, but I knew the man I married from the beginning. And the occasional threesomes were the intermittent reminders.”
“And you were always okay with that?”
“Why not? It gave me a chance to act out the other side of my sexual self without risking the marriage. And, hell, it introduced me to somebody who has become a pretty important part of my life.” She smiled at Dana.
“Yeah, there is that. Frankly, I’m also glad that Cole put the moves on me that night.” She leaned over and kissed Barbra. “Do you mind if I do a little digging on this Seabrook character?”
“Dig away. I’m betting she’ll turn out to be some surfer girl or a flight attendant that Todd picked up somewhere along the way.”
— 23 —
Rolf Nagy stood in the doorway of his Glendale condo, smiling, his mahogany hair falling in defiant waves to his shoulders, framing and softening his angular face.
Dana looked up at him with a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I’m thinking about it. You said you wanted to talk robotics. I’m not sure I should. Plus there are other things I’d much rather talk about. Or do.”
“You’re serious. You really are contemplating closing the door on me?”
“Semi-serious. You know me. But, okay, you can come in. Still, I’m not sure we can talk about robotics.”
Dana pushed past him. “Well, aren’t we being generous—and mysterious. What’s going on with you, Rolfy?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m glad to see you, but you also put me in a bit of a bind.”
“Why? What’s this about?” She raised up on tiptoes to give him a quick peck.
“Robotics. Like you said.”
“That is what you do. That’s what I called to talk about with you. It would not be the first time we talked about robots and artificial intelligence. If I recall, that’s how we met.”
“Indeed it was, but this is different. I know you knew Coleman Drucker, and I know you have been doing some asking around, working on a story.”
“And you know this how?”
“Okay, look, I’m working with the police, as an expert consultant. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Ah, now I see. But tell me, my Rolfy, since when did you worry about doing what you’re not supposed to do?”
“Since I became a paid forensic consultant working on a criminal case.”
“Got it. So let’s not talk about the case. We’ll keep it hypothetical. Hypothetically, what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this joint?”
“Smile at the bartender. What can I get you?”
“Maybe a Sydney mimosa. Do you remember how to make it?”
“Four ounces white wine, a jigger of passionfruit liqueur, and three ounces fresh-squeezed orange juice. A bartender never forgets his best customer’s favorite. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
Dana wended her way through the obstacle course of sculpted furniture and outtakes from Rolf’s past robotics projects. She sat down next to a streamlined but nonfunctional robocart. Nearly everything in the room had been made by Rolf or one of his several companies. In one corner, an industrial robot from a small-arms project with the Israelis now held aloft an OLED display that had been repurposed to provide mood lighting for the room. The barstool on which she sat, like much of the furniture, had been 3D printed, in this case with a cellulose based polymer that could be rendered to bear a close resemblance to various exotic woods. Of course, it was a reject, and close inspection would reveal where voids had been filled with wood putty and sanded over.
Rolf returned with her Sydney mimosa in a stemless wine glass in one hand and a molded Pilsner Urquell half-liter mug filled with its signature blond lager in the other. It was one of his quirky obsessions that every drink had to be served in precisely the right glassware. He handed the mimosa to her and raised his glass. “Egészségedre!”
“Yeah, to your health as well.”
“Now, tell me what you’ve been so busy with that you couldn’t call me.”
“Well, you seem to already know, since you’re on the inside with this whole Drucker thing and I’m not.”
“I don’t know everything, and I can’t say anything. So, where does that leave us?”
“Hungry? Thirsty? Mmmm, this is good. I love this. I’ll have to tip the bartender something extra.”
“Well, you know how this bartender likes to be tipped.”
“All in good time, my Rolfy, all in good time. So tell me what you can’t talk about. Or just nod when I ask questions.”
“Well, I can’t talk about details of the investigation—and this is all off the record, on deep background, from a strictly anonymous source, in your parlance—but I can say we’ve pretty much ruled out either a hardware failure or a software glitch in the robotics. It’s an off-the-shelf Kagoshima-Antech Model 12; that’s a medium-duty arm designed for remote handling applications with a bio-mimetic hand and fully articulated shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints. Top-of-the-line. The embedded software had not been hacked, all the settings were still factory defaults, and it passed every diagnostic test with flying colors.”
“So it wasn’t the arm.”
“Oh, it absolutely was the arm that did him in. In fact, the only failures in the performance testing were due to damage to the hand and the wrist joint from the force of crushing the guy’s skull. However, what we determined was that the control sequence that did the job originated from outside. The arm was commanded to do exactly what it did, including full extension and maximum rotational speed.”
“And where did these commands come from?”
“That’s above my pay grade and not for discussion at this point.”
“Well, nod if I guess right.”
“Warning, Will Robinson.” He spoke with a mock electronic voice. “The nod function on this unit has been disabled.”
“Okay, be stubborn.”
“Responsible, not stubborn.”
“Stubborn.” She stuck out her tongue with its platinum stud.
“Oooh, I love that gesture.”
“Well, love it from over there. What’s on for dinner?”
“You, my dearest.”
“Not yet, I ain’t. This bod needs refueling. So, what’s cooking?”
“Russian lamb pelmeni with cilantro-rocket pesto and pepper-crusted roasted golden beets. Will that refuel my flagging girlfriend?”
“Admirably.”
— —
During a laidback dinner accompanied by a bottle of Egri Bikavér, they both steered away from shop talk. Dana was just mopping up the last of the pesto sauce on her plate with a piece of Rolf’s signature braided bread when Rolf asked her about the Druckers.
“They’re holding up pretty well, considering. I think they were drained by the whole coma thing dragging out. The full impact of Cole’s death may take some time before it hits them. And there always seems to be one more thing coming in from left field. You ever heard of somebody named Gwen Seabrook?”
Rolf stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Well, yeah. She used to work for me, back when it was Strainomics, and we were engineering synthetic muscle systems for robots. She was a whiz embedded systems programmer but a bit of a flake, too. She quit right in the middle of a project she was lead on. She bounced around for a while, from what I heard. Finally left the field to pursue some back-to-the-land fantasy: a horse farm or something. Why?”
“Because the last call on Coleman Drucker’s phone before he took the Topanga Canyon plunge was to Gwen Seabrook.”
“Now that could be interesting.” He paused to savor a bite of peppered beet. “I should ask my police buddies about it.”
“You m
ean you don’t know what they know? I mean, not even what leads they’re pursuing and all?”
“They ask me and I answer them. It’s a one-way channel. I’m just a subject-matter expert. If anyone is ever brought to trial on this, I’ll probably be called to testify, which, as I already told you, is essentially negative testimony. All I know is what did not happen. The Model 12 did not suddenly go rogue of its own accord; it was instructed to bean Drucker. By whom or what, I can’t say, and the cops are not telling me anything even if they do have some idea.”
“So, you’re still working with them.”
“Yeah, there’s still stuff they want my input on or want me to look at. Why?”
“Use your imagination, bright one, but do some asking and listening. My guess is Drucker was having an affair with Seabrook. And I guess you know about the car.”
“No. You mean his Tensora? That’s not the case I’m helping with. As far as I know, that’s been dropped. He had an accident. Now he’s been murdered. Guess which is the priority.”
“But look at the breadcrumbs. There’s a trail leading from the accident in Topanga Canyon straight through the weird shit with his car and the wrangling over his medical status and the proxy, and then he gets killed. Where? Existendia’s headquarters.”
“Wait up. Go back. Weird shit with his car?”
“Yeah, it may have been hacked, but that seems to have been covered up or conveniently forgotten now.”
“All right, now you have my attention. There’s a pattern here. I’ll keep my ears to the ground, make some subtle inquiries on the side, off the clock so I’m not breaking confidence. Okay? Now, how about dessert? It’s kataïfi.”
“I couldn’t. In fact, I really should go. I am so backed up on work.”
“I see. You come here to pick my brain and eat my food, and that’s it?”
“You know I adore you, my Rolfy. Just, well, not tonight.”
“When will I see you?”
“Soon. As soon as you call me with something I can use.”
“Oh, now I see what I am to you: nothing but a source on a story. And a chef and mixologist. Occasionally, a body to be ravaged and exploited.”
She knew he was joking, but some piece of it hit home. She wondered whether she was just using him, like she was using Geraldo, like she used Cole, like … “It’s not that way. It’s just hard for me. And I always have so much I’m working on, and …”
Rolf struck a pose, elbow resting on the table, closed fist in front of his mouth, like Rodin’s Thinker. It was long seconds before he spoke. “You’ve been pulling away since the moment we met. I don’t think you ever let anyone close. It’s always great sex, never making love. What happened to you? What are you always running from? What are you hiding?”
“I … I’ve told you all about me. I told you how I grew up. I—”
“About you, yeah. I know the stories about you, but sometimes I just don’t know you. Which is strange, because somehow, even if I don’t quite know you, I love you.”
She stood up as he finished. “I really think I should be going. This is all getting a little, well …” He didn’t get up to show her out.
— 24 —
It did not take Dana long to track down Gwen Seabrook. Her Topanga stables, Gwenbrook Ranch and Riding Academy, had a slick website with a flashy slideshow that made clear what level of clientele could afford to board or borrow horses there—or to send their kids for dressage or steeplechase or trail-riding lessons. None of the pictures featured Seabrook herself, and a Google image search turned up only photos of the Academy. A phone call seemed in order.
“Hello, my name is Dana Carmody. I write for the LA Times. May I speak with Gwen Seabrook?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Carmody, but Ms. Seabrook does not give interviews. You understand.”
“Oh, I do understand. But would you tell her that I called? I’m working on a story that I think she might be interested in. It’s about wealthy men who are into horsemanship and electric sports cars.”
“I’ll pass on the message.”
The call-back came within twenty minutes. Gwen Seabrook, it seemed, could make some time available at two o’clock.
— —
Dana busied herself with web surfing on her phone as she waited for Seabrook to return from a luncheon “engagement.” At half past two, the woman arrived in jodhpurs and a riding helmet. She removed the helmet, gave her hair a toss, and held out her hand to Dana. “I’m Gwen Seabrook. Please excuse the attire and the timing, but one of my investors insisted on a ride before taking his leave, and I could hardly tell him no.”
“I understand, not a problem.”
“Well, then, please come into my office and tell me what this is all about.” She led the way down a short corridor and into a spacious room with a wall of windows facing across a golden meadow to the tree line. The décor was Old West chic, with some objet d’art that could be of considerable value. A vibrant abstract painting on one wall looked to be an original Georgia O’Keeffe. “Please, have a seat. Can I have my assistant get you anything?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Well, then, right to business.” Her smile flattened. “What is this really about?”
“I’m presuming you have already figured that one out or you wouldn’t have so quickly accepted my request to interview you.”
“Wealthy men and horsemanship. And sports cars. That does not exactly ring like a story the LA Times would be pursuing, but then, with yet another change of owners after only a couple of years, one never knows what editorial wind will see the venerable paper off on a new tack.”
“It’s a story I’m pursuing on spec. Since you seem to be one to cut to the chase, I’ll start with Coleman Drucker. How did you know him?”
“Coleman Drucker. Hmmm. I recognize the name, of course, from the newspapers and business media, as I would imagine with most anyone else. Why?”
“But you also knew him personally, right? As a client, perhaps?”
“The Ranch has a wide ranging clientele served by a rather large staff. Business has been good. I don’t personally know everyone who rides here or who sends their children for lessons. I don’t even know all their names.”
“If that’s the case, why would your name be in Coleman Drucker’s smartphone, and why would his last two texts just before the accident that sent him into a coma be from you?”
Seabrook spread her arms in a broad “beats me” gesture. “I really wouldn’t know. Perhaps his daughter went to one of the summer camps with which the Ranch has an arrangement.”
Dana was about to ask about how Seabrook might know Drucker had a daughter when she noticed the tattoos high on Gwen’s inner arms and partially obscured by her polo shirt. The one on her right inner bicep looked to be a simple cross in an outmoded heavy blue-black style of tattooing. But when Gwen reached for her coffee, her shirtsleeve rode up enough to reveal the circle above. It was the hand-mirror of Venus, the symbol for female, and a once fashionable declaration that she was a lesbian. So what had she been doing with Drucker the Womanizer? The tattoo on the other arm was smaller but more elaborate and even more surprising. Dana instantly recognized the bit of heraldic symbolism: a shield bearing the winged head of a python with a lightning bolt for a tongue. It was the calling card of the legendary Snake River League, a group of hackers reputed to have been formed by people who had once worked for the Department of Homeland Security at their Idaho National Labs. Suddenly it hit her. “We’ve met before, Ms. Seabrook.”
“Have we?”
“Yes, some years ago. I thought you looked familiar, but the clothes and the hair threw me off. I was just a kid, then, fresh out of college and cutting loose, drawing geeky cartoons for internet fans and partying with black-hat hackers. You no longer wear your hair in orange and blue spikes but tattoos are forever.”
Seabrook, keeping her arms pinned to her sides, said nothing.
Dana pressed on. “So, how did you mee
t Coleman Drucker?”
“I said, I didn’t know Mr. Drucker except by reputation.”
“So you said, but you sent him text messages the day his car drove off Old Topanga Canyon Road. Your name and number were in his contact list. Surely …”
“I suppose it is possible if, say, one of his kids went to one of the summer camps we serve. Come to think of it, there was something back in July that required we get in touch with a bunch of the parents of campers.”
“And what might that have been?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I would have to check my records. But,”—she glanced at her Tiffany wrist watch—“I’m afraid we’re out of time. My bad for being late. I was, as I said … detained. I’ll have my assistant show you out while I change for a business meeting. I’ll have her get in touch with you if I find anything relevant to your interest in Mr. Drucker and his accident.”
“Before you go, just one more quick question.”
“One. Quick.”
“Does the name Rolf Nagy ring a bell? Or maybe a company called Strainomics?”
“That is two questions, but the answer is one word. No.” She strode out of the office, leaving Dana to wait for the assistant to show up.
— —
As Gwen Seabrook hurried toward her private quarters in the attached house, she thumb-typed a message.
guess who just interviewed me. dana carmody. we need to move on this. ILY CUL8R
The reply arrived while she was changing her clothes.
OK, I’ll get on it. I’m at the office late tonight. I love you too. The “ride” today was wonderful.
Part 5
Immortality is the condition of a dead man who doesn’t believe he is dead.
– H. L. Mencken
— 25 —
Dana was finishing typing up notes back at her apartment when the door buzzer interrupted her. She was not expecting anyone. She swiped to bring up the security camera view on her phone. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, were waiting at her door. Now what? Thoughts rushing ahead, she tried to guess what it might be about. What had she done now? She put her phone into panic-button mode and slipped it in the back pocket of her stretch jeans.
