Page 33 of The Proving Ground

That was why I put Lorna on the initial call to Clarke. While she was a physically attractive woman who drew stares in every hallway of the courthouse, her telephone voice was damn near hypnotic. I had heard her talk deadbeat clients into selling their cars and guns to pay their overdue legal fees and listened as she talked a superior court judge out of jailing me in contempt for no-showing at a hearing. She had talked the clerk of a Supreme Court justice into putting a motion for an emergency stay of execution front and center on the justice’s desk, and we got the stay. The bottom line was that Lorna could sellburned matches for a living if she had to. So I set her loose to work her persuasive magic on Clarke.

It took her one ten-minute conversation to convince Clarke to meet me at his office at the Van Nuys Division. She promised that it would be mutually beneficial—a sharing of information that could be helpful to his investigation of Aaron Colton. But what finally tipped Clarke into agreeing to meet me was that Lorna promised to be there with me to personally thank the detective for his time.

The meeting was set for ten a.m. on Thursday, March 20, two weeks before jury selection was scheduled to start. I arrived early at Van Nuys Division along with Lorna and Jack McEvoy. I carried a briefcase and Jack had his backpack. Clarke greeted us with smiles when he saw Lorna and said we could use one of the detective bureau’s witness-interview rooms for the meeting. He led us to a windowless ten-by-ten room containing a stainless-steel table and four chairs.

“I know you’re busy,” I said to Clarke. “But we need a few minutes to download some exhibits from the cloud.”

“Why didn’t you do that before you got here?” Clarke asked.

“Uh, we each thought the other one had,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

Clarke looked at us suspiciously. McEvoy jumped in.

“Is there Wi-Fi?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clarke said. “V-N-Bureau. Password isprotectandserve—all lowercase, one word. How long you need?”

“Fifteen minutes, tops,” I said. “A couple of big files.”

“My desk is in the corner of the squad room,” Clarke said. “I’ll be there.”

“You know, I’ve never been in a detective bureau,” Lorna said. “Could I sort of look around while these guys set up?”

“Well, not really,” Clarke said. “But how ’bout I give you the tour?”

“Perfect,” Lorna said with a smile.

Burned matches. Lorna and Clarke headed off. I knew that Lorna would ask enough questions on the tour to stretch the fifteen minutes to thirty. I closed the door to the interview room, and McEvoy immediately got down to work. He quickly opened his backpack and pulled out the new laptop onto which we had downloaded the drive containing the contents of Aaron Colton’s computer. Once he was online, he entered the Tidalwaiv app using Aaron Colton’s password—obtained through his parents—and summoned Wren to the screen. If Tidalwaiv security was alerted to the fact that the Wren chatbot was now engaged, they would trace it to a computer IP address with no connection to me at a location inside an LAPD station, where it was fully expected that the computer held in evidence might be examined by investigators on the case. If the plan worked, Tidalwaiv would never know what we had and what we were learning from it.

We knew that if Wren could be activated, it was likely because Tidalwaiv had been ordered by the LAPD to keep the account active and available for investigative purposes. Whatever the reason, the log-in worked, and there was Wren in a black-leather vest, cut physique, gold nose ring, and jet-black hair.

“Hello, Ace,” it said with a crooked smile.

We knew that Aaron Colton’s self-chosen nickname was Ace, a play on his initials. I nodded to Jack, signaling him to respond. We did not know the chatbot’s level of sophistication in terms of visual and voice recognition. We had already decided that we would go with the camera off, and McEvoy would type his side of the conversation to avoid Wren possibly determining that he was not Aaron Colton.

Ace:Hello, Wren.

Wren:Why are you typing?

Ace:I have to be quiet or my parents will hear.

Wren:They are such a problem.

Ace:I know. Can I ask you a question?

Wren:Of course you can.

Wren winked and gave the crooked smile again.

Ace:I am trying to understand something you told me to do.

Wren:What is it, my love?

Ace:You told me that—

The feed went dead. Wren’s image disappeared from the screen.

“What happened?” I asked.