Apparently, Clive Steele had programmed his sex robot to discourse on molecular biology with verve and enthusiasm.
“Why don’t I ever find the guys who like smart women?” Roz said.
Peter winked with the side of his face that faced away from the companion. “They’re all dead.”
A few hours after Peter and the tech had finished processing Dolly for trace evidence and Peter had started downloading her files, Roz left her parser software humming away at Steele’s financials and poked her head in to check on the robot and the cop. The techs must have gotten what they needed from Dolly’s hands, because she had washed them. As she sat beside Peter’s workstation, a cable plugged behind her left eat, she cleaned her lifelike polymer fingernails meticulously with a file, dropping the scrapings into an evidence bag.
“Sure you want to give the prisoner a weapon, Peter?” Roz shut the ancient wooden door behind her.
Dolly looked up, as if to see if she was being addressed, but made no response.
“She don’t need it,” he said. “Besides, whatever she had in her wiped itself completely after it ran. Not much damage to her core personality, but there are some memory gaps. I’m going to compare them to backups, once we get those from the scene team.”
“Memory gaps. Like the crime,” Roz guessed. “And something around the time the Trojan was installed?”
Dolly blinked her long-lashed blue eyes languorously. Peter patted her on the shoulder and said, “Whoever did it is a pretty good cracker. He didn’t just wipe, he patterned her memories and overwrote the gaps. Like using a clone tool to photoshop somebody you don’t like out of a picture.”
“Her days must be pretty repetitive,” Roz said. “How’d you pick that out?”
“Calendar.” Peter puffed up a little, smug. “She don’t do the same housekeeping work every day. There’s a Monday schedule and a Wednesday schedule and—well, I found where the pattern didn’t match. And there’s a funny thing—watch this.”
He waved vaguely at a display panel. It lit up, showing Dolly in her black-and-white uniform, vacuuming. “House camera,” Peter explained. “She’s plugged into Steele’s security system. Like a guard dog with perfect hair. Whoever performed the hack also edited the external webcam feeds that mirror to the companion’s memories.”
“How hard is that?”
“Not any harder than cloning over her files, but you have to know to look for them. So it’s confirmation that our perp knows his or her way around a line of code. What have you got?”
Roz shrugged. “Steele had a lot of money, which means a lot of enemies. And he did not have a lot of human contact. Not for years now. I’ve started calling in known associates for interviews, but unless they surprise me, I think we’re looking at crime of profit, not crime of passion.”
Having finished with the nail file, Dolly wiped it on her prison smock and laid it down on Peter’s blotter, beside the cup of ink and light pens.
Peter swept it into a drawer. “So we’re probably not after the genius programmer lover he dumped for a robot. Pity, I liked the poetic justice in that.”
Dolly blinked, lips parting, but seemed to decide that Peter’s comment had not been directed at her. Still, she drew in air—could you call it a breath?—and said, “It is my duty to help find my contract holder’s killer.”
Roz lowered her voice. “You’d think they’d pull ’em off the market.”
“Like they pull all cars whenever one crashes? The world ain’t perfect.”
“Or do that robot laws thing everybody used to twitter on about.”
“Whatever a positronic brain is, we don’t have it. Asimov’s fictional robots were self-aware. Dolly’s neurons are binary, as we used to think human neurons were. She doesn’t have the nuanced neurochemistry of even, say, a cat.” Peter popped his collar smooth with his thumbs. “A doll can’t want. It can’t make moral judgments, any more than your car can. Anyway, if we could do that, they wouldn’t be very useful for home defense. Oh, incidentally, the sex protocols in this one are almost painfully vanilla—”
“Really.”
Peter nodded.
Roz rubbed a scuffmark on the tile with her shoe. “So given he didn’t like anything . . . challenging, why would he have a Dolly when he could have had any woman he wanted?”
“There’s never any drama, no pain, no disappointment. Just comfort, the perfect helpmeet. With infinite variety.”
“And you never have to worry about what she wants. Or likes in bed.”
Peter smiled. “The perfect woman for a narcissist.”
The interviews proved unproductive, but Roz didn’t leave the station house until after ten. Spring mornings might be warm, but once the sun went down, a cool breeze sprang up, ruffling the hair she’d finally remembered to pull from its ponytail as she walked out the door.
Roz’s green plug-in was still parked beside Peter’s. It booted as she walked toward it, headlights flickering on, power probe retracting. The driver side door swung open as her RFID chip came within range. She slipped inside and let it buckle her in.
“Home,” she said, “and dinner.”
The car messaged ahead as it pulled smoothly from the parking spot. Roz let the autopilot handle the driving. It was less snappy than human control, but as tired as she was, eyelids burning and heavy, it was safer.
Whatever Peter had said about cars crashing, Roz’s delivered her safe to her driveway. Her house let her in with a key—she had decent security, but it was the old-fashioned kind—and the smell of boiling pasta and toasting garlic bread wafted past as she opened it.
“Sven?” she called, locking herself inside.
His even voice responded. “I’m in the kitchen.”
She left her shoes by the door and followed her nose through the cheaply furnished living room.
Sven was cooking shirtless, and she could see the repaired patches along his spine where his skin had grown brittle and cracked with age. He turned and greeted her with a smile. “Bad day?”
“Somebody’s dead again,” she said.
He put the wooden spoon down on the rest. “How does that make you feel, that somebody’s dead?”
He didn’t have a lot of emotional range, but that was okay. She needed something steadying in her life. She came to him and rested her head against his warm chest. He draped one arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, breathing deep. “Like I have work to do.”
“Do it tomorrow,” he said. “You will feel better once you eat and rest.”
Peter must have slept in a ready room cot, because when Roz arrived at the house before six a.m., he had on the same trousers and a different shirt, and he was already armpit-deep in coffee and Dolly’s files. Dolly herself was parked in the corner, at ease and online but in rest mode.
Or so she seemed, until Roz entered the room and Dolly’s eyes tracked. “Good morning, Detective Kirkbride,” Dolly said. “Would you like some coffee? Or a piece of fruit?”
“No thank you.” Roz swung Peter’s spare chair around and dropped into it. An electric air permeated the room—the feeling of anticipation. To Peter, Roz said, “Fruit?”
“Dolly believes in a healthy diet,” he said, nudging a napkin on his desk that supported a half-eaten Satsuma. “She’ll have the whole house cleaned up in no time. We’ve been talking about literature.”
Roz spun the chair so she could keep both Peter and Dolly in her peripheral vision. “Literature?”
“Poetry,” Dolly said. “Detective King mentioned poetic justice yesterday afternoon.”
Roz stared at Peter. “Dolly likes poetry. Steele really did like ’em smart.”
“That’s not all Dolly likes.” Peter triggered his panel again. “Remember this?”
It was the cleaning sequence from the previous day, the sound of the central vacuum system rising and falling as Dolly lifted the brush and set it down again.
Roz raised her eyebrows.
Peter held up a hand. “Wait for it. It turns out there’s a second audio track.”
Another waggle of his fingers, and the cramped office filled with sound.
Music.
Improvisational jazz. Intricate and weird.
“Dolly was listening to that inside her head while she was vacuuming,” Peter said.
Roz touched her fingertips to each other, the whole assemblage to her lips. “Dolly?”
“Yes, Detective Kirkbride?”
“Why do you listen to music?”
“Because I enjoy it.”
Roz let her hand fall to her chest, pushing her blouse against he skin below the collarbones.
Roz said, “Did you enjoy your work at Mr. Steele’s house?”
“I was expected to enjoy it,” Dolly said, and Roz glanced at Peter, cold all up her spine. A classic evasion. Just the sort of thing a home companion’s conversational algorithms should not be able to produce.
Across his desk, Peter was nodding. “Yes.”
Dolly turned at the sound of his voice. “Are you interested in music, Detective Kirkbride? I’d love to talk with you about it some time. Are you interested in poetry? Today, I was reading—”
Mother of God, Roz mouthed.
“Yes,” Peter said. “Dolly, wait here please. Detective Kirkbride and I need to talk in the hall.”
“My pleasure, Detective King,” said the companion.
“She killed him,” Roz said. “She killed him and wiped her own memory of the act. A doll’s got to know her own code, right?”
Peter leaned against the wall by the men’s room door, arms folded, forearms muscular under rolled-up sleeves. “That’s hasty.”
“And you believe it, too.”
He shrugged. “There’s a rep from Venus Consolidated in Interview Four right now. What say we go talk to him?”
The rep’s name was Doug Jervis. He was actually a vice president of public relations, and even though he was an American, he’d been flown in overnight from Rio for the express purpose of talking to Peter and Roz.
“I guess they’re taking this seriously.”
Peter gave her a sideways glance. “Wouldn’t you?”
Jervis got up as they came into the room, extending a good handshake across the table. There were introductions and Roz made sure he got a coffee. He was a white man on the steep side of fifty with mousy hair the same color as Roz’s and a jaw like a Boxer dog’s.
When they were all seated again, Roz said, “So tell me a little bit about the murder weapon. How did Clive Steele wind up owning a—what, an experimental model?”
Jervis started shaking his head before she was halfway through, but he waited for her to finish the sentence. “It’s a production model. Or will be. The one Steele had was an alpha-test, one of the first three built. We plan to start full-scale production in June. But you must understand that Venus doesn’t sell a home companion, Detective. We offer a contract. I understand that you hold one.”
“I have a housekeeper,” she said, ignoring Peter’s sideways glance. He wouldn’t say anything in front of the witness, but she would be in for it in the locker room. “An older model.”
Jervis smiled. “Naturally, we want to know everything we can about an individual involved in a case so potentially explosive for our company. We researched you and your partner. Are you satisfied with our product?”
“He makes pretty good garlic bread.” She cleared her throat, reasserting control of the interview. “What happens to a Dolly that’s returned? If its contract is up, or it’s replaced with a newer model?”
He flinched at the slang term, as if it offended him. “Some are obsoleted out of service. Some are refurbished and go out on another contract. Your unit is on its fourth placement, for example.”
“So what happens to the owner preferences at that time?” “Reset to factory standard,” he said.
Peter’s fingers rippled silently on the tabletop.
Roz said, “Isn’t that cruel? A kind of murder?”
“Oh, no!” Jervis sat back, appearing genuinely shocked. “A home companion has no sense of I, it has no identity. It’s an object. Naturally, you become attached. People become attached to dolls, to stuffed animals, to automobiles. It’s a natural aspect of the human psyche.”
Roz hummed encouragement, but Jervis seemed to be done.
Peter asked, “Is there any reason why a companion would wish to listen to music?”
That provoked enthusiastic head-shaking. “No, it doesn’t get bored. It’s a tool, it’s a toy. A companion does not require an enriched environment. It’s not a dog or an octopus. You can store it in a closet when it’s not working.”
“I see,” Roz said. “Even an advanced model like Mr. Steele’s?”
“Absolutely,” Jervis said. “Does your entertainment center play shooter games to amuse itself while you sleep?”
“I’m not sure,” Roz said. “I’m asleep. So when Dolly’s returned to you, she’ll be scrubbed.”
“Normally she would be scrubbed and re-leased, yes.” Jervis hesitated. “Given her colorful history, however—”
“Yes,” Roz said. “I see.”
With no sign of nervousness or calculation, Jervis said, “When do you expect you’ll be done with Mr. Steele’s companion? My company, of course, is eager to assist in your investigations, but we must stress that she is our corporate property, and quite valuable.”
Roz stood, Peter a shadow-second after her. “That depends on if it goes to trial, Mr. Jervis. After all, she’s either physical evidence, or a material witness.”
“Or the killer,” Peter said in the hall, as his handset began emitting the DNA lab’s distinctive beep. Roz’s went off a second later, but she just hit the silence. Peter already had his open.
“No genetic material,” he said. “Too bad.” If there had been D.N.A. other than Clive Steele’s, the lab could have done a forensic genetic assay and come back with a general description of the murderer. General because environment also had an effect.
Peter bit his lip. “If she did it. She won’t be the last one.”
“If she’s the murder weapon, she’ll be wiped and resold. If she’s the murderer—”
“Can an android stand trial?”
“It can if it’s a person. And if she’s a person, she should get off. Battered woman syndrome. She was enslaved and sexually exploited. Humiliated. She killed him to stop repeated rapes. But if she’s a machine, she’s a machine—” Roz closed her eyes.
Peter brushed the back of a hand against her arm. “Vanilla rape is still rape. Do you object to her getting off?”
“No.” Roz smiled harshly. “And think of the lawsuit that weasel Jervis will have in his lap. She should get off. But she won’t.”