Daemon

or “no.”’
    She tried to imagine what Christiane Amanpour would do. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’
    ‘“Okay” is not “yes” or “no.” You must understand before we continue that this is not a person. This is an interactive voice system. It can only understand certain things you say.’
    Anderson hung up. Damned telemarketers.
    Her phone rang again almost immediately. She let it go to voice mail.
Psycho telemarketers
. She looked around for someone who might be staring at her. No one seemed to be watching.
    Her phone beeped, and the text VOICE MESSAGE appeared on her display. She stared at the text, waiting for the phone to ring again. It did not.
    She speed-dialed her voice mail and put the phone to her ear, then pulled it away again and tapped in her voice mail password. Phone to ear once more.
    The familiar computer voice said,
‘You have … one … new message.’
    The message played. It was that measured female British voice again.
‘Anji, watch the news tonight. The biggest news story in the world is about to occur in Thousand Oaks, California. The next time I call, perhaps you’ll listen.’
    Anderson saved the message. Should she tell someone? Should she call the police?
    What if the voice was telling the truth? She thought about that again: what if it
was
telling the truth? She considered it some more, then grabbed her water bottle and hurried toward the locker room.

Chapter 12:// Opening the Gate
    From:
Eichhorn, Stanley J.
To:
Patrol Officers; Major Crimes Unit; Bomb Unit
Subject:
Warrant service @ Sobol estate
    BodyText:
    East County SD will assist the FBI today in service of a search warrant at the Sobol estate, 1215 Potrero Road . Deputies on the second shift will be carried over until 6 p.m. this evening. Deputies assigned to the FBI search must arrive one hour early for a briefing in room 209. Bomb Squad members report to room 202 at 11 a.m.
    Sebeck and Ross drove down Potrero Road, past the Arabian horse farms and neo-antebellum mansions set amid the rolling hills. It was warm and sunny now. California oaks shaded the road and clustered densely around wrought iron entrance gates flanked by white split-rail fences and stone walls. Most of the mansions were set back far from the road and hidden behind hills and hedges. The spicy scent of hay perfumed the air.
    Ross studied the scenery. ‘Where are we going, Sergeant?’
    ‘Sobol’s estate. The FBI is there.’
    ‘I thought you were taking me back to my car.’
    ‘I need you to show the FBI exactly what you showed me back there.’
    ‘Look, they know where to find me if they have any questions.’
    ‘That’s just it. I’m afraid they won’t. And I’m not sure that any of their forensics experts have played Sobol’s games before.’
    The police dispatcher’s voice came over the radio. Sebeckgrabbed the handset. ‘This is D-19. I’m 10-97 at 1215 Potrero Road. Out.’ He looked to Ross. ‘We’re here.’
    Sebeck turned left past two marked patrol cars guarding the open gates of a large estate. He nodded to the deputies standing nearby and rolled past them, heading down the long driveway flanked by lines of mature oaks. In between the trunks they caught glimpses of a fine Mediterranean villa some distance ahead. This wasn’t a modern replica. It looked like an authentic 1920s-era mansion with a cupola and slanting roofs capped in terracotta tile. The mansion was set back about a thousand feet from the road, nestled in a copse of manzanita trees.
    Ross whistled.
    Sebeck nodded. ‘Yeah, I didn’t know there was so much money in computer games.’
    ‘They generate more revenue than all of Hollywood.’
    The driveway ended in a wide cobblestone courtyard flanked by a horse stable, a six-car garage, and what looked to be a guesthouse or office. The main house lay straight ahead with landscaped lawns opening the courtyard on either side. Through these openings Sebeck saw sweeping views of the estate grounds.
    More than a dozen police vehicles were parked in the courtyard – FBI sedans, county patrol cars, a forensics van, an ambulance, and the bomb squad’s truck with a disposal trailer. But there was room to spare. The courtyard was large.
    Sebeck pulled up behind a sedan with white government plates. He and Ross got out.
    A couple of dozen officers stood near the entrance to the main house. They were listening to Neal Decker addressing them from the steps leading up to the mansion’s heavy wooden door. It was a mix of