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Mo-bot’s real name is Maureen Roth. She’s fifty, married with three kids, a serial slayer in the World of Warcraft, and mother hen to the younger operatives at Private. She’s called Mo-bot because of her almost robotic mind. She has an eidetic memory and can multitask like an
air traffic controller on speed, doesn’t get frazzled or riled. I never had to think twice about Mo.
I concluded the Archer report, and Justine brought everyone up to date on the car-bomb situation, which had heated up considerably since Maeve Wilkinson’s death. When she was done, Cruz leaned forward and told the group that all was quiet on the Sumar front.
“Gozan and Khezir are staying put in their hotel room, watching sports and porn,” said Cruz.
The other senior investigators gave summaries of their cases, and then we were done. Notably, Del Rio’s seat was empty.
“I’ll be in court today,” I said. “If anything blows up—cars, cases, whatever—Justine is in charge.”
Mo-bot saluted Justine. There was a smattering of laughter and I asked again, “Any questions?”
There were none.
I had a wide range of questions that I kept to myself.
Why had Hal Archer gone lethal on his wife? What could I do to make peace with Justine? How would I do on the stand today when Caine called me to testify on behalf of my best friend, Rick Del Rio?
Chapter 57
MO-BOT LOCKED HERSELF inside her corner office on the basement level, home to Private’s forensic lab. She heated water in her microwave, brewed an aromatic tea of spearmint, blackberry leaves, eucalyptus, and licorice root, then began to research Tule Archer, née Tallulah Amoyo of Bakersfield, California.
Mo-bot typed the victim’s name into Private’s search engine, which automatically clicked through the results, organizing data by type: criminal, biographical, automotive, educational, and social. After the first sort, the intelligent software highlighted the most pertinent information and composed a comprehensive record.
The computer finished this data collection before the tea was done steeping.
Mo-bot went over Tule Archer’s newly composed dossier, homed in and winnowed out, asked new questions of the search engine, and received collateral material to add to the file.
As she worked, Mo-bot took a call from Emilio Cruz, the sexiest person of either gender at Private Investigations Worldwide. She also consulted with Sci about a software suite, talking with him over the network even though he was only thirty feet away.
She relayed information from the LA lab to Sci on the chemicals used in the Wilkinson car bomb, noting that latex had been found inside what remained of the gas tank. After she finished with Sci, Mo-bot texted her husband, Trent, reminded him that he had a dentist’s appointment at noon and a meeting with their contractor at two, and that their youngest son had science club at three fifteen.
Mo-bot went back to work.
The key facts about Tule were these: Born in California of Filipino agricultural workers in 1992, Tule grew up in Bakersfield, where she went to public school, got average grades, and was known as a prankster and a bit of a comic. She attended East LA College, took courses in art and theater, and then moved to Las Vegas.
Her tracks became more dramatic once she was working as a dancer and cocktail waitress.
Mo-bot watched videos of song-and-dance routines at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino and Tule often had lead parts. Mo-bot saw both talent and ambition in this young woman.
Same time that Tule was dancing and serving drinks to VIPs, she was cited for a DUI, then arrested for having a fight with another showgirl backstage. Not long after that, according to justice court, Tule and her roommate, Barbie Summers, skipped out on their rent, leaving their dogs and furnishings behind.
Leaving dogs was telling—but what it told, Mo-bot couldn’t be sure. Were they running from? Or running to?
Mo-bot got into the Clark County Recorder’s Office records and found the entry for Tule’s wedding to Hal Archer, and then she turned up Tule and Hal’s wedding announcement in the LA Times; looked like they’d decided to have a second wedding, a much bigger one, back home in California.
That wedding in LA marked a dramatic turn in the life of Tallulah Amoyo, a new Real Housewife of Beverly Hills. But a few days after their first anniversary, Tule was dead, and, indisputably, Hal Archer had done it.
Mo-bot attached the LAPD’s report on Tule’s murder, and when the dossier was cooked, she sent a memo to Jack, copied it to Sci and Justine.
Then Mo-bot, a woman who was capable of keeping innumerable plates in the air, stopped everything to look at Tule Archer’s LA Times wedding photo. The scene was Vibiana, a former cathedral in downtown LA, now renovated and reimagined as a thirty-five-thousand-square-foot way beautiful, over-the-top events venue.
In the picture, Tule wore a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown and an ecstatic smile on her face; next to her, Hal Archer looked proud and in love with his arm-candy bride.
“What happened, Tule?” Mo-bot asked the image on her screen. “What the hell went so wrong?”
Chapter 58
