The phone call was cut off by chaotic crashing sounds, followed by a stern male voice shouting, "LAPD! Hands on your head, turn around!" Then came Lily's rushed, suppressed, almost inaudible final words: "Central Division… trespassing… bail…" The line went dead, replaced by the relentless dial tone.
Central Division? Trespassing? Mason's heartbeat skipped a beat. Lily, someone who moved in murky circles, getting arrested for trespassing? But the word "bail" made him hesitate no longer. Whatever secrets she held or purposes she served, she needed help now. Mason grabbed all his savings and rushed out the door of his new apartment.
The night lobby of LAPD Central Division was brightly lit, filled with a mix of coffee, sweat, and disinfectant. Mason explained the situation to the officer on duty. The officer checked the computer, glanced up, and said, "Lily Walker. Suspected of Trespassing on Commercial Property and Possession of Burglary Tools. Demanded immediate bail, caused a bit of a scene. Bail is set at forty-five hundred dollars."
Trespassing and possession of burglary tools? It sounded more serious than simple trespassing, yet less severe than armed robbery or commercial burglary. Forty-five hundred dollars was within Mason's means. He felt a wave of relief, but his confusion deepened: What was Lily doing that required "burglary tools"? What exactly was the "information" she was after?
After posting bail, completing the paperwork, and waiting, Lily emerged over an hour later. She looked tired, her meticulously styled hair slightly disheveled, her expensive suit wrinkled, and faint red marks visible on her wrists (likely from handcuffs). Yet her gaze remained sharp, her back straight. Seeing Mason, she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Once in the car and away from the oppressive atmosphere of the police station, Lily leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Before Mason could ask, she spoke first, her voice slightly hoarse:
"The core vault of a private seed bank called 'Nemesis Biodynamics.' I needed the original genetic sequence records and corresponding environmental parameter backups for a specific batch of samples from three years ago."
Her explanation was professional, cold, and straight to the point, as if delivering a report.
"A seed bank? Genetic sequences?" Mason frowned. This was far from the trade secrets or financial data he had imagined.
"It's connected to an old case, involving potential assessment of illegal gene editing and biological contamination. Those original records are a crucial reference baseline." Lily's tone was steady, her logic clear. "I assessed the risks; their physical security had vulnerabilities. But I didn't anticipate their digital watermarking and remote alarm system were directly linked to a top-tier private military security company, with a response time under five minutes. I triggered a secondary alarm during withdrawal and was cornered on the third underground level."
She paused, then added flatly, as if mentioning what she had for breakfast: "I destroyed all electronic equipment used during the infiltration. They have no direct evidence of my ultimate objective for now—only the acts of trespass and damaging physical security systems are confirmed. The charges of commercial burglary and resisting arrest are based on my actions on-site and the value of the damaged security door. My lawyer says there's room to maneuver."
Mason listened quietly. Lily's explanation sounded flawless: a clear target (seed genetic records), a plausible reason (investigating illegal biological hazards), underestimated risks (underestimating security response), and a controlled outcome (no direct evidence, only behavioral charges). Mason had never inquired about Lily's identity because their acquaintance began with an absurd "incident." She wouldn't harm him intentionally, but based on tonight's events, she likely held a role as an "independent information investigator" or a "gray-area verification agent."
Yet that small, discordant doubt surfaced again: Why would such important, potentially illegal "genetic sequence records" be stored in a "private seed bank" that sounded more like a high-end agricultural or environmental institution? And in the core vault, no less? It sounded more like a carefully designed front, a cover for storing some "special item." Moreover, Lily's urgency in "needing" these records seemed to exceed the scope of a routine investigation—enough to risk breaking in and triggering felony charges.
He didn't press further. Lily's explanation was watertight; asking for details would only seem naive and wouldn't yield real answers. By choosing to give him this version, she either believed it sufficient for him or needed him to believe it. The deeper reasons likely remained hers alone. Mason set aside his doubts; now wasn't the time to dig deeper. This incident was like a tangible rope temporarily binding them together.
"The money, I'll handle it," Lily said finally, her voice soft but carrying weight.
"You owe me, Lily. More than just money," Mason stated calmly, eyes fixed ahead.
Lily glanced at him. In the night, her profile was sharp, her gaze profound. "I know," she acknowledged without denial.
Dropping her off at the entrance of a complex multi-story parking garage downtown (clearly not her final destination), Lily got out. Her figure was quickly swallowed by the shadows of concrete and steel. The episode seemed over, but the cloud of suspicion in Mason's mind grew darker. Lily's actions were far more dangerous than she let on, her motives even more inscrutable. She was like a dancer performing alone in the dark, and he seemed to have been inadvertently pulled into her dance, yet couldn't even discern the melody.
Back at Emerald Lake Apartments, Mason tried to wash away the night's turbulence with a shower. Then, Sophia Rockefeller's call came through, like a ray of sunshine dispersing some of the gloom, yet bringing its own kind of pressure.