Paulette.
He looked up. The crime scene investigators had finished with the carpet and had moved to the kitchen area.
"Come on over here," said Edwards. "Take a look at this."
Paulette ducked beneath the tape and crossed the room. Displayed on Chloe's computer screen was the inbox to her e-mail, the typical collection of information: sender, date received, subject.
Edwards said, "Do you recognize any of these senders?"
Paulette took a closer look. There was the usual smattering of obvious spam--collectively, important messages for men with erectile dysfunction who needed to lose weight and borrow money fast. Paulette was only halfway down the list when another visitor knocked on the door frame.
"FBI," the woman said with authority. "Step away from the computer."
"What?" said Detective Edwards.
"Supervisory Special Agent Lloyd," she said, as she stepped beneath the police tape and flashed a badge. Then he showed Edwards her papers. "We re here to exercise a search warrant."
"Since when does the FBI investigate homicides?" said Edwards.
"Could you step aside, please? I need the computer."
Paulette watched the two law enforcement officers square their shoulders and stiffen their jaws, a sure sign of an ensuing state/federal jurisdictional squabble. The computer was obviously a significant piece of a larger puzzle that she hadn't even begun to understand. Paulette studied the screen, but she couldn't possibly commit Chloe's inbox to memory. She snatched her iPhone from her purse and quickly snapped a photograph of the screen.
"What are you doing?" Agent Lloyd said sharply.
"Nothing," said Paulette.
"Did you just take a photograph?"
"Gotta go. See ya."
Paulette was under the tape and out the door faster than the FBI agent could say J. Edgar Hoover. She didn't slow down until she was beyond the courtyard gate and outside on the sidewalk. A gust of cold wind nearly slammed her against her car, but it didn't faze her. She stopped and pulled up the photograph on her iPhone. It was a little blurry, but the zoom made it legible.
More spam. A few messages looked legitimate, but nothing of moment--until she spotted the third one from the bottom. It had been delivered yesterday afternoon. The sender was unrecognizable, an apparently random selection of numbers and letters rather than a coherent screen name. The subject line was what caught her attention. It read more like the opening lines of a full message than a "re" line. In fact, it was too long to fit in the allocated space, so Chloe's inbox had cut it off with an ellipsis: I can bring down Keyes. No bullshit. Meet me at .. .
Paulette felt chills, and it had nothing to do with the December cold front. Even ten minutes earlier, the message would not have hit her with this impact, but the FBI's sudden interest in Chloe's computer changed the picture entirely. Last night's unexpected phone call--Chloe's last words to Paulette, perhaps her last words ever spoken to anyone--had just taken a quantum leap in credibility.
It looked like Chloe had a meeting with a source.
She really was on to a story.
A big one.
Chapter 11
Jack exited the subway at Smithsonian Station and started walking along the National Mall toward the Capitol. He was following the instructions contained in his anonymous e-mail exactly. More important, he was doing it all under FBI surveillance.
"We see you," said Andie, her voice transmitting through Jack's tiny earpiece. "Move to the far left of the walkway if you can hear me clearly."
Jack drifted left, comforted to know that he wasn't going it alone.
It was an overcast Monday afternoon, the gray-white skies as cool and washed out as the surrounding sea of stone buildings and marble monuments. Jack stopped at the foot of the museum steps, his back to Madison Drive and the mall. He wasn't looking to be a hero--especially a dead one. The National Mall was a busy place in the middle of the afternoon. Jack was fairly certain, however, that he was
He looked up. The crime scene investigators had finished with the carpet and had moved to the kitchen area.
"Come on over here," said Edwards. "Take a look at this."
Paulette ducked beneath the tape and crossed the room. Displayed on Chloe's computer screen was the inbox to her e-mail, the typical collection of information: sender, date received, subject.
Edwards said, "Do you recognize any of these senders?"
Paulette took a closer look. There was the usual smattering of obvious spam--collectively, important messages for men with erectile dysfunction who needed to lose weight and borrow money fast. Paulette was only halfway down the list when another visitor knocked on the door frame.
"FBI," the woman said with authority. "Step away from the computer."
"What?" said Detective Edwards.
"Supervisory Special Agent Lloyd," she said, as she stepped beneath the police tape and flashed a badge. Then he showed Edwards her papers. "We re here to exercise a search warrant."
"Since when does the FBI investigate homicides?" said Edwards.
"Could you step aside, please? I need the computer."
Paulette watched the two law enforcement officers square their shoulders and stiffen their jaws, a sure sign of an ensuing state/federal jurisdictional squabble. The computer was obviously a significant piece of a larger puzzle that she hadn't even begun to understand. Paulette studied the screen, but she couldn't possibly commit Chloe's inbox to memory. She snatched her iPhone from her purse and quickly snapped a photograph of the screen.
"What are you doing?" Agent Lloyd said sharply.
"Nothing," said Paulette.
"Did you just take a photograph?"
"Gotta go. See ya."
Paulette was under the tape and out the door faster than the FBI agent could say J. Edgar Hoover. She didn't slow down until she was beyond the courtyard gate and outside on the sidewalk. A gust of cold wind nearly slammed her against her car, but it didn't faze her. She stopped and pulled up the photograph on her iPhone. It was a little blurry, but the zoom made it legible.
More spam. A few messages looked legitimate, but nothing of moment--until she spotted the third one from the bottom. It had been delivered yesterday afternoon. The sender was unrecognizable, an apparently random selection of numbers and letters rather than a coherent screen name. The subject line was what caught her attention. It read more like the opening lines of a full message than a "re" line. In fact, it was too long to fit in the allocated space, so Chloe's inbox had cut it off with an ellipsis: I can bring down Keyes. No bullshit. Meet me at .. .
Paulette felt chills, and it had nothing to do with the December cold front. Even ten minutes earlier, the message would not have hit her with this impact, but the FBI's sudden interest in Chloe's computer changed the picture entirely. Last night's unexpected phone call--Chloe's last words to Paulette, perhaps her last words ever spoken to anyone--had just taken a quantum leap in credibility.
It looked like Chloe had a meeting with a source.
She really was on to a story.
A big one.
Chapter 11
Jack exited the subway at Smithsonian Station and started walking along the National Mall toward the Capitol. He was following the instructions contained in his anonymous e-mail exactly. More important, he was doing it all under FBI surveillance.
"We see you," said Andie, her voice transmitting through Jack's tiny earpiece. "Move to the far left of the walkway if you can hear me clearly."
Jack drifted left, comforted to know that he wasn't going it alone.
It was an overcast Monday afternoon, the gray-white skies as cool and washed out as the surrounding sea of stone buildings and marble monuments. Jack stopped at the foot of the museum steps, his back to Madison Drive and the mall. He wasn't looking to be a hero--especially a dead one. The National Mall was a busy place in the middle of the afternoon. Jack was fairly certain, however, that he was
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