time,” Jake said. “But can I ask you one last question?”
Craig shrugged. “Sure.”
“Why are you reading all these pamphlets? You’ve got a computer sitting over there.”
Craig looked at the blank screen. “All the computers in our department crashed yesterday. It might take days to get the whole system back online. In the meantime, I’ve lost all my emails for the past month.”
Jake winced. “Hard to run a cyber security program when your computers are down.”
Craig walked him outside and pointed the way to the security gate where they had entered the complex. “Good luck,” he said, and offered a lifeless handshake.
Jake gave him an appreciative smile. The guy had dedicated his life to the government, and clearly there was no glory in it. Craig and DHS would, after all, be moving to an insane asylum soon.
Chapter 11
Jake needed to stop by his office to pick up his car.
From Homeland Security headquarters, he caught a cab to the Metro, then took the red line downtown toward Metro Center. There were few passengers going into town at the end of the day.
He sat by a door and closed his eyes.
The door opened and shut, letting in damp, cool air from the underground stations.
He wondered if Stacy Stefansson ever rode the Metro. She had her own Jeep and her job at Verisign. He pulled out her business card and checked the address. There was only a business address . The company was located outside the beltway in Reston, Virginia.
Increasing numbers of people got on the train as they neared the center of town. Their business suits, earphones and Kindles pegged them as government workers. If he ever advanced in the Bureau to work at the Hoover Building, could he endure that life?
Metro Center, a busy multi-level hub under downtown DC, swarmed with passengers waiting for their train.
Among the crush of people, he saw a bushy head of blonde hair. The train pulled in, and he edged toward the car where the woman was getting on.
In the harsh light of the car, he could see her squeezed between two men. She was laughing and talking with both of them.
She was also fifty years old.
He grabbed for a handhold and the train lurched out of the station. Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility. Jake had other work to do.
When he reached the office, he hesitated in the parking lot. His car was waiting for him in the dead stillness. The sun was still up, but struggled to filter through the humid fog that hung around the trees. He could drive home, but home had no appeal.
So he went into the building and unlocked the office door.
He knew that Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility, and Jake had resolved not to tamper with her as a witness or interfere with Epstein’s investigation. Epstein would uncover her financial circumstances, search for a link to Chu’s company, and establish how she and Chu were on the same bike path at the time of the murder.
But Epstein had not seen her at the funeral or interrogated her. He wouldn’t be able to read her like Jake could. Just a little more information about her might help Jake establish if there was any evidence beyond what Epstein could develop.
Jake would start with where she lived. He didn’t know if she owned a swank condo in Ballston or a house in McLean.
He opened the case file and checked her résumé.
He knew that she jogged in Arlington, so he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that her address was in a residential section of Arlington.
He scanned down the résumé for more personal details. She had gone to Swarthmore for an undergraduate degree and had worked in the DC area for the past eleven years.
Who were her friends? Did she really know Han Chu, despite what she had told him during the interrogation?
He pulled up Facebook. There weren’t many Stefanssons. But her name did appear.
Facebook blocked the general public from accessing people’s friends, messages and photos. But the FBI had a backdoor
Craig shrugged. “Sure.”
“Why are you reading all these pamphlets? You’ve got a computer sitting over there.”
Craig looked at the blank screen. “All the computers in our department crashed yesterday. It might take days to get the whole system back online. In the meantime, I’ve lost all my emails for the past month.”
Jake winced. “Hard to run a cyber security program when your computers are down.”
Craig walked him outside and pointed the way to the security gate where they had entered the complex. “Good luck,” he said, and offered a lifeless handshake.
Jake gave him an appreciative smile. The guy had dedicated his life to the government, and clearly there was no glory in it. Craig and DHS would, after all, be moving to an insane asylum soon.
Chapter 11
Jake needed to stop by his office to pick up his car.
From Homeland Security headquarters, he caught a cab to the Metro, then took the red line downtown toward Metro Center. There were few passengers going into town at the end of the day.
He sat by a door and closed his eyes.
The door opened and shut, letting in damp, cool air from the underground stations.
He wondered if Stacy Stefansson ever rode the Metro. She had her own Jeep and her job at Verisign. He pulled out her business card and checked the address. There was only a business address . The company was located outside the beltway in Reston, Virginia.
Increasing numbers of people got on the train as they neared the center of town. Their business suits, earphones and Kindles pegged them as government workers. If he ever advanced in the Bureau to work at the Hoover Building, could he endure that life?
Metro Center, a busy multi-level hub under downtown DC, swarmed with passengers waiting for their train.
Among the crush of people, he saw a bushy head of blonde hair. The train pulled in, and he edged toward the car where the woman was getting on.
In the harsh light of the car, he could see her squeezed between two men. She was laughing and talking with both of them.
She was also fifty years old.
He grabbed for a handhold and the train lurched out of the station. Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility. Jake had other work to do.
When he reached the office, he hesitated in the parking lot. His car was waiting for him in the dead stillness. The sun was still up, but struggled to filter through the humid fog that hung around the trees. He could drive home, but home had no appeal.
So he went into the building and unlocked the office door.
He knew that Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility, and Jake had resolved not to tamper with her as a witness or interfere with Epstein’s investigation. Epstein would uncover her financial circumstances, search for a link to Chu’s company, and establish how she and Chu were on the same bike path at the time of the murder.
But Epstein had not seen her at the funeral or interrogated her. He wouldn’t be able to read her like Jake could. Just a little more information about her might help Jake establish if there was any evidence beyond what Epstein could develop.
Jake would start with where she lived. He didn’t know if she owned a swank condo in Ballston or a house in McLean.
He opened the case file and checked her résumé.
He knew that she jogged in Arlington, so he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that her address was in a residential section of Arlington.
He scanned down the résumé for more personal details. She had gone to Swarthmore for an undergraduate degree and had worked in the DC area for the past eleven years.
Who were her friends? Did she really know Han Chu, despite what she had told him during the interrogation?
He pulled up Facebook. There weren’t many Stefanssons. But her name did appear.
Facebook blocked the general public from accessing people’s friends, messages and photos. But the FBI had a backdoor
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