into all Facebook accounts. With a search warrant granted by a justice, he could eavesdrop on her activities.
He stood up to grab a Coke from the office fridge. Did he have enough evidence to convince a justice that she was a suspect in the case?
The Coke cleared his mind. She was not a suspect, nor did he have reason to question her credibility as a witness. With a little prodding, she had been up front about witnessing the crime. He had no reason not to believe her.
He wouldn’t attempt to open up the social media line of investigation for the moment.
He shut down his computer knowing that if he had more questions, he could interrogate her directly.
He locked up the office and left for the evening.
He jumped into his car and sat there thinking about his next move. FBI special agents were barred for professional reasons from having a relationship with a witness. He wouldn’t let his interest in her jeopardize his career. But he needed to familiarize himself with some more details of her life.
He drove toward the address he had obtained from her résumé. Her house was up Patrick Henry Drive, an old, winding road that ignored the grid of streets around it.
He eased along her street, counting off the house numbers. At last he got to her address.
It was a frame house with an enclosed front porch, pale yellow paint and sky blue window frames. It was the kind of place that didn’t cost a lot, but was made nice by a caring owner.
No lights were on inside despite the gathering dusk, and no car was in the driveway.
Maybe she was out for a run.
He turned around at the next intersection and headed down to the bike trail.
He parked nearby and wandered through the crunchy, burnt grass toward the strip of asphalt. Children rollerbladed by and commute rs biked home at high speeds. He could still feel heat emanating from the pavement.
A young woman, built like a fireplug, with a monitor strapped to her toned biceps pounded past him with a grim look.
A Hispanic woman in a loose T-shirt and crinkly sweatpants steamed by.
It would be sheer chance if he saw Stacy, but he could envision her.
He pictured her having a loping, athletic stride, like one of those deceptively fast runners that passed him on occasion. Then again, she might be one of those appealingly determined runners who was hopelessly out of shape.
He aimed for his car and turned on the air conditioning.
He stared out at the bike path. The W&OD trail cut straight through the towns of Arlington, Falls Church and Vienna toward the setting sun. It had a wide right-of-way that allowed him to see the entire sky.
Stacy had been jogging westward when the crime took place. Why did she run so far from her home? Surely she had to be in good shape to run that far.
She lived blocks from the trail, but Han Chu’s company was nowhere near it. Jake had looked up the address of Quantum, and it was located several miles south in the city. Chu was not merely there on a break from work. He had gone out of his way to be on that path.
It seemed like the meeting was more than coincidental. Either Chu was hoping to find Stacy, or she was trying to meet up with him, or both.
But if Chu was hoping to meet up with her, how could he have known that she was coming that far, or even that she would be off work?
Or was Stacy behind the encounter? Had she been there to meet Chu?
Jake kept coming back to the question : did she really know Chu, despite what she had claimed during his interrogation?
He would check with Michael Epstein in the FBI’s Criminal Division the next day to find out if there was any connection between Chu’s company and Stacy Stefansson.
He bet there was.
He drove past Stacy’s house on his way home. He was convinced that he was spending too many late hours doing his job, and he was beginning to resent it.
Her Jeep was parked in the driveway. The house lights were on.
And a man was carrying in groceries from the car.
He was small and spry and wore a
He stood up to grab a Coke from the office fridge. Did he have enough evidence to convince a justice that she was a suspect in the case?
The Coke cleared his mind. She was not a suspect, nor did he have reason to question her credibility as a witness. With a little prodding, she had been up front about witnessing the crime. He had no reason not to believe her.
He wouldn’t attempt to open up the social media line of investigation for the moment.
He shut down his computer knowing that if he had more questions, he could interrogate her directly.
He locked up the office and left for the evening.
He jumped into his car and sat there thinking about his next move. FBI special agents were barred for professional reasons from having a relationship with a witness. He wouldn’t let his interest in her jeopardize his career. But he needed to familiarize himself with some more details of her life.
He drove toward the address he had obtained from her résumé. Her house was up Patrick Henry Drive, an old, winding road that ignored the grid of streets around it.
He eased along her street, counting off the house numbers. At last he got to her address.
It was a frame house with an enclosed front porch, pale yellow paint and sky blue window frames. It was the kind of place that didn’t cost a lot, but was made nice by a caring owner.
No lights were on inside despite the gathering dusk, and no car was in the driveway.
Maybe she was out for a run.
He turned around at the next intersection and headed down to the bike trail.
He parked nearby and wandered through the crunchy, burnt grass toward the strip of asphalt. Children rollerbladed by and commute rs biked home at high speeds. He could still feel heat emanating from the pavement.
A young woman, built like a fireplug, with a monitor strapped to her toned biceps pounded past him with a grim look.
A Hispanic woman in a loose T-shirt and crinkly sweatpants steamed by.
It would be sheer chance if he saw Stacy, but he could envision her.
He pictured her having a loping, athletic stride, like one of those deceptively fast runners that passed him on occasion. Then again, she might be one of those appealingly determined runners who was hopelessly out of shape.
He aimed for his car and turned on the air conditioning.
He stared out at the bike path. The W&OD trail cut straight through the towns of Arlington, Falls Church and Vienna toward the setting sun. It had a wide right-of-way that allowed him to see the entire sky.
Stacy had been jogging westward when the crime took place. Why did she run so far from her home? Surely she had to be in good shape to run that far.
She lived blocks from the trail, but Han Chu’s company was nowhere near it. Jake had looked up the address of Quantum, and it was located several miles south in the city. Chu was not merely there on a break from work. He had gone out of his way to be on that path.
It seemed like the meeting was more than coincidental. Either Chu was hoping to find Stacy, or she was trying to meet up with him, or both.
But if Chu was hoping to meet up with her, how could he have known that she was coming that far, or even that she would be off work?
Or was Stacy behind the encounter? Had she been there to meet Chu?
Jake kept coming back to the question : did she really know Chu, despite what she had claimed during his interrogation?
He would check with Michael Epstein in the FBI’s Criminal Division the next day to find out if there was any connection between Chu’s company and Stacy Stefansson.
He bet there was.
He drove past Stacy’s house on his way home. He was convinced that he was spending too many late hours doing his job, and he was beginning to resent it.
Her Jeep was parked in the driveway. The house lights were on.
And a man was carrying in groceries from the car.
He was small and spry and wore a
Similar Books
