“And in the meantime?”

“I think it’s time I go see Tommy Cattafi.”

Chapter 28

Capitol Hill

Fletcher’s house

IT DIDN’T TAKE as long as Fletcher expected to upload the data from the SD card. The files were encrypted, not a huge surprise there. He opened the small package that came with the laptop, dumped out a thumb drive with a decryption software program on it, and a couple of other, more esoteric code-breaking tools should the thumb drive’s program fail. Thankful for the forensic accounting seminar they’d been given last month, which covered how to run these programs in exactly this kind of scenario, he inserted the thumb drive and launched the program.

The more sophisticated the criminals became, the quicker the cops had to paddle to keep up. Jordan had introduced him to a number of fun toys the feds used to access information from both web accounts and hard drives, and he’d successfully lobbied for Metro to bring several of them on board.

The proletariat in him had qualms about the level of access the government now had, especially warrantless spying, which was happening more and more, but the cop in him appreciated the tools. They made his life easier, made an investigation of this nature go much, much faster than it normally would have.

The program finished running. The screen of the laptop went blank, then suddenly began filling with numbers. Damn. Code. It was all in code. Son of a bitch. Yes, he’d managed to crack the SD card, but he’d need a sophisticated cryptography program to decipher any of it.

Or a little help from his friends.

And he knew exactly who to call.

So much of the crime they saw now had links to the online world. When he’d become the homicide lieutenant, in addition to his appeal for more sophisticated technologies, he’d pushed for an outreach program into the technology community. They needed more confidential informants—CIs—who were on the hacker end of the spectrum. More deals done with boys and girls who were doing less-than-legal online work in exchange for information on their employers. His investigators agreed, and had done well rounding up some people they could use when the need arose.

One of the people who’d been fingered right away was a girl named Rosalind Lowe. In the hacker world, she went by the call sign Freedom Mouse.

Mousy she was not. A white hat hacker, she’d gotten herself involved with a small-time Mafia don in northeast D.C. who’d turned on her, and she’d come to them looking for help in extricating herself from the man’s grip. She had information that was enough to take him down, but if he had any idea it had come from her, she’d be dead.

Fletcher liked Rosalind. She was smart and sassy, tattooed and pierced, and had a bullshit detector a mile wide. She could find work as a human lie detector, should the current technology ever fail. She’d also been specializing in cryptography at MIT before she’d gotten bored and dropped out.

She’d helped them take down the don, and in exchange they’d forgiven her a small banking scam. Nothing that would hurt anyone. She was incredibly good at breaking into company’s servers and then letting them know their firewalls were a joke, and had done just that.

He grabbed his phone, called Hart.

“Fletcher, where the hell are you?” he asked, sounding terribly annoyed.

“Home. With a wad of info I can’t decipher. Can you get Mouse for me? I have a job for her.”

Hart was quiet. “Armstrong is on the warpath looking for you.”

“Which is why I called you. I need Mouse, Lonnie. Yesterday. And I can’t call her, there’s too much heat on this case as it is.”

“Man,” Hart said, dragging it out.

“Thou doth protest too much. Trust me, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll make the call. I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep this thing quiet for much longer. Cattafi took a turn for the worse. His family won’t be here for a few hours. They called from Chicago, asked if there was anything we could do. Which, of course, there isn’t. And we’re hitting a brick wall with Souleyret. I can’t find out anything worthwhile. We’re going through her financials right now. She owned a house on Capitol Hill for the past ten years, not too far from you. It’s leased out. There’s a BMW 3-series sitting in a long-term parking garage at Union Station registered to her name. That’s it. She has no debt, no loans, no sketchy income, just a regular direct deposit from Uncle Sam. Girl was squeaky clean, with sugar on top.”

“Why not park the car at the house?”

“Guess that’s part of the lease agreement. Renters get the garage space.”

“Credit cards?”

“Just one. An American Express she pays off automatically every month. We’re going through the most recent charges now, but she must work on a cash basis, because it’s barely being used. There’s nothing exciting here. Bank statements show ATM withdrawals, some with foreign activity fees, so we can build an idea of where she’s been. But that’s all we’ve got. There’s nothing in her financials that screams, Here’s why someone wanted to off me. We’ve got requests in for her phone and text records, but I gotta say, I’m getting the sense this chick is a bit careful. Contained. Or we’re missing something huge. Now, when you gonna get here and start helping?”

“Not soon. I’m trying to find out what got Souleyret killed. She brought something else into the country—not the vaccines—which is why I need Mouse.”

“Oh. I see.” His tone changed, from annoyance to interest. “And you think there may be some answers she can find?”

“I do. What about the sister? Have you found her yet?”

“Not yet. I was hoping Sam could dig into the official FBI files, see if she can’t find her.”

“I’ll ask. Stay in touch. Text me the address on the Hill. When I finish here, I might as well go talk to the people who rented from her, find out if they know anything.”

“You do that, boss. I’ll just keep plugging away on nothing good.”

* * *

Sam sat back in the chair. Fletcher was just hanging up his cell phone. “Anything?” she asked him.

“No. Hart’s hitting a dead end with Souleyret. Nothing hinky in her financials, nothing unusual anywhere around her.” He pointed at the computer. “My decryption program worked, but the files are all in code. I have a call in to a kid who might be able to crack it for me.”

Sam’s phone rang. “It’s Baldwin. Finally. He might have a shortcut for us.” She put the phone to her ear. “Where have you been?”

His deep voice always made her calm, but she heard a buzz of excitement in it. “Confirming we definitely have another victim of the Hometown Killer.”

“Why do you sound happy about this?”

“Because there’s DNA at this crime scene. We have something to match him to now. He’s starting to speed up, and he’s starting to get sloppy. We’re going to catch him, and soon. I hope.”

“That is good news. I need to talk about our girl. Are you secure?”

“No. I won’t be for an hour at least.”

“All right. Let me say this, then. Are you aware of her code?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I was worried about that. Check the back pocket of the file. You’ll find your help there. Listen, I’m sorry for being so cagey. I’ll explain everything when I can get on a secure sat phone, or home.”

“Okay. Be careful, Baldwin.”

“You, too, Sam. See you.”

She hung up and flipped to the back of the file Shultz had sent. Taped to the back of the last page was a small thumb drive.

She peeled it off and handed it to Fletcher, just as Daniels came back with a platter piled high with sandwiches.

“What’s this?” Fletcher asked.

“I think it’s a code breaker. Daniels, did Agent Shultz tell you this was in here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Fletcher shrugged and slid it into the USB drive on the laptop. Nothing happened.