ladies’ piece, you know?”
“A what? Did you say ladies’ ?”
“Sorry. The figure of speech predates political correctness. In its day, it meant a pistol more appropriate for a woman to carry than a man—small caliber, short barrel, fits in a purse, and so on—not the sort of thing you’d expect a man to use. Though I did read somewhere that Pretty Boy Floyd used a .32 Colt.”
“Pretty boy…who?”
“Depression era gangster…before your time. Mine too, come to think of it.”
Dunnigan zeroed in on Fisher as they took their seats, intent on continuing their debate. But Blake waved him off with a smile.
“Father Dunnigan,” he said, “enough theology for one night. Let’s talk about more important things—food, fine wine, and who have you got in the World Series?”
Ike found a place card with his name on it and discovered he had been put at the end of the table next to the Gibson drinker. He introduced himself to Ike without betraying any sign that he had recently mistaken him for a waiter.
“Everitt Barstow,” he said and extended his hand. “You must be new to the faculty. I’m Chemistry. This is Antoine Baxter,” he gestured to the dashiki clad man, “and that is Foster Prendergast.” Baxter looked a little embarrassed, and Prendergast jerked his head up and down like a chicken pecking corn.
“Antoine is head of Ethnic Studies and Prendergast is our mathematician. So you are with…?”
“The Picketsville Sheriff’s Department. I’m the sheriff,” Ike said and waited. The reaction was predictable and immediate. Their eyebrows, like six mismatched caterpillars, went up and then down and then reconfigured themselves into carefully crafted neutrality. Synchronized swimming had nothing on those beauties. Everitt Barstow cleared his throat and studied his water glass. Baxter made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt. Prendergast simply smiled and waited for more information. Ruth took her place at the head of the table opposite Ike and sat. Her guests followed suit. Ike glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He had forty-five minutes to go before he could expect a call from Sam.
Chapter Seventeen
Sam’s pizza arrived and Bobby, moon eyed and needy, lingered for a few minutes. He would have spent the night if she’d let him, but she gave him a hundred-watt smile and sent him on his way. She chewed absently on her fourth slice of pizza and stared at the screen in front of her. The aroma of mozzarella and pepperoni mixed incongruously with the scent of new linoleum and jailhouse Lysol from down the hall. She studied her notes and realized Krueger’s past activities would probably not produce any more useful information. Except for a few incursions into some import-export firms in San Francisco, he’d limited himself almost exclusively to Ibex and Crane. In fact, he’d visited the site several times, either to confirm his previous data gathering or to explore some more. In any event he did not succeed in going any farther into their system than the development proposal. She tried breaking all the way into it herself just to see what he’d run into. Their website was as secure as any she’d run across, and even though she did breach their wall, she realized most hackers, especially ones like Krueger, couldn’t.
She finished the pizza and began to search his personal files. Her eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She began to retrieve deleted files. Some had been written over, but most were intact. Krueger had a large hard drive—plenty of room. He obviously had not considered the possibility his computer might some day be dissected by anyone, certainly not by the police. She restored data and tracked it back to its original location. Some of the files were huge. Pictures probably. When she was sure she had them all, she copied them to a series of discs and set them aside. The clock read eight. Too soon to call Ike. She began to
“A what? Did you say ladies’ ?”
“Sorry. The figure of speech predates political correctness. In its day, it meant a pistol more appropriate for a woman to carry than a man—small caliber, short barrel, fits in a purse, and so on—not the sort of thing you’d expect a man to use. Though I did read somewhere that Pretty Boy Floyd used a .32 Colt.”
“Pretty boy…who?”
“Depression era gangster…before your time. Mine too, come to think of it.”
Dunnigan zeroed in on Fisher as they took their seats, intent on continuing their debate. But Blake waved him off with a smile.
“Father Dunnigan,” he said, “enough theology for one night. Let’s talk about more important things—food, fine wine, and who have you got in the World Series?”
Ike found a place card with his name on it and discovered he had been put at the end of the table next to the Gibson drinker. He introduced himself to Ike without betraying any sign that he had recently mistaken him for a waiter.
“Everitt Barstow,” he said and extended his hand. “You must be new to the faculty. I’m Chemistry. This is Antoine Baxter,” he gestured to the dashiki clad man, “and that is Foster Prendergast.” Baxter looked a little embarrassed, and Prendergast jerked his head up and down like a chicken pecking corn.
“Antoine is head of Ethnic Studies and Prendergast is our mathematician. So you are with…?”
“The Picketsville Sheriff’s Department. I’m the sheriff,” Ike said and waited. The reaction was predictable and immediate. Their eyebrows, like six mismatched caterpillars, went up and then down and then reconfigured themselves into carefully crafted neutrality. Synchronized swimming had nothing on those beauties. Everitt Barstow cleared his throat and studied his water glass. Baxter made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt. Prendergast simply smiled and waited for more information. Ruth took her place at the head of the table opposite Ike and sat. Her guests followed suit. Ike glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He had forty-five minutes to go before he could expect a call from Sam.
Chapter Seventeen
Sam’s pizza arrived and Bobby, moon eyed and needy, lingered for a few minutes. He would have spent the night if she’d let him, but she gave him a hundred-watt smile and sent him on his way. She chewed absently on her fourth slice of pizza and stared at the screen in front of her. The aroma of mozzarella and pepperoni mixed incongruously with the scent of new linoleum and jailhouse Lysol from down the hall. She studied her notes and realized Krueger’s past activities would probably not produce any more useful information. Except for a few incursions into some import-export firms in San Francisco, he’d limited himself almost exclusively to Ibex and Crane. In fact, he’d visited the site several times, either to confirm his previous data gathering or to explore some more. In any event he did not succeed in going any farther into their system than the development proposal. She tried breaking all the way into it herself just to see what he’d run into. Their website was as secure as any she’d run across, and even though she did breach their wall, she realized most hackers, especially ones like Krueger, couldn’t.
She finished the pizza and began to search his personal files. Her eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She began to retrieve deleted files. Some had been written over, but most were intact. Krueger had a large hard drive—plenty of room. He obviously had not considered the possibility his computer might some day be dissected by anyone, certainly not by the police. She restored data and tracked it back to its original location. Some of the files were huge. Pictures probably. When she was sure she had them all, she copied them to a series of discs and set them aside. The clock read eight. Too soon to call Ike. She began to
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