hurried to her desk, aware her speed had aroused the interest of both Jennifer and Isaac.
“Is there something wrong?” Jennifer asked.
“Nope. Everything’s just fine,” Ingrid snapped back at her. She’d been more curt than she’d meant. “Sorry, Jennifer, just really busy right now.”
“Can I help at all?”
“I’ll be sure to holler when you can.”
The clerk shrugged her shoulders a little theatrically and went back to her computer. Ingrid fired up her own desktop PC and waited for long agonizing seconds while the machine went through the slow start-up routine. Then she logged into the main FBI database and tapped Darryl Wyatt’s name into the search box. Three records came up for that name, but only one was a murder suspect last seen in Savannah. Ingrid quickly scanned the information for the name and contact details of the investigating detective. She could read plenty of dry facts on the database, but they would constitute just a fraction of the intel gathered by the team on the ground. Only the barest details would have been keyed into the database—Ingrid hadn’t met a cop or a Fed yet who enjoyed typing.
A few moments later Ingrid was on hold at Savannah-Chatham Police Department, waiting to be put through to a Detective Trooe. When he finally took the call, Ingrid quickly introduced herself and told the detective what she was calling about.
“The peanut poisoner?” Trooe said as soon as she’d finished. His voice was rich and deep and strangely comforting.
“I’m sorry?”
“Darryl Wyatt, right?”
“I know practically nothing about the case. I was hoping you could enlighten me. Do you have the time right now?”
“Sure. Hang on a second.”
Ingrid heard the sound of the receiver clunking down onto a hard surface, then a door close, then the creak of a leather chair. While she was waiting, she scrolled through the records on the database until she found a photograph of Darryl Wyatt.
“That’s better,” Trooe said, “a little quieter.”
“We have a picture of him here,” Ingrid said. “It’s a little indistinct, but Wyatt is white, thirty-three years of age, dark hair, with a beard. Is that right?”
“I can send you through a better photograph than that. Sounds as though you’re looking at his drivers’ license picture.”
“Just now… you called Wyatt—”
“The peanut poisoner. That’s what he did—he killed that poor lady by feeding her peanuts. She had a real bad allergy.”
Ingrid felt a sudden sense of disappointment. It seemed Wyatt wasn’t quite the ‘poisoner’ Marshall had suggested. “He hasn’t poisoned anyone else?”
“Not as far as we know.” The leather chair creaked a little more. “So, you think Wyatt is in London?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How well do you remember the case?”
“Oh it’s crystal clear. It was only twelve months ago.”
With his slow southern drawl, Ingrid wasn’t sure whether Detective Trooe was being sarcastic. “I guess you’ve investigated plenty of other homicides since then?”
“A few, but nothing like this one. This one kinda sticks in the memory.”
“Can you go through the highlights for me?”
“I guess you like using the computer about as much as I do, huh?”
“You can give me the background I won’t find in the official records.”
“I sure can. Where do you want to start?”
“Tell me everything you can about Darryl Wyatt.”
She heard the detective sniff. “That particular request won’t take real long to answer. He was using a false identity. The ID of a dead man. I can’t tell you a whole lot about him. He did have a girlfriend while he was working at the restaurant, he was dating the restaurant manager. I can give you her contact details when we’re through, if you want.”
“That’d be really helpful.” Ingrid wriggled into her chair, it felt like she might be in for a long session. “He worked at the restaurant where the woman died?”
“He
“Is there something wrong?” Jennifer asked.
“Nope. Everything’s just fine,” Ingrid snapped back at her. She’d been more curt than she’d meant. “Sorry, Jennifer, just really busy right now.”
“Can I help at all?”
“I’ll be sure to holler when you can.”
The clerk shrugged her shoulders a little theatrically and went back to her computer. Ingrid fired up her own desktop PC and waited for long agonizing seconds while the machine went through the slow start-up routine. Then she logged into the main FBI database and tapped Darryl Wyatt’s name into the search box. Three records came up for that name, but only one was a murder suspect last seen in Savannah. Ingrid quickly scanned the information for the name and contact details of the investigating detective. She could read plenty of dry facts on the database, but they would constitute just a fraction of the intel gathered by the team on the ground. Only the barest details would have been keyed into the database—Ingrid hadn’t met a cop or a Fed yet who enjoyed typing.
A few moments later Ingrid was on hold at Savannah-Chatham Police Department, waiting to be put through to a Detective Trooe. When he finally took the call, Ingrid quickly introduced herself and told the detective what she was calling about.
“The peanut poisoner?” Trooe said as soon as she’d finished. His voice was rich and deep and strangely comforting.
“I’m sorry?”
“Darryl Wyatt, right?”
“I know practically nothing about the case. I was hoping you could enlighten me. Do you have the time right now?”
“Sure. Hang on a second.”
Ingrid heard the sound of the receiver clunking down onto a hard surface, then a door close, then the creak of a leather chair. While she was waiting, she scrolled through the records on the database until she found a photograph of Darryl Wyatt.
“That’s better,” Trooe said, “a little quieter.”
“We have a picture of him here,” Ingrid said. “It’s a little indistinct, but Wyatt is white, thirty-three years of age, dark hair, with a beard. Is that right?”
“I can send you through a better photograph than that. Sounds as though you’re looking at his drivers’ license picture.”
“Just now… you called Wyatt—”
“The peanut poisoner. That’s what he did—he killed that poor lady by feeding her peanuts. She had a real bad allergy.”
Ingrid felt a sudden sense of disappointment. It seemed Wyatt wasn’t quite the ‘poisoner’ Marshall had suggested. “He hasn’t poisoned anyone else?”
“Not as far as we know.” The leather chair creaked a little more. “So, you think Wyatt is in London?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How well do you remember the case?”
“Oh it’s crystal clear. It was only twelve months ago.”
With his slow southern drawl, Ingrid wasn’t sure whether Detective Trooe was being sarcastic. “I guess you’ve investigated plenty of other homicides since then?”
“A few, but nothing like this one. This one kinda sticks in the memory.”
“Can you go through the highlights for me?”
“I guess you like using the computer about as much as I do, huh?”
“You can give me the background I won’t find in the official records.”
“I sure can. Where do you want to start?”
“Tell me everything you can about Darryl Wyatt.”
She heard the detective sniff. “That particular request won’t take real long to answer. He was using a false identity. The ID of a dead man. I can’t tell you a whole lot about him. He did have a girlfriend while he was working at the restaurant, he was dating the restaurant manager. I can give you her contact details when we’re through, if you want.”
“That’d be really helpful.” Ingrid wriggled into her chair, it felt like she might be in for a long session. “He worked at the restaurant where the woman died?”
“He
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