the driver who had been assigned to get him around the city. He was going to have records pulled on the major players in the movie, and also get an interview with the ex-cop who had last been on duty at the site.
“I don’t do shift work—I’m here to work the case,” Whitney told him.
“I know. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty for the task force meeting,” he assured her. “I’m on to paperwork and phone work, mundane telephone stuff. There’s no reason for you not to settle in and get some sleep.”
When they arrived at Blair House, though, he hesitated in the car.
They’d passed several patrol cars—the police were making their presence known in the area.
But Blair House was dark, except for the slender porch light, and the street lamps illuminating the construction site were sadly lacking in strength.
“Hey, I’m not afraid of the dark,” she told him.
“Maybe you should be.”
Whitney grinned. “You don’t believe in ghosts, and they’re not going to bother me. And if there’s a real human threat, remember, I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”
“No one is ever invulnerable,” he said.
“I’m all right, really,” she assured him.
As she was about to get out of the car, she felt her phone buzz. She paused to see the message she was receiving.
Whitney sucked in her breath.
“What?” Jude asked her.
She passed him the phone. There was a likeness on the screen. “I know you have police artists, and that they’ve surely worked with what you have. But Jake Mallory is really a technical wizard. He’s worked every angle of the pictures I’ve sent him, and this is the likeness he has created from ‘Jane Doe wet’ that I sent him today.”
Jude stared at the image. “You’ve got a computer in the house?”
“Of course. And I have a mobile broadband card, so we can connect anywhere you like.”
He seemed to be appraising her with new eyes; she had proven that the team might just be of use.
“Let’s go.”
She still had all the keys for the team on the band that the driver had given her, and it took her a minute to open the gate and then the front door to the house. Once inside, she told him that it would take her a minute to set up her computer, but he assured her that it was no problem. She moved quickly, racing upstairs to the room she had chosen, hurrying back down and finding that she could easily set up in the broad hallway at an old desk situated below the stairs. In another minute, she had the image on the large screen, and it was so good that it looked like a photograph. Jake had sent her a note next to the image: Naturally, don’t know about eye color, but from what you sent, computer said her hair was brown. Hope this helps; see you tomorrow .
Jude leaned over her shoulder, staring at the image on the screen. The woman pictured appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She looked a little the worse for wear, as if she had spent long years abusing alcohol or drugs.
“Just about thirty-five,” Jude said as if reading her thoughts. “That’s the age Fullbright estimated as well.” He looked at her. His face was close; the lamplight gave his skin a bronze cast. She felt a little tremor shoot through her. She liked his face. She wished that she didn’t.
“Our next step,” he told her, “was going to be to remove the head, dissolve the flesh—Fullbright likes maggots, actually—and then send the skull to a woman down at the Smithsonian. But…may I?”
“Of course.”
She stood, letting him take the chair at the desk. She watched as he emailed the likeness to someone, typing, “I know it’s late. Use any newspaper contact. I need this out there—neighborhood websites, flyers, too. Copy should just read, ‘Do you know this woman?’”
A second later, he got his reply. “On it, Jude. Not too late. I can get it in for tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry to bother you now.”
“Hey, I was up. I’ve kind of got a guy, Jude. We have coffee. We chat.
“I don’t do shift work—I’m here to work the case,” Whitney told him.
“I know. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty for the task force meeting,” he assured her. “I’m on to paperwork and phone work, mundane telephone stuff. There’s no reason for you not to settle in and get some sleep.”
When they arrived at Blair House, though, he hesitated in the car.
They’d passed several patrol cars—the police were making their presence known in the area.
But Blair House was dark, except for the slender porch light, and the street lamps illuminating the construction site were sadly lacking in strength.
“Hey, I’m not afraid of the dark,” she told him.
“Maybe you should be.”
Whitney grinned. “You don’t believe in ghosts, and they’re not going to bother me. And if there’s a real human threat, remember, I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”
“No one is ever invulnerable,” he said.
“I’m all right, really,” she assured him.
As she was about to get out of the car, she felt her phone buzz. She paused to see the message she was receiving.
Whitney sucked in her breath.
“What?” Jude asked her.
She passed him the phone. There was a likeness on the screen. “I know you have police artists, and that they’ve surely worked with what you have. But Jake Mallory is really a technical wizard. He’s worked every angle of the pictures I’ve sent him, and this is the likeness he has created from ‘Jane Doe wet’ that I sent him today.”
Jude stared at the image. “You’ve got a computer in the house?”
“Of course. And I have a mobile broadband card, so we can connect anywhere you like.”
He seemed to be appraising her with new eyes; she had proven that the team might just be of use.
“Let’s go.”
She still had all the keys for the team on the band that the driver had given her, and it took her a minute to open the gate and then the front door to the house. Once inside, she told him that it would take her a minute to set up her computer, but he assured her that it was no problem. She moved quickly, racing upstairs to the room she had chosen, hurrying back down and finding that she could easily set up in the broad hallway at an old desk situated below the stairs. In another minute, she had the image on the large screen, and it was so good that it looked like a photograph. Jake had sent her a note next to the image: Naturally, don’t know about eye color, but from what you sent, computer said her hair was brown. Hope this helps; see you tomorrow .
Jude leaned over her shoulder, staring at the image on the screen. The woman pictured appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She looked a little the worse for wear, as if she had spent long years abusing alcohol or drugs.
“Just about thirty-five,” Jude said as if reading her thoughts. “That’s the age Fullbright estimated as well.” He looked at her. His face was close; the lamplight gave his skin a bronze cast. She felt a little tremor shoot through her. She liked his face. She wished that she didn’t.
“Our next step,” he told her, “was going to be to remove the head, dissolve the flesh—Fullbright likes maggots, actually—and then send the skull to a woman down at the Smithsonian. But…may I?”
“Of course.”
She stood, letting him take the chair at the desk. She watched as he emailed the likeness to someone, typing, “I know it’s late. Use any newspaper contact. I need this out there—neighborhood websites, flyers, too. Copy should just read, ‘Do you know this woman?’”
A second later, he got his reply. “On it, Jude. Not too late. I can get it in for tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry to bother you now.”
“Hey, I was up. I’ve kind of got a guy, Jude. We have coffee. We chat.
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