yet?’
‘Not yet. I’m gonna call through to records when we get to your hotel. I’m sure his prints will bring up a hit somewhere.’
The Taurus bumps over the Knowles Avenue Bridge then glides along the asphalt to a T-junction. Irish takes them right down Connecticut into town and halts in front of a white two-storey building. ‘Here you go, home from home.’
Mitzi gets out and heads to the trunk.
He gets there ahead of her. ‘You check in; I’ll bring your case.’
The gesture catches her by surprise. ‘I’m fine. I can manage.’
He reaches around her and grabs the bag. ‘I’d like to.’
She shrugs and walks past a board that says Silver Fall Lodge. A weed-free grit path cuts across a long green lawn fringed by overhanging oaks. The bag rumbles noisily on its hard plastic wheels a few feet behind her.
The small lobby is little more than a big square of white walls over a limed pine floor. A low-level desk supports a computer screen, keyboard and printer. Behind it is a row of brass keys on numbered hooks.
A young woman in a smart black jacket and pearl-coloured blouse checks Mitzi in to what she promises is ‘the finest’ of its six bedrooms.
Irish drops the bag. ‘I’m going to the bar.’ He catches Mitzi’s disapproving look. ‘
For coffee.
’
The receptionist points his way. ‘It’s through to your left, sir.’
Mitzi takes the stairs, then a dusty red carpet down a narrow, dark landing to her room.
It’s tiny. She’s bought shoes in bigger boxes. The dull cream walls and dark wood floor crowd her. Brightest thing about the place is a mock-oriental jug of mixed flowers on a crappy bureau. Ruthy would know their species, but to her they’re just big round reds and spiky yellows with sprigs of green.
Mitzi plugs in her FBI laptop and powers it up. While it’s loading programs, she unpacks her bag and hangs clothes in a musty closet. Once the computer is up to speed, she inserts the memory stick that Sophie gave her and opens its directory.
There is nothing but nonsense.
Four lots of nonsense as far as she can make out.
There are big blocks of numbers and letters. Row after row of numbers and then row after row of letters. Never numbers and letters on a line together. Mitzi downloads the contents of the stick onto her hard drive, dials her office in San Francisco and traps the phone between an ear and shoulder.
The call’s answered almost instantly. ‘Vicky Cantrell.’
‘Vicks, it’s Mitzi Fallon. I’m in Kensington and I’ve got some data files I want to upload. Are you at your terminal?’
‘Yeah, I am, Lieutenant. Give me a second to open the doc box and check the capture display.’ Vicky’s nimble fingers flick across the keyboard. ‘Okay, send what you’ve got and I’ll be able to check it comes in.’
Mitzi uses a secure FBI portal to upload the contents of the stick.
‘Got it.’ Vicky scans the file. ‘Hang on. This is just lines of numbers and letters. Should it be like that?’
‘That’s all I saw when I plugged it in. Give it to techies and crypto to work out.’
‘You got it.’
‘The other thing I was calling about was the cross. Did you have any luck with your professors?’
‘I did. Let me find my notes.’ She opens her bottom drawer and they’re in a newly created hang file entitled, ‘Homicides – O.I.C. Lieutenant Fallon’. ‘Here we go. I showed it around and the real expert on this kind of thing turned out to be a Professor Quinn at the Smithsonian. He said he’d never seen anything exactly like that in iron and the Smith had no records of any such design.’
‘What’s that mean?’ asks Mitzi, a little confused. ‘We got zip?’
‘No, it’s not that bad. Quinn says the fact that there are no records probably means it’s Iron Age.’
‘Which was when?’
‘In Europe, somewhere between 1200 BC and 400 BC .’
Mitzi frowns. ‘You mean to say that Europe has a different Iron Age time than everywhere
‘Not yet. I’m gonna call through to records when we get to your hotel. I’m sure his prints will bring up a hit somewhere.’
The Taurus bumps over the Knowles Avenue Bridge then glides along the asphalt to a T-junction. Irish takes them right down Connecticut into town and halts in front of a white two-storey building. ‘Here you go, home from home.’
Mitzi gets out and heads to the trunk.
He gets there ahead of her. ‘You check in; I’ll bring your case.’
The gesture catches her by surprise. ‘I’m fine. I can manage.’
He reaches around her and grabs the bag. ‘I’d like to.’
She shrugs and walks past a board that says Silver Fall Lodge. A weed-free grit path cuts across a long green lawn fringed by overhanging oaks. The bag rumbles noisily on its hard plastic wheels a few feet behind her.
The small lobby is little more than a big square of white walls over a limed pine floor. A low-level desk supports a computer screen, keyboard and printer. Behind it is a row of brass keys on numbered hooks.
A young woman in a smart black jacket and pearl-coloured blouse checks Mitzi in to what she promises is ‘the finest’ of its six bedrooms.
Irish drops the bag. ‘I’m going to the bar.’ He catches Mitzi’s disapproving look. ‘
For coffee.
’
The receptionist points his way. ‘It’s through to your left, sir.’
Mitzi takes the stairs, then a dusty red carpet down a narrow, dark landing to her room.
It’s tiny. She’s bought shoes in bigger boxes. The dull cream walls and dark wood floor crowd her. Brightest thing about the place is a mock-oriental jug of mixed flowers on a crappy bureau. Ruthy would know their species, but to her they’re just big round reds and spiky yellows with sprigs of green.
Mitzi plugs in her FBI laptop and powers it up. While it’s loading programs, she unpacks her bag and hangs clothes in a musty closet. Once the computer is up to speed, she inserts the memory stick that Sophie gave her and opens its directory.
There is nothing but nonsense.
Four lots of nonsense as far as she can make out.
There are big blocks of numbers and letters. Row after row of numbers and then row after row of letters. Never numbers and letters on a line together. Mitzi downloads the contents of the stick onto her hard drive, dials her office in San Francisco and traps the phone between an ear and shoulder.
The call’s answered almost instantly. ‘Vicky Cantrell.’
‘Vicks, it’s Mitzi Fallon. I’m in Kensington and I’ve got some data files I want to upload. Are you at your terminal?’
‘Yeah, I am, Lieutenant. Give me a second to open the doc box and check the capture display.’ Vicky’s nimble fingers flick across the keyboard. ‘Okay, send what you’ve got and I’ll be able to check it comes in.’
Mitzi uses a secure FBI portal to upload the contents of the stick.
‘Got it.’ Vicky scans the file. ‘Hang on. This is just lines of numbers and letters. Should it be like that?’
‘That’s all I saw when I plugged it in. Give it to techies and crypto to work out.’
‘You got it.’
‘The other thing I was calling about was the cross. Did you have any luck with your professors?’
‘I did. Let me find my notes.’ She opens her bottom drawer and they’re in a newly created hang file entitled, ‘Homicides – O.I.C. Lieutenant Fallon’. ‘Here we go. I showed it around and the real expert on this kind of thing turned out to be a Professor Quinn at the Smithsonian. He said he’d never seen anything exactly like that in iron and the Smith had no records of any such design.’
‘What’s that mean?’ asks Mitzi, a little confused. ‘We got zip?’
‘No, it’s not that bad. Quinn says the fact that there are no records probably means it’s Iron Age.’
‘Which was when?’
‘In Europe, somewhere between 1200 BC and 400 BC .’
Mitzi frowns. ‘You mean to say that Europe has a different Iron Age time than everywhere
Similar Books
