face making the call, and so went to think instead. She wound up wondering how much difference there had been between Merry, or herself, and the young woman who had been found in The Knights that morning; how much alteration in a life it would take to wind up dead in a motel, impregnated with the cigarette smoke of men who had come to document your final moments, your deaf ears party to much rambling discussion of recent sporting events and at least one observation regarding your tits. John Zandt — who had been a homicide cop in the city before the Delivery Boy had taken his daughter — had long ago observed to her how fast a teenager's life can go from A to B in Hollywood; then from B to Z, then the easy flip from Z to a Jane Doe toe tag. They don't know how fast and easy it's going to be. It's not years, it's months. It can be weeks. It can be virtually overnight. You start the evening somebody's much loved and pampered child, nicely lit; you see in the next grimy morning stripped of everything you hadn't yet learned to value about yourself. You think you're the star, but instead you're just cannon fodder waiting in line to have promises broken by friends, lovers and fate.
She went indoors and fetched a glass of wine. Fifteen minutes later she was asleep.
She woke up with a start. When the phone finally made it through to her she lurched out of the chair feeling late: it felt like it had been ringing a long time, at first powerless to haul her out of a dream in which an old man had crept around a dark room after her.
She ricocheted blearily off both the glass door and the kitchen counter on the way in, and was ready to give Zandt a very hard time. But it wasn't John.
It was Monroe. 'You'd better get back over here,' he said. 'We've found something.'
—«»—«»—«»—
She met Monroe in Doug Olbrich's office. Olbrich was a Lieutenant in Special Section 1, the Robbery Homicide division responsible for high-profile and externally liaising murder cases. He was tall and rangy with hair buzz-cut short.
'Hey, Doug.'
'Nina. How's tricks?'
'Same old. I haven't actually spoken to John in a while, but if I had, I'm sure he'd have sent his love.'
'Thanks. I'll smoke it later.'
In front of Olbrich was a small sheaf of paper and something in a clear plastic bag. Three cops were talking over a second desk in the background. Door-side of Olbrich's desk perched a thin black guy in shirtsleeves, whom Nina vaguely recognized.
'Nina, this is Vincent,' Olbrich said. Monroe meanwhile handed her a cup of coffee. She took it gratefully. He was good like that.
'I remember,' she said. 'Lab rat, right?'
Monroe frowned, but the tech grinned happily. 'Vince Walker, technological wunderkind.'
'My favourite kind,' she said, feeling very tired. 'So what do you have for us, Vince?'
'This,' Olbrich said, pushing the bag across the desk to her. 'And what was on it.'
Cleaned of blood and no longer stuck in someone's face, the object looked mundanely technical. Two inches by four and a half, a quarter inch thick. One end a row of gold-coloured connectors, the other flat. The top side was a metal plate with two stickers which had once been white but were now unevenly stained a pale brown. Underside, the spidery green tracks of a printed circuit board. A third of the way from the top was a small circle, presumably the point around which the internal disk spun while in use. A label here said, 'VOID WARRANTY IF SEAL BROKEN'. What if it was found in a dead woman's mouth, Nina wondered: where would you stand then?
'The disk,' she prompted, dutifully. The men were evidently building up to something, each trying to claim it as their own.
'Right,' Vince said. 'It's a Toshiba MK4309 drive. Capacity a little over four gigs, cramped by today's standards, and the serial confirms it was made nearly two years ago.'
'It also enabled us to nail the disk as factory-installed in a machine assembled in Japan and imported into the US in mid 2002,'
She went indoors and fetched a glass of wine. Fifteen minutes later she was asleep.
She woke up with a start. When the phone finally made it through to her she lurched out of the chair feeling late: it felt like it had been ringing a long time, at first powerless to haul her out of a dream in which an old man had crept around a dark room after her.
She ricocheted blearily off both the glass door and the kitchen counter on the way in, and was ready to give Zandt a very hard time. But it wasn't John.
It was Monroe. 'You'd better get back over here,' he said. 'We've found something.'
—«»—«»—«»—
She met Monroe in Doug Olbrich's office. Olbrich was a Lieutenant in Special Section 1, the Robbery Homicide division responsible for high-profile and externally liaising murder cases. He was tall and rangy with hair buzz-cut short.
'Hey, Doug.'
'Nina. How's tricks?'
'Same old. I haven't actually spoken to John in a while, but if I had, I'm sure he'd have sent his love.'
'Thanks. I'll smoke it later.'
In front of Olbrich was a small sheaf of paper and something in a clear plastic bag. Three cops were talking over a second desk in the background. Door-side of Olbrich's desk perched a thin black guy in shirtsleeves, whom Nina vaguely recognized.
'Nina, this is Vincent,' Olbrich said. Monroe meanwhile handed her a cup of coffee. She took it gratefully. He was good like that.
'I remember,' she said. 'Lab rat, right?'
Monroe frowned, but the tech grinned happily. 'Vince Walker, technological wunderkind.'
'My favourite kind,' she said, feeling very tired. 'So what do you have for us, Vince?'
'This,' Olbrich said, pushing the bag across the desk to her. 'And what was on it.'
Cleaned of blood and no longer stuck in someone's face, the object looked mundanely technical. Two inches by four and a half, a quarter inch thick. One end a row of gold-coloured connectors, the other flat. The top side was a metal plate with two stickers which had once been white but were now unevenly stained a pale brown. Underside, the spidery green tracks of a printed circuit board. A third of the way from the top was a small circle, presumably the point around which the internal disk spun while in use. A label here said, 'VOID WARRANTY IF SEAL BROKEN'. What if it was found in a dead woman's mouth, Nina wondered: where would you stand then?
'The disk,' she prompted, dutifully. The men were evidently building up to something, each trying to claim it as their own.
'Right,' Vince said. 'It's a Toshiba MK4309 drive. Capacity a little over four gigs, cramped by today's standards, and the serial confirms it was made nearly two years ago.'
'It also enabled us to nail the disk as factory-installed in a machine assembled in Japan and imported into the US in mid 2002,'
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