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 this time either.
It was Monroe. “You’d better get back over here,” he said immediately. “We’ve found something.”
SHE MET M ONROE IN D OUG O LBRICH ’ 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 favorite 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-colored connectors, the other flat. The top side was a metal plate with two stickers that had once been white but were now unevenly stained a pale brown. On the 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 read “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 his 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 U.S. in mid 2002,” Monroe interrupted. “We’re running that right now. It may tell us who the woman was, maybe not.”
“People are still on the street with the victim’s photo,” Olbrich added. Nina had met him several times before, back when Zandt had been on Homicide, and he had impressed her as one of the least showy detectives she’d ever met. “We know she didn’t eat much the day she died, but she drank a whole lot. As of two hours ago I’ve got three detectives fanning back out from the Knights and hitting local bars and clubs again. Didn’t get anything the first time, but . . .”
“And still nothing on the killer from the room?”
He shrugged. “No prints, no fibers, nothing on the victim. This guy barely moved the air, by the look of it.”
“So what’s with the disk?”
“It was blank,” Olbrich said, “except for two things.”
“Two things,” the tech repeated, determined not to lose his moment. “The largest is a seven-meg MP3 file, a piece of music.”
“The Agnus Dei from Fauré’s Requiem,” Monroe said. “Quite a well-known piece, apparently. There are people trying to work out what particular recording it is, and of course we’ll try to track recent CD purchases but I don’t have much hope in that direction. It could have been down-loaded off the internet, for all we know.”
“And?” she
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 this time either.
It was Monroe. “You’d better get back over here,” he said immediately. “We’ve found something.”
SHE MET M ONROE IN D OUG O LBRICH ’ 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 favorite 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-colored connectors, the other flat. The top side was a metal plate with two stickers that had once been white but were now unevenly stained a pale brown. On the 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 read “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 his 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 U.S. in mid 2002,” Monroe interrupted. “We’re running that right now. It may tell us who the woman was, maybe not.”
“People are still on the street with the victim’s photo,” Olbrich added. Nina had met him several times before, back when Zandt had been on Homicide, and he had impressed her as one of the least showy detectives she’d ever met. “We know she didn’t eat much the day she died, but she drank a whole lot. As of two hours ago I’ve got three detectives fanning back out from the Knights and hitting local bars and clubs again. Didn’t get anything the first time, but . . .”
“And still nothing on the killer from the room?”
He shrugged. “No prints, no fibers, nothing on the victim. This guy barely moved the air, by the look of it.”
“So what’s with the disk?”
“It was blank,” Olbrich said, “except for two things.”
“Two things,” the tech repeated, determined not to lose his moment. “The largest is a seven-meg MP3 file, a piece of music.”
“The Agnus Dei from Fauré’s Requiem,” Monroe said. “Quite a well-known piece, apparently. There are people trying to work out what particular recording it is, and of course we’ll try to track recent CD purchases but I don’t have much hope in that direction. It could have been down-loaded off the internet, for all we know.”
“And?” she
Similar Books
