To Catch a Killer(56)

“Just saying hi to your hair,” he says.

Agh. I laugh and shake my head, but turn back around quickly. My cheeks burn. I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I have to get smoother at this communicating with boys thing.

I get through the rest of the day by alternating between contemplating the mystery aspect of Miss Peters’s test results and reveling in Journey saying hi to my hair. When the final bell rings, I head out toward the bus stop. A Snapchat comes through from Journey showing a photo of the empty passenger seat in his van. The caption says: Got the van back. I’d give you a ride but I have a job interview.

He’s so cute.

I reply with a photo through the windshield of the bus that includes the back of the bus driver’s bald head. I include the caption: No sweat. Caught a ride with this guy. The truth is that taking the bus downtown to Rachel’s office is part of my plan.

Rachel’s office has a separate entrance, but it’s in the same building as the police station. As I’m walking in, I run into her coming out with her purse and keys in her hand. She’s surprised to see me. “Hi, sweetie,” she says. “What brings you here?”

I give her a pitiful look. “I didn’t want to walk home, so I took the bus over. I figured I could hang out here and catch a ride home with you.” I have to be careful not to oversell this or Rachel will get suspicious.

She looks a little pained, like this is somehow inconvenient, but she leads me back into her office anyway and stashes her purse and keys back in her desk drawer. “Were you going somewhere?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says. Her voice sounds light, like it’s no big deal. But there is a faint frown on her lips. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Do you think Syd will let me use the new computer? I’d like to get a jump on my homework.”

“We can ask her,” Rachel says.

Syd’s let me use it before, but it’s not the computer I’m after, exactly. It’s what’s attached to it. A few months ago, the department purchased the new IAFIS system, which hooks into the national fingerprint database. I was so psyched, I begged Sydney to show me how it worked. Turns out it’s exactly like making copies, which means it’s unbelievably easy.

We walk from Rachel’s side of the building through a door, down a hallway, and into the squad area, where Sydney and the other officers have desks. The copy room is at the far end, right around the corner from Chief Culson’s office.

Sydney spots us as we come through the door. “Hey,” she says, hurrying over and putting an arm around my shoulders. “I heard you had another close call yesterday. You okay?” She and Rachel exchange bug-eyed worry looks. Sydney’s sudden attention causes everyone in the room to look at me, too. I keep my head down and answer her question with a nod and a shrug.

“Thankfully, she’s fine, but we haven’t replaced the scooter yet,” Rachel says. “She took the bus over to catch a ride home with me, but I’m going to be tied up for an hour or so. Can she use the computer to get a jump on her homework?”

“Sure. If no one’s using it.” Sydney lowers her voice. “FYI, we’re probably going to be releasing all the stuff from your room tomorrow morning anyway.”

“Yay!” Rachel and I grin at each other.

“So that means she’s clear?” Rachel asks. “That part is over?”

Sydney bobs her head. “Yeah. More or less. We didn’t find anything, obviously. The timeline is a little faster than normal protocol, but the chief’s insisting on it, so why not?” Sydney motions toward the back of the office. “Anyway, go ahead and hop on the computer, hon, you know the drill.”

“Thanks, Sydney.” I hurry off. But my brain is whirling. Lately nothing is going where I think it’s going to go. Both Miss P and the chief had pens that matched the note. Miss P ran a DNA test before she was killed. The chief screwed up and nearly accidentally got me killed and now he’s insisting they give me back my stuff.

I can’t wait to see if we got anything on the fingerprints.

The new computer, with the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS) software installed, is located in the copy room, an all-purpose area where they keep the fax machine and the copy machine, office supplies, and now a computer that anyone can use. A desk is wedged in beside the copier.

On the desk next to the monitor is a latent print scanner. It looks and works exactly like an ordinary scanner, only it’s connected to IAFIS, which is maintained by the FBI.

Someone’s fingerprints will show up in IAFIS if they’re in the system already. When Sydney did her test, she showed us how Rachel’s prints came up because she works for the police department. Mine were in there, too, because of the investigation into my mother’s murder. In both cases, the search brought up our names and photos from our drivers’ licenses.

Since everyone in this building has access to this area, someone could pop in to make a copy or send a fax at any second, so I have to be on my toes. I waste no time scanning the two full hand prints from Journey’s van into the system and set IAFIS to search for a match. I make sure that I stash the original fingerprint cards back in my bag. A slipup here might lead to some embarrassing questions.

Now I wait. A real IAFIS search takes about twenty minutes to an hour, not the bogus instant results you see on TV cop shows. I’d like to put my headphones on and zone out to some music, but I don’t dare. I keep a file that looks like a book report up on the computer as a cover.