Diablo Mesa(55)

The whump the phone made as it was flash-incinerated was louder, but still nothing above a footfall, and in no way disturbed the somnolence of the evening.





35



CORRIE LOOKED UP from her desk, eyes fastening on the Pyramid clock hung above the exit to the elevator banks. Seven forty-five? It didn’t seem possible. She’d been at her desk since meeting with Lime, putting together a timeline of the investigation all the way from Nora’s initial call to her conversation with Sheriff Watts that morning. Wherever she could, she cross-referenced the details with database links to photographs, digital DNA samples, measurements for the facial reconstructions, ballistic tests, and all the other flotsam and jetsam that attached themselves to an investigation like iron filings to a magnet. She’d felt oddly satisfied upon completion: despite what was almost certainly lost in the fire, and no matter where the case led from here, she felt she’d outlined a solid foundation for Lime of the investigation to date.

Equally satisfying—and unexpected—was the number of people who had come up to her over the course of the afternoon to express their sympathy and support. Most were junior agents—including, surprisingly, a couple of the macho types who’d been standoffish when she first arrived. A few senior agents, who wouldn’t normally have given her the time of day, had also paused at her cubicle to casually nod or greet her. Although no specifics were mentioned, Corrie understood: word of Lathrop’s accusation had gotten around, and the consensus seemed to be that the man was full of shit. Corrie knew the forensic pathologist wasn’t popular; perhaps that was influencing people’s opinions. One thing, however, she wouldn’t forget: Lime, her new mentor, had been the first to voice uncompromising support for her.

She began tidying up her cubicle in preparation for leaving. Despite the lingering shock and grief, she found herself curious about Agent Lime. She’d listened in on some of the watercooler gossip earlier that afternoon, and it seemed his background was almost as mysterious as Morwood’s had been. Only one agent on the floor had worked with him before, quite a while back, and had not gotten to know him well. That in itself was no big surprise: she knew that some agents liked to keep their CVs to themselves, especially if they didn’t have all that stellar a history. And she’d overheard one person sniggering about Lime’s luck: two years riding a desk in D.C. and here he was, being rewarded by ghosting recruits. The schadenfreudian tone of this observation had surprised her. Perhaps Lime felt like an outsider in Albuquerque.

That made two of them.

Cubicle in order, she turned to power down her computer. On the screen was a memo she’d received about the DNA results. There were no hits in any database, not even in the giant commercial genetic testing databases the FBI had access to. That was true of both autosomal and mitochondrial DNA—which was truly odd. These two people had to be related to somebody, somewhere. She made a mental note to have that rechecked.

She stood up, threaded her way out of the cube maze, and, bypassing the elevators, took the stairs down one level to the main entrance. By now it was nearly quarter past eight, but she was glad of the late hour: the less time alone with her thoughts, the better. As she approached the security barrier, she saw Shady the guard settling in behind his command station, preparing for the night shift. Shady was a rotund, affable ex-cop with a pale moonlike face and a head as bald as a cue ball, who insisted that everyone call him by the mysterious nickname nobody seemed to know the origin of. He was one of the friendliest people in the place, and Corrie always felt a rush of affection when she saw him.

“Hi, Shady,” Corrie said as she came up to the barrier.

“Well, hello there, Ms. Swanson.” Shady never called anybody Agent—it was either Mr., Ms., sir, or ma’am.

She smiled and, taking a pen from her purse, started filling out the pass required of all agents exiting or entering outside normal hours: Swanson, C.; SA, GS-11/1; Section 2G.

“Hey, Ms. Swanson,” Shady said in an uncharacteristically serious tone. “I wanted to say that I was very sorry. About Mr. Morwood.”

“Thank you,” Corrie said as she added her signature.

“He was a straight-up guy. A lot of people rush in and out of here like their behinds were afire—excuse the expression. But Mr. Morwood, he’d stop to talk, ask how you were. Hell, he’d even listen to my stories from time to time.” Shady chuckled.

Corrie looked up at Shady. He was an old-time beat cop, all right: even down to his sidearm, a well-worn Colt Detective Special. She wondered who he had at home, if anyone. It probably got lonely here, too: long nights with precious little to break the monotony. Maybe he was just a natural nighthawk.

“See you later,” she said, pushing the off-hours pass through the security screen.

“Have a nice evening,” Shady replied, taking the pass. Then he frowned.

Corrie was not letting go of the pass. She was thinking.

“Ms. Swanson?” Shady asked.

Corrie lifted her fingers from the counter, releasing the pass. “Sorry, I was distracted.” She hesitated. “Shady, I wonder if you could help me with a question.”

“Be glad to.”

“When did Agent Morwood usually leave in the evenings?” She knew he often worked late, but she’d never kept close track.

“Well, you know, there was no rhyme or reason to that. Not as far as I can tell, anyway. Here, I’ll give you an example.” Shady turned to his screen and began tapping the keyboard with his index fingers. “This last week, for instance. Monday, he clocked out at six thirty PM. Tuesday, eight twenty. Wednesday, nine oh-five. Thursday, five forty-five. Friday, five o’clock. See what I mean?”