“Check her computer and look for flash drives.”
Jane carried flash drives like some people carry gum, and there was also a pretty good chance her computer had case files. Not bringing home a case file was a regulation she had exempted herself from, another thing I liked about her.
“She used the second bedroom as an office. Her computer is in there. There might be things on it you would recognize and I wouldn’t, so start in there, Grale.”
I walked into her office, pulled her chair back, and sat at the desk. Jane and I worked together a lot. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to, but I had the four-digit security number she used on her laptop. She had mine. I typed in hers and found various work files; the most recent concerned Denny Mondari, an FBI informant. Mondari, or Mondi, as Jane whimsically called him, had provided a casino-bombing extortion tip in June. I didn’t see anything new there but copied the file onto a stick. I copied others and looked up to see Venuti standing in the doorway.
“Anything?” Venuti asked.
“A few files and the hard drive will need to be wiped. It’ll have to come with us.”
We didn’t find anything else in this room or her bedroom. But just before leaving, Venuti found a red-and-black memory stick, a SanDisk Cruzer Glide USB 16G in a coat pocket in the front closet. He acted as if it were significant when he handed it to me. The gesture felt fake and theatrical. It was as clumsy as his explanation for having the elevator swipe card, and it left me uncomfortable as we drove away.
“What do you know about this memory stick?” Something hard crept into my voice as I asked.
“Only that I recognize it.”
“From where?”
“She had it with her a lot lately.”
“And you were with her a lot lately, so you saw it and knew it was important.”
“I saw her every day, same as I see you.”
“You knew to look for it in a coat in a closet in the middle of summer, but you have no idea what’s on it? What did she tell you was on it?”
“She was as bad as you about not talking until she was ready.”
“You know something more about this memory stick.”
“Watch yourself, Grale.”
“Watch myself?”
When Venuti dropped me at my car, I asked again. I held the memory stick between two fingers and said, “Are you really telling me that you have no idea what’s on this?”
“I don’t know what’s on it.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“That’s what makes you good at what you do. See you at the office.”
13
At dusk as I skimmed files uploaded to the Joint Terrorism site, the Islamic State and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula—ISIS and AQAP—both claimed the bombing. I stopped to watch the TV news on that. The media was hard at work. On two of the major cable stations, expert panels were already analyzing the Middle Eastern groups’ joining forces, though it wasn’t even necessarily true that ISIS and AQAP were collaborating. When speaking to infidels, you’re allowed to lie.
An older file with a year-old tip we’d investigated from here about radicalized Islamic recruiting in Las Vegas looked relevant again. Jane Stone worked that but hadn’t gotten anywhere with it. She’d also chased Denny Mondari’s bomb-maker rumor. Mondari had been my confidential informant before she took over. I called and left a message for him. I also tried his apartment manager, who stonewalled me, saying Mondari was on vacation.
“When is he coming back?”
“No idea,” the manager said.
“He communicates with you. You need to tell him to call me. Here’s my number. If I don’t hear from him, I’ll come see you in the morning.”
I wouldn’t, but I might as well warm up the conversation. I made another call before leaving the office, this one an inquiry to the Royal Australian Air Force about a drone pilot named Philip Ramer. An officer politely took down the message that I’d like to talk to Ramer. He asked why, but I didn’t say.
Near midnight I left the office and drove home for a shower, clean clothes, and maybe four hours’ sleep. Home was a beige stucco house at the edge of the desert, with a two-car garage, a brown concrete-tile roof, oak plank floors, and a lap pool installed two years ago to help strengthen the muscles of my lower back. When my wife, Carrie, died in a car accident a decade ago, domestic life ended. Other than the lap pool, I’d done nothing with the house since. The first two years after her death, I had avoided coming home altogether. When I did, I avoided our bedroom. In those days of billowing sorrow, I’d slept outside on the lawn furniture or on the couch in the front room.