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Ella's pulse quickened. Informationwas currency in their line of work, and every new detail could tip the scalestoward justice or mayhem. She moved closer, drawn to Ripley's words like a mothto flame.
'More news about his death?'
'Yup.'
‘Go on,’ Ella urged, her voicelowered, though there was no one nearby to overhear.
‘Before you continue, keep in mindthe implications,’ Ripley cautioned.
‘Information is all we have.’Ella's response was terse, impatient to get to the heart of the matter. Herfingers twitched at her sides, the need for action, for answers, almost aphysical ache.
‘You know, Dark, sometimes you haveto drop the detective in you. Not everything is a puzzle.’
‘Ripley, what have you got?’ Hervoice was taut like a wire, stretched to its limits.
Ripley's thumb swiped over herphone, re-reading the message that had just come through. She looked up, herexpression grim as she relayed the news. ‘Nigel Byford was dispatched toCarter's place. He found something. Forensics showed that Carter was killedwith a 9mm PMC Bronze one-fifteen grain.’
‘PMC Bronze? 9mm?'
'Yup.' Ripley withdrew her ownpistol and waved it around. 'Looks like our guardian angel lives closer to homethan we thought.'
Ella felt her pulse hammer in herthroat. Those specific rounds whispered a story of government issue, of trainedhands pulling triggers. It was a connection too stark not to seize her fullattention.
‘That means...’
‘Means our killer has FBI ammo,’Ripley cut in, preempting Ella's conclusion. ‘But it's not exclusive to theBureau, remember? Civilians can get their hands on PMC Bronze too.’
The implication hit her like anuppcercut, because not only was it FBI-issued ammunition for field agents, butit was the same ammunition that police found lodged in Logan Nash's skull too.
‘Popular rounds,’ Ellaacknowledged, but her gut churned with unease. Coincidences were a detective'sbane, and this one gnawed at her insides. She attempted to compartmentalize, tonot leap ahead into the abyss of what-ifs and maybes. ‘Doesn't prove anythingconcrete yet.’
‘Exactly.’
Ella's fingers rapped an impatientrhythm on the wooden surface of her desk. She squinted at the photos pinned tothe corkboard wall—crime scenes, timelines, and faces—all swirling into avortex of potential leads and dead ends. The room felt like a pressure cooker,the air thick with the tang of old coffee and the silent tension of waiting fora breakthrough.
The door flew open with a forcethat made it bang against the wall, cutting through Ella's sentence like aknife through silk. Chief Caldwell stood in the threshold, his face redder thana slapped backside. Ella guessed he didn't do a whole lot of running around.
‘Dark, Ripley,’ he barked. ‘My ITguy's cracked the code on that recording device.’
Ella straightened up, her bodysnapping to attention as if pulled by invisible strings. All her senses honedin on Caldwell, every fiber in her being tensing for the revelation.
‘What did he find?’
‘I think you need to hear it foryourself.'
***
Ella's pulse thrummed in her ears.She and Ripley huddled around a desk cluttered with the detritus oftechnological sleuthing. The precinct's tech guy—a wiry figure with disheveledbrown hair flopping over the rim of his thick glasses—brought the average agein the precinct down by about twenty years.
'Okay, so,' he began as he swiveledin his chair. 'I've isolated the server where these recordings were streamedto, but I can only access the most recent recording. The rest are locked behindsome serious encryption. To access that, I'd need the victim's device.Computer, laptop, whatever.'
Ella nodded. Unfortunately,accessing dead people's virtual devices was an unnecessarily long process inthe law enforcement world. Ella guessed that even if they retrieved Donna'scomputer or laptop from her home, it would still take weeks to gain access toits contents. Luckily, amateur recording devices weren’t privy to such laws.Phones and computers had email addresses, registered serial numbers. Recordingdevices didn’t.
‘Is it enough?’ Ella asked.
‘Oh, it's more than enough.’ Hepushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. 'I'm guessing thevictim recorded on a session-by-session basis. There's only ninety minutes ofrecording time on this device, but on this particular recording, there's onlyfifteen minutes of interaction.'
‘Fifteen minutes?’ Ella asked. Herinsides churned with anticipation. That meant the killer was in and out in lesstime than it took to load the dishwasher.
