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“I thought you were dead for a second there,” Detective Aaliyah said with relief. “Don’t you answer your phone?”
“I had it on Do Not Disturb. What’s going on?”
“Mahoney and Sampson have been trying to call you the past hour,” she replied. “They wanted to be the ones to tell you, but it is what it is.”
Her face broke into a smile. “The facial-recognition software got a solid hit on that photo of Karla Mepps. Mahoney and Sampson think they know who she is.”
CHAPTER
65
THE FACES OF NED MAHONEY and John Sampson filled the laptop screen. Aaliyah and I were in Aaliyah’s room, linked to them through Skype.
“The biometric analysis keyed on a Louisiana driver’s license,” Mahoney explained. “I’ll send it over in a second.”
“Who is she?”
“Acadia Le Duc,” Sampson said. “She’s a former nurse turned freelance photographer. The New Orleans address on the license is old, and we have nothing current, but her name, Acadia, came up in those encrypted files on Preston Elliot’s computer. Elliot evidently did some work for an Acadia.”
“Where?”
“Looks like DC,” my partner said. “The notes in the file said ‘Acadia. Work complete. Services owed. Kalorama.’”
“When was the file created?”
“Three months ago,” Sampson said. “It was last updated two weeks ago.”
I digested that, said, “So she was in DC just before my family was taken.”
“Looks that way,” Mahoney agreed.
“We have access to her credit cards?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”
“Ms. Le Duc have a record?” Aaliyah asked.
“Nothing as an adult,” Sampson said. “But we got bounce-back on her name in juvey files in … uh, Jefferson Davis Parish, Louisiana.”
“With your permission, we’re going to put out a blanket bulletin on her,” Mahoney said. “Every agent and police officer in the country will have seen the face of Acadia Le Duc by tomorrow.”
At first I thought that was a good idea, but then I balked.
“Can we wait on that a day? Find out more about Le Duc first?”
“Why?” Sampson asked.
“I guess I’m nervous over what Mulch might do if we announce to the world that we’ve identified his accomplice.”
My partner glanced at Mahoney, who said, “We’ll do it your way.”
“Thanks. Listen, I’ll follow up on that juvenile report. Where was it?”
The FBI agent looked at his notes, said, “Jefferson Davis Parish. Courthouse is in the county seat, Jennings.”
With promises to keep my phone on and check in every hour, I ended the Skype call, looked at Aaliyah, and said, “I’m starving.”
“I am too,” she said.
