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“Sam Ryan, SIU officer, badge number 1934.”
“Voice scan correct. Eye confirmation required.”
She looked into the small scanner fitted into the left-hand side of the unit. A red beam swept over her eye.
“Eye scan correct.” The unit clicked open.
Izzy’s pink fluff form appeared onscreen. “It’s a little early in the morning to be up and about, isn’t it, sweetie?”
“Tell me about it,” she said dryly, and barely repressed a yawn. “Has Hopeworth replied to our request for information about the gray-haired man?”
Izzy’s feather boa twirled. “Not a whisper, sweetie.”
“Well, his name is General Blaine, and he apparently does work at Hopeworth.” She paused, looking toward Wetherton’s room. The soft sound of steps indicated he was still moving around. But when bedsprings squeaked, she relaxed and looked down at Izzy. “See what you can find out about him. Use all channels available.”
“Oooo…freedom to search where I please. Thanks, sweetness.”
She snorted softly. “And did you do an identity check on that image I sent you?”
“I did. I couldn’t find a thing.”
“Then keep looking. There has to be some information about him somewhere.”
Izzy’s boa twirled faster. “Darlin’, I can only do so many things at once.”
“Izzy, you’re a computer, not a human.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m without limits.”
She grinned. They were definitely making these things too real. “You’ll live, Iz. Let me know when you find anything.”
She closed the screen and set the com-unit to one side, then lifted her feet onto the glass-and-chrome coffee table. Without really meaning to, she dozed.
A soft sound woke her. She blinked, briefly noting that it was still night as she glanced sideways at the clock on the wall. Four o’clock. She’d been asleep just about an hour.
She frowned, listening to the silence, feeling guilty about sleeping on the job and wondering what the hell had woken her. Then she heard it again—a whisper-soft bump of something against metal. It came from the direction of Wetherton’s room.
She rose, reaching for her weapon as she padded toward the door. After grasping the handle, she carefully inched the door open. Wetherton was a blanket-covered, unmoving lump in the bed who made no noise.
She frowned and pushed the door open a little more, quickly peering around the corner. Nothing unusual. No reason for the sound she’d heard.
Pressing her fingertips against the door, she pushed it all the way open. The room was still and dark, and Wetherton’s aftershave—a spicy, musky scent that was far too powerful for her liking—filled the air.
She stepped quietly into the room and looked around. Still no noise. No indication that anything was wrong.
Half wondering if the noise she’d heard was nothing more than a figment left over from stolen sleep, she took another step forward.
And realized it wasn’t Wetherton in the bed, but pillows bunched together to take on the appearance of a sleeper if anyone happened to look in.
The man himself was nowhere to be seen.
She raised her gun and cautiously approached the walk-in closet, all senses alert. Another duck around the door frame revealed that Wetherton wasn’t hiding in there, either.
What the hell…? She lowered her weapon and looked around the room, then up at the ceiling. No trap doors, no windows. No Wetherton.
A man his size couldn’t just disappear…
Her gaze went to the vent. It was open.
