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Her fingers flashed again and multiple screens came up.
“Okay, the one in the theater posted that he’s in London working in the West End. I guess that can be verified. The businessman met his beloved on Hummingbird and is married with a newborn in Boston. Again, that can be checked. Now, the doctor.” She studied the screen, brought up still more screens, studied them, shook her head and said, “Let me try something.”
The keyboard rattled again as she attacked it. Then an obituary popped up with a picture.
“That’s him!” said Devine. “He’s dead? What happened? He was around my age.”
Tapshaw ran her eye down the page. “He was working in Chicago in a COVID ward near the beginning of the pandemic. He caught the virus and died. No wife and no kids.”
“Damn, when you think you’re having a bad day, think about people like that.”
She straightened and looked at him. “When I founded Hummingbird, I have to admit, I did it really for myself. It’s so hard to meet people and develop a relationship. But then I started thinking beyond myself.” She looked at the screen. “To people like them.”
“So, do you have a profile on Hummingbird?”
“I used to. And I got some matches. But none that really went anywhere. I think I’m resigned to building my business and then looking for someone.”
“Well, thanks for all this info,” he said. “You are a true artist with computers.”
“I got my first Apple MacBook when I was eight and never looked back.”
“I remember you telling me about your parents. Did they encourage you?”
“Oh yeah. My dad has a slew of patents he developed for companies like Microsoft and Intel. He also lectures all around the world. My mom teaches physics at Caltech.”
“Well, you clearly didn’t inherit any brains from them,” he joked. “You told me before that you had a brother?”
“Dennis. We’re twins. He’s a scholar-athlete, sort of the perfect sibling. It can be intimidating. But I love him to death.”
“Yeah, I’ve got the perfect-sibling thing going, too. It can be tough. But I don’t see how anyone can hold a candle to what you’ve accomplished.” He looked at the keyboard. “Hey, Jill, can I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out his phone. “I got a weird email from someone who I think might be involved with Sara’s death.”
“What?” she gasped. “Have the police traced it?”
“That’s the thing. It seems to be untraceable. I’ve had people try, including Will, but no go.”
She looked intrigued. “Will is very good.”
“But you might be better.”
“Send me the email and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Jill.”
After she left, he forwarded her the email. Then Devine took the two remaining names from Ewes’s match list and found them online. The actor was indeed in London’s West End. He was an understudy in a play there, and had actually performed in the lead role on the night Sara had died, so he was obviously out. The businessman was employed at Fidelity in Boston. Devine accessed his Facebook page by using the same skullduggery he had with Christian Chilton.
On the night Sara had been killed, the businessman and his family had been in the Netherlands on vacation, with pictures to prove it.
A total dead end.
Devine grabbed a beer, walked outside, and sat on the front porch of the town house. The air had turned cool, the sky was threaded with stars, and the quiet of the night was immensely soothing.
He looked over as Helen Speers walked up to him, dressed in a dark jacket and matching skirt, a briefcase in hand.
“You’re getting in really late. And it’s not safe to walk from the station at this hour,” he admonished.
