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53
Justice stared, swallowed, looked like he’d be sick, then pulled himself together. He slowly nodded. “Yes, that’s Christy. She—she looks dead. Is she dead?”
“Yes,” Savich said. “Her name is—was—Eleanor Christine Corbitt. She was murdered in the middle of last night.”
Justice gaped at Savich, bewildered, confused. “She was—murdered? But why? What is happening here?”
Savich was aware Ruth and Sherlock were staring from him to the photo of Eleanor Corbitt on his cell, waiting for him to answer. He said, “It’s likely it all ties in to you, Justice. And what happened on Tuesday. Tell us what she said to you.”
“Christy said she worked at Langley, in personnel resources. She said she’d seen me off and on and thought I was cute and she always liked talking to analysts because we were all so smart and she’d heard I had a great sense of humor.” He swallowed. “But—I don’t understand. Why would she target me? I mean, it’s not like I’m the captain of the CIA ship, I’m only an analyst. And why would anyone kill her?” His eyes grew stark. “Someone killed her because of me? Last night? She’s dead because of me?”
Sherlock said, “Did you meet Eleanor Corbitt at Langley?”
“Sure. Wait, the first time I met her was in the parking lot at Langley, after work. She’d dumped her bag on the ground and I helped her clean it up. The second time we met, it was in the cafeteria.”
Savich said, “She didn’t work at Langley, Justice. She was an accountant at the Bexholt Group, in Coverton, Maryland.”
Justice was shaking his head. “But then how did she get in the cafeteria?”
Savich said slowly, “Only employees can eat there? No visitors?”
“Not as far as I know, only those of us who actually work there. I guess a bigwig could bring a guest, but why? I mean, it’s not exactly Chez Langley.”
Savich said, “It looks like Eleanor Corbitt targeted you specifically, Justice, set you up to be taken when you left the Blaze Café. Can you think of any reason why an accountant at Bexholt would do this? Why she would pretend she worked at Langley?”
Justice thought back. Christy—Eleanor—was dead. She’d seemed so interested in him, genuinely interested. She’d laughed at his humor, she’d touched his arm with her fingers, leaned in close. All of it had been an act. Her real name was Eleanor Christine Corbitt, and whoever was after him, they’d killed her. He felt numb, then angry. “It doesn’t make any sense. Like I told you, I’m an analyst, not one of those guts-for-glory operatives. I don’t know any secrets. What do they want with me?”
Sherlock asked him, “What do you do exactly, Justice? That is, what are you working on right now?”
“I—why? Oh, I see.” They could practically see his brain working through what he was allowed to say. Finally, “Look, I’m breaking some rules here, but there is something I’ve been occupied with that’s been frustrating me. I was making my usual rounds on the Russian dark web, sites I can’t really talk about. I picked up an exchange about some kind of breakthrough in surveillance technology, something that can’t be detected with current sweep technology. There was talk of a sale or an auction very soon, something about a demonstration.
“I was worried enough to show the chatter to my group chief, Mr. Besserman. I believe he was concerned enough to take it to his boss, Assistant Director Claire Farriger, but he didn’t actually tell me he had, so I’m not sure.
“Monday before last, Mr. Besserman came back to me, wanted to know if I’d heard anything more, but I hadn’t. I remember he shrugged, said it was a ninety-nine percent chance it was nothing, only some bozo mouthing off, and we saw this sort of thing all the time on the dark web. Of course we do. It happens, not at all unusual, but I didn’t forget about it. There was something about it that made me think I’d chanced to hit on something big. Then I saw something more, same source, and there was talk about ‘smart walls,’ which I didn’t understand. What about smart walls? And I told Mr. Besserman and he told me to let it go and put me on something else. But I decided I’d pursue it on my own time. It was after that I met Christy—Eleanor Corbitt—and you know the rest.”
No, Savich thought, they didn’t know the rest. Not yet.
His cell rang. It was Griffin. “What’s up?”
Griffin said, “We have another missing teenager, this one from Whytheville, not all that far away from Gaffer’s Ridge. Her father said she was supposed to be with friends at a movie, but she didn’t come home when she was expected. They rang her cell, but there was no answer. Her father said she and that phone were inseparable, like all teenagers today. That’s when they suspected something was wrong.
“Savich, she celebrated her sixteenth birthday last Friday, makes her the same age as the other three missing girls.”
“Where’s Rafer Bodine?”
“That’s the thing, Savich. We could have held Rafer until there was a court order, but I didn’t see the point. Rafer left the hospital this morning. If he’s involved in this, it’s my fault.”
“You couldn’t have known, Griffin. Taking another girl now, with the FBI in Gaffer’s Ridge, already asking questions, it’s more than reckless, it’s insanity. You know what to do, Griffin. We’re up to our necks in alligators here. If you need outside assistance, give Bettina a call and she’ll send DeAndre and Slick back. Keep me informed.”
Savich punched off, said to Sherlock, “Another missing teenager near Gaffer’s Ridge. Sixteen years old, like the other three.”
Sherlock stilled. “Is it always like this? One horrible thing after another? All on top of each other? And we’re supposed to fix everything?”
Ruth patted her shoulder. “That’s pretty much our job description. Now, Justice, let’s talk more about the man and woman you saw outside the Blaze Café. Close your eyes and picture them. Think back. Did they look at all familiar to you?”
