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“Negative, correct,” Malcomb said.
Traffic started to move, and I was soon crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge toward Virginia and the airport. “How about his phone’s GPS or his car’s? Did you find data that put him in the vicinity of any of the killings?”
He sighed. “Afraid not. At the time of the first two attacks, he was in New York. The third time he was in Maine. The last two he was in DC, but his phone and car were nowhere near the victims at the time of their murders.”
“Huh,” I said. “What about a car we don’t know about and a burner phone?”
“That’s a different story,” Malcomb said. “But we search for what we can’t identify, if that makes any sense.”
“It would help you to know more about the car or the burner going in.”
“Exactly. Uh, sorry, Dr. Cross, but I have another call coming in. My … girlfriend.”
“I make it a rule not to get between a man and his girlfriend. Thank you, Ryan, and have a nice evening.”
Malcomb was chuckling. “You as well, and your wife and the entire family.”
During the twelve minutes it took to reach the exit for Reagan National Airport, I kept thinking about the digital blackouts that had been engineered around every crime scene and, once, around Tull’s house.
But why wasn’t Tull blacked out every time?I had no answer, so I flipped the question.Why was Tull’s place blacked out just this one time?
Immediately, I thought:Because Tull sensed we were surveilling him. Then he covered himself in a cloak of cellular and data invisibility so we wouldn’t know he’d left his home in the middle of the night.
Maybe. But that didn’t feel entirely right either.
Rain started to fall as I drove to passenger pickup and spotted Bree waving. She climbed in. We kissed and I pulled out.
“Productive trip?” I asked.
“Uh, yes,” she said. “Absolutely.”
When I glanced over at her, I could see her features were tight and she was studying the dash like it held mystic secrets.
“Why do I sense abutcoming?”
Bree looked over. “I know things that I didn’t this morning, but I haven’t got them all straight in my mind yet. How they fit, I mean.”
“I’m feeling kind of the same way,” I said. “I’m sensing things in the Family Man case, but I’ve got nothing solid to back them up yet.”
“Yet. That’s the word we have to hold on to.Yet.”
I got us heading toward DC. “Did you talk to the attorney and the rich woman who hired you and Bluestone?”
“Both of them,” Bree said. “But first, tell me about that data-mining company you’ve been working with.”
“Paladin?”
She nodded. “Theresa May Alcott and her husband were some of the original investors in that company. They did it quietly, but I found the SEC filings online.”
“She must know Ryan Malcomb, then. He’s one of the founders. The brain behind the algorithms. An interesting, creative guy.”
“Alcott is Malcomb’s maternal aunt. She adopted him and his twin brother, Sean, after their mother—Alcott’s sister—and father were murdered in a home invasion. The boys were nine. The killers were never caught.”
“Jesus. I didn’t know that. He’s had a tough life, then. Did I tell you he was stricken with muscular dystrophy as a teenager?”
“No,” Bree said. “But it makes sense. In her office, there are pictures of her and her husband with Jerry Lewis.”
CHAPTER 70
