Page 57 of The Grave Artist
As he read the words, his gut twisted.
“We have a lead, Sanchez.” A whisper.
“HK?”
“Theotherone.”
Tristan Kane.
“You heard from Hot Tub Woman?”
Jake didn’t bother to sigh. The truth was ithadbeen quite the memorable evening, snow falling, the Italian Alps in the background, bubbles in the hot tub roiling excitedly ...
But that was his business.
Like her relationship with easygoing, gaming Frank Tandy was hers.
“Yes, Aruba gave me the info.”
She continued, “Itoldyou. The warrant doesn’t extend to her.”
“All she’s doing is pointing us in a direction.”
“She’s going to point us right to a not-guilty verdict by reason of fucked-up evidence.”
“Let’s find Kane first—”
“And worry about the trial later,” she cut in. “Broken record, Heron.”
“I used that phrase with my niece once and she asked me what a record was.”
“Heron, don’t change the subject.” Then she peered over his shoulder, sighing in surrender. “As long as she’s got it ... Show me.”
Someone with Kane’s digital signature recently chartered boat in Managua, Nicaragua. Company used is known for ferrying illicits to Oaxaca in Mexico. Possibly Bahias De Huatulco International Airport. Hub for moving persons out of Mexico and Central America. Generally, used for transporting cartel people to Europe and the Far East.
Got a hit on male passenger Kane’s age and description on flight to St. Maarten, Dutch West Indies, onward to Amsterdam. Charter tourist flight. Would have landed there by now. No record of “Tristan Kane” in Dutch customs but he creates identities and passports as needed. Will keep digging.
He looked at Sanchez. She nodded. He could tell she was pleased at the intel.
Jake replied:
K
Running a search like Aruba was conducting would have been impossible a few years ago. But now she knew the access codes to the world’s most powerful supercomputers. Her favorite was the famed Japanese Fugaku, whose initial performance was an astonishing Rmax of 416 petaflops, rising to 442 after an upgrade.
A number that to a lay person was gibberish, but to a geek translated into an awestruck “Fuck me.”
“What kinda podsyouguys have?”
The low female voice pulled him from the mesmerizing visual lull of code on the screen.
He glanced up to see an athletic woman in a pale-blue jogging outfit printed with Marvel comic characters, black ankle boots and a pink bow in her straight jet-black and shiny hair. The ink on her neck and back of her hands were the only tatts visible, and Jake often wondered what therest of the body art might be. On the job, thirtyish Su Ling wore concealing clothing suitable for her position as head of HSI Long Beach’s Crime Scene Unit. Some of the work involved taking photos of crime scenes and she was known as one of the best in the business. In fact, she occasionally channeled that skill into fashion photography. Su’s pictures had graced spreads inVogue,Elle,GQandMarie Claire—impressive, Jake supposed, but as he was not a subscriber, he had to take Sanchez’s word for it.
The MIT valedictorian was also an extreme marathoner ... and a devoted mother.
How she found the time ...
Sanchez waved toward the Keurig in response to the question. “Help yourself.”
