1st Case - James Patterson Page 0,54

no data or integrity loss whatsoever,” Ciomek said. “That’s right.”

This was exactly the double-edged sword of cloud-based computing. Measures to increase privacy standards for legal online activity also made it that much harder to pin down and quash illegal operations.

“If there’s a silver lining,” Ciomek told us, “it’s that we at least have a conduit to these people.”

“Online, anyway,” I said.

“That’s right,” Ciomek concurred.

As for finding them out there in the real world, that was another prospect entirely. One that had dogged every resource the FBI had to throw at it so far. And something told me this was going to get a lot harder before it ever got easier.

If it got easier.

CHAPTER 58

WITH EVERYTHING THERE was to do, I didn’t expect to leave the CART, or even my desk, all day. So I was more than a little surprised when Keats pulled me away a few hours later.

“Meet me downstairs,” he said on the phone. “We’re heading to Mass General again. I’ve got a follow-up interview with Justin Nicholson.”

“And you want me there?” I asked. “Not that I mind.”

“I think he needs to see you’re okay.”

I knew that meeting me had spooked Justin pretty badly, right after my name had come up in the course of his attack. It had spooked me, too, but this poor kid was already grappling with the loss of his family. If there was anything I could do to help, I wanted to do it. In fact, there was a certain symmetry to the whole thing. Maybe he needed to see that I was okay, but I needed to check in on him, too.

Or at least I wanted to, given the opportunity.

When we got over to the hospital, we learned that Justin had been transferred to a private room. That was good news. He was sitting up now, breathing without a respirator, and had some limited mobility in his neck. He could croak out a few words, but we set him up with a laptop for the interview. I was next to him like before and read off his answers while Keats asked the questions.

Billy knew enough to use this time efficiently, and he got right to it.

“Justin, could you identify the man who shot you the other night, if you saw him again?” Keats asked.

IT WAS DARK IN THAT HALL. I’M NOT SURE. I DIDN’T SEE HIS FACE, Justin typed out, and I read it to Billy.

“What do you remember about him?” Billy asked. “Any physical traits? The way he held himself? Anything at all?”

HE WAS SHORT FOR A GUY, MAYBE ANGELA’S HEIGHT. AND HE HAD SOME KIND OF ACCENT.

“A foreign accent?” Keats asked. “Anything you recognized?”

MORE LIKE SOUTHERN, I THINK. AMERICAN.

His hands were working the keyboard pretty well, and his eyes were alert. He seemed more alive than before. My guess was that he needed to get this out, and it was helping him to tell his story. Sitting silently in that bed couldn’t be good for his mental state. Not after everything he’d been through and everything he’d lost.

“You already mentioned that he gave you a message for Angela,” Keats said. “Did he say anything else?”

NOT THAT I REMEMBER. EVERYTHING WENT BLACK AFTER THAT.

While Keats took down a few notes, Justin turned to me and typed out another line.

SORRY THIS HAPPENED ANGELA. SUCKS FOR YOU TOO.

Keats wasn’t done, so I didn’t say anything. I just waved a hand at Justin to say, Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.

After another twenty minutes of back-and-forth, we had as much of a description as we were going to get. The suspect was well under six feet tall. He may have been white and may have been in his twenties, as far as Justin had been able to tell, but it was all uncertain. He’d seen no facial hair, scars, or tattoos, either. And no other distinguishing characteristics, beyond the accent.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than we’d had.

“If there’s anything you need, I want you to text me,” I told him. I wrote the number for my new burner phone on a pad by the bed. “And I’m checking on you tomorrow either way, so you might as well ask for something. Otherwise, you’ll just get some tacky teddy bear and a potted plant.”

That got a weak smile. “Thank you,” he croaked out in a hoarse whisper.

“No, thank you,” I said. “And save your voice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As we were walking to the elevators, Keats squeezed my shoulder.

“You’re a good person,” he