Nice theory. No dice.

I ignore the PA calling my name.

I realize I’m an idiot. That’s not how the Warlock found the match. He looked for a match for the actual pilot, Captain John Kelsford. I pull the scanned photos the Navy sent us of the Avenger crew and load that into the system.

Three close matches come up.

The second and strongest is from a Facebook profile of a man who looks strikingly like Kelsford. It’s eerie. Even the hair is similar.

His name is Jeff Swanson. He lives in Oregon.

I log into the FBI telephone database and get his home number. It’s a strange feeling. I’m only acting on a hunch. A hunch based on something Damian only suggested minutes ago.

I pull out my phone and look at the keypad. Do I call? Should I go to Knoll or Ailes with this first? What if it’s a miss? I don’t want to look stupid.

I’ve done enough cold calling in the paper jungle that I shouldn’t be embarrassed by the idea. To hell with it. I dial the number.

It rings.

A woman picks up. The database says the number is shared with his wife.

“Hello?”

What do I say? “Hi there. I’m calling to see if Jeff Swanson is at home.”

“Oh my God. Everyone keeps calling. No. It’s not Jeff in the airplane!” Her voice is more amused than angry.

“Sorry,” I reply.

“It’s all right. We’ve been laughing about it all afternoon.” The woman’s voice is pleasant. “It’s all been a bit of a joke.”

Damn. I feel horrible for calling. I’m just glad that she’s not taking it seriously.

“Sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad so many of his friends care. Who should I tell him called?”

“Just a friend from work.” I don’t want to bring the FBI into this.

“Well, thank you for asking. Lord knows what the text messages are costing him.”

“Yes. Sorry again to trouble you.” I’m about to hang up when I feel my stomach turn. “Pardon me? The text messages?”

“Yeah, from Guam. He had to fly out two days ago to help a friend who got in a motorcycle accident.” Her voice is matter-of-fact.

An alarm goes off. I try to sound calm. “Have you actually spoken to Jeff since he left?”

“He texted me from the plane and when he got there. Sent me photos. He tried calling but the connection was messed up. He left a message on my voice mail.”

I feel a chill down my spine. Voice mails are generic and can be copied. Most people don’t even change their password. That’s how the British tabloids spied on celebrities for years. It could have been left anytime. “Miss you,” etc.

I don’t know what to tell her. This woman thinks she’s been talking to her husband for the last several days, when actually, she’s probably been talking to the man who killed him, masquerading as him in texts and e-mails. Even photos.