The CFC’s mobile command center is the size of a small yacht hitched to a super-duty crew cab, white with the CFC crest and the state seal on the doors. There are no windows in the trailer. But inside it’s lit up and cool, a combination lounge and war room where first responders and other essential personnel can rest, work, teleconference, use computers, and safely store evidence destined for the labs. When I stopped in here the first time it was to drink water, change my clothes, and safeguard the packaged soiled T-shirt by locking it inside an evidence mini-refrigerator.

Now I’m back again, fortifying myself with more water and a protein bar while trying not to fantasize about the dinner I missed at the Faculty Club. I’m hungry and restless as I wait to hear from Lucy. She was pushy about having a discussion with me a while ago when I couldn’t talk. Now that I’m alone with a few minutes to spare, of course I can’t get hold of her. I’ll have to see what I can find out on my own about Elisa Vandersteel, and I sit down at a workstation.

Logging onto the computer, I spend a few minutes searching the name, and it gives me an uneasy feeling when nothing comes up, not a single file returned. I try the surname Vandersteel and Mayfair, London, and have no better luck, which is odd. It’s pretty difficult to avoid any mention on the Internet these days but if my searches can be trusted, it would seem that Elisa Vandersteel doesn’t exist.

She also isn’t on social media, it seems. I can’t find her on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter, and that’s extremely unusual for someone young. The woman I noticed taping up recipes at the ART certainly didn’t seem shy or introverted. I also realize that doesn’t mean much. One can be confident and friendly but private, and maybe she’s had issues in the past that cause her to stay below the radar. But the more key words I enter without success, the more wary I get.

I think of the photograph of the UK driver’s license that Investigator Barclay showed me. I remember that the street listed in the Mayfair address was South Audley, not far from the American embassy. But I didn’t pay close attention to the house number. I search what I recall and nothing comes up, and I’m grateful that my routine searches aren’t the final word on Elisa Vandersteel.