I called Lucy Three Rivers as I made a pot of coffee, mixed up a batch of huevos rancheros and got some bacon going. Aromas that would certainly coax Tatina out of her sleep and bring her downstairs.
“You in the middle of anything?” I asked.
“Just watching a romantic comedy,” Lucy said, “and eating a quart of Ben & Jerry’s Lonely Girl Strawberry and Tears ice cream.”
“Really?”
“No, jerk wad!” she snapped. “When have I ever—seriously, ever!—given you any clue that I was a romantic comedy kinda girl?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, feeling oddly embarrassed that I didn’t know what types of movies Lucy liked.
“I hate strawberry ice cream!” she bellowed. “Some things don’t belong together. Ever. Never! Like cow’s milk and fruit. Cow’s milk is a fat-bloated growth hormone meant for three-hundred-pound calves, not humans. And any fruit that carries its seeds on the outside—”
“Can you rein in the crazy for a minute, Lucy?” I said.
Lucy stopped talking and tried regulating her breathing. In . . . out . . . and in . . . and out . . .
I took a sip of my coffee, let the eggs cook on low and sat on one of the two stools at my kitchen island.
“Okay,” Lucy said, having stowed away her youthful righteous rage. “So what’s up, Sherlock?”
“I need you to trace a phone number for me while I’m on the call,” I said. “Simultaneously, I need you to monitor the number to make sure nobody’s back tracing it.”
“You into some superspy-ninja shit?”
“Can you do that?”
“Well, that’s a dumb question,” she said before abruptly disconnecting.
Three minutes later Lucy was setting up two laptop computers on my coffee table. Next to the laptops was a large key ring loaded with thumb drives.
“Oh, my God, that smells good!” she said, grabbing one of my burner phones and linking it to a laptop with a USB cable. “I just had Froot Loops with almond milk. Can I have some of that?”
“Yes,” I said. “And it’s ‘May’ I have some?’”
“Whatever.”
“It does smell good down here.” Tatina, descending the staircase wearing my beat-up Wayne State football jersey. “God morgen, Lucy.”
“Hey, Tats,” Lucy said, quickly followed by, “Holy shit! You make Sherlock’s funky old jersey look like a Victoria’s Secret catalog cover! How do you do it?”
“I try to maintain a healthy diet—until I get here, of course.” She and Lucy shared a quick embrace. Seeing all of Lucy’s equipment spread out on the coffee table, Tatina said, “What are you doing?”
“Sherlock’s gotta make some supersecret, supersecure call,” Lucy said, typing at lightning speed.
“Oh, really?” Tatina shot me a look.
I gave Tatina a brief yet concise download of my early-morning activities at Vic Bronson’s compound. As I spoke, I watched her eyes, her face, assessed her body language, listened to her breathing.