No one had ever seen Des Backer or Doreen Fredd near the house, ditto Prince Teddy. Dahlia Gemein’s picture evoked vague recollections of blond and pretty and cheerful. One neighbor thought she’d favored the red motorcycle.

They’re sisters? Pretty different.

Milo said, “One shred of theoretical hope: Computer lab’s sending over the transcripts of GHC’s hard drives. Pages of printout, I could use some help going through it. I figured you and I could grab some dinner at Moghul, go back to the office and analyze. Unless you’ve got plans.”

“Robin and I were talking barbecue, I called to invite you.”

“Oh. Haven’t checked messages. Thanks, but gotta pass.”

“Take a break for a steak,” I said. “Or two.”

“Appreciate the offer but I won’t be my usual fun self and I need to watch my cholesterol.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Better late than never.”

“Well,” I said, “Moghul’s good with veggies.”

“I was thinking tandoori lamb, spinach with cheese, maybe some lobster.”

“Someone’s bred low-cholesterol sheep and crustaceans?”

“So I lied. Sup with your true love.”

I hung up, talked to Robin.

She said, “Like there’s a choice? Grill’s still cold, anyway. Go.”

By six forty, Milo and I were sifting through GHC’s download history and every bit of e-mail generated during the architectural firm’s brief life.

Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl Passant had spent most of their screen time searching eBay and discount fashion sites and gossip blogs. Both of them loved Johnny Depp.

Judah Cohen hadn’t logged on once.

Marjorie Holman had used her keyboard sparingly: researching green architecture sites, news outlets, checking her finances, which were as conservative and modest as John Nguyen had reported.

Using a separate screen name, she’d arranged regular trysts with six different men, among them “mannyforbush” at forbushziskin-shapiro.net.

Helga Gemein and Desmond Backer conducted infrequent but telling exchanges. Cyber pen pals during working hours, they typed away as they sat in the communal office.

The correspondence was focused: coolly exchanged information about explosives, incendiary devices, the goals and techniques of eco-terrorism, nostalgic reflections about ugly days gone by.

Milo had cited the Baader-Meinhof gang while spinning for Judge LaVigne, but the reference was prophetic: One week prior to the killings of Desmond Backer and Doreen Fredd, Helga Gemein had invoked the murderous German band eight times. Describing them, without a trace of irony, as “refreshingly nihilistic and efficient.”

Helga: the wonder years. my regret is having been born too late.

Backer: for me it was the weathermen. if only, huh?

Helga: knowing which way the wind blows.

Backer: bill and bernadette and now they’re mainstream sell-outs.

Helga: inevitable. blood thins.

Backer: good old days blood was thick and hot the wind was gonna blow hard and hot. emphasis on blow. lol.

Helga: again, that? with you, it’s always carnality.

Backer: got something better lol too bad it’s not with u.