“Let’s hear it,” said Swagger.

The younger man laid two photos on the desk. They were taken using infrared illumination at the Waters house the night of the search. Bob looked and saw only what should have been there, which was the interior of a closet stacked neatly with packaging.

“This guy was ultra-organized,” said Neill. “He didn’t just save stuff, he catalogued it and stored it alphabetically so that he could access it in seconds. He’d be the rare individual who always sends in the warranty card on the first day.”

“That’s him.”

“So this is stuff he bought this year—he’s probably got the other years saved in a storage unit somewhere. Or, rather, the packaging from it.”

“Okay . . .”

“Look closely.”

Bob looked. He saw a few gun shipment boxes; as for convenience, Waters had a Federal Firearms License, an FFL, and a license for Curios & Relics, both of which enabled him to receive firearms at home by common carrier. There was no evidence he operated at the retail level with his purchases, as he was strictly a shooter and a collector. He just had to enter them in a book for the occasional ATF examiners, who must have treated him like a pal, as he offered no threat and kept transparent, perfect records. Bob saw packaging that was probably left over from his last big-ticket get, the Accuracy International. He saw supporting implements, plus other mundane things, such as a box for a new Cuisinart, a new speaker for his nifty hi-fi system, book packages from Amazon—quite a bit of stuff from Amazon, in fact, as Amazon was the perfect abettor for such a lifestyle.

“Am I supposed to notice something?” Bob said.

Neill put his finger on a slim piece of packaging lodged neatly between two larger pieces, almost indistinguishable. But part of the overlapping cover art was visible on the edge, and Neill had identified it.

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s the world-famous apple with a bite taken out of it. The corporate pictogram for the world’s largest computer outfit.”

Bob squinted. Yep, there it was: a bitten apple, a little leaf up top.

“That’s the package the iPhone comes in. I would know because I’ve just picked up my X and spent an hour or so programming it.”

Swagger carried an iPhone 3, or something Cro-Magnon like that, and wouldn’t have noted such a thing in a million years.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m with you. But where is this going?”

“Well, it fits, doesn’t it? A tech and engineering guy like this, he’d have the latest variation of iPhone, just as, upstairs, he’s got the latest variation of desktop system—he’s always upgrading everything. He’s probably got an X on order, it just hasn’t come in yet.”

“So?”