‘Since when do you care about hurting people’s feelings?’ Thistle asks.

‘I guess I felt sorry for her. For both of them.’

This statement hangs in the air.

‘You picked a hell of a time to go soft on me,’ Thistle says finally. ‘Don’t do that again. I get it—but don’t. Okay?’

She’s right. I don’t know what got into me. It was easier to be a monster when Thistle wasn’t around, reminding me that I could have turned out differently.

‘Okay,’ I say.

We take the elevator down to the basement. Vasquez has an office, but as usual it’s empty. We find him wandering around the forest of desks, checking the work of his subordinates. Vasquez is a stickler for grammar.

I’m uneasy. I don’t like basements. Nothing good has ever happened in a basement.

‘Maurice,’ Thistle says.

Vasquez says, ‘Agent Thistle. Didn’t expect to see you today.’

‘Well, here I am,’ she says evenly.

He forces a smile. ‘What brings you down into my lair?’ I’m uncomfortably aware of his perfect teeth and muscular arms. When Thistle looks at him there’s a flicker of jealousy in my gut. Which is unfair. I pushed her away, after all. Just the same, I find myself selfishly hoping she realises that he’s gay.

‘The Biggs disappearance,’ Thistle says ominously, like it’s the title of a Ludlum novel. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Sure.’ Vasquez turns to me. ‘Blake. You working a new case after all?’

‘Looks that way,’ I say, lifting the tower. ‘Got someplace I can put this?’

‘What is it?’

‘Victim’s computer.’

‘Okay. Right this way.’

He leads us through the basement to an empty desk in the corner and helps us put everything down. He takes a bunch of small blocks—they look a bit like power adaptors—out of a drawer, and puts one on the end of each cable before he plugs it into the server under the desk.

‘What are those?’ Thistle asks.

‘We can’t plug an unknown computer directly into our systems,’ Vasquez says while he works. ‘These stop any viruses from getting through.’

‘Like a computer condom,’ I say.

Thistle stifles a laugh, giving me a warm feeling in my belly. But Vasquez doesn’t look amused.

‘You’re the fifth guy to make that joke, Blake,’ he says.

The monitor lights up. A login screen. The password field fills up with a long string of dots. A message flashes up on the screen—POLICE BYPASS ACCEPTED.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’ Vasquez asks.

‘I want his emails and his browsing history,’ I say.

‘We’d like his text messages as well,’ Thistle says. ‘I already filed a request upstairs.’

‘You got a warrant for all this?’ Vasquez asks.

‘We got the wife’s written permission.’

‘How long will it take to get all this stuff?’ I ask.