Speaking of which, Reyland thought, stifling a smile as he saw one of Emerson’s zonked-looking computer guys come in and stand at the end of Fenwick’s storied mahogany bar.

Reyland touched Emerson’s elbow as he stood to leave the banquette.

“Tell that stooge he can’t come into a place like this looking like that. He wants to work for me, he better buy a tie, shave, and maybe start eating some salads.”

“C’mon, boss, cut him some slack just this once. That’s Billy Rayne, my MIT ace in the hole. He’s a genius.”

“Rayne,” Reyland mumbled. “Rain Man is more like it.”

Emerson came back to the table three minutes later, all smiles, with a folder in his hand.

“Good stuff, boss. We’ve found our errant little naval safety inspector.”

“Finally! Where?”

“She has a sister that just squatted out a new hillbilly,” he said, smiling as he placed the printed Google map onto the table. “The sister’s house is here just north of Pensacola Air Station.”

“And, oh, look. She even bought some goodies from Party City. Isn’t that special?” Reyland said, flicking the report page to her USAA credit card statements.

“The arrest team will be out of where? Jacksonville?” Reyland said.

“No, Mobile,” Emerson said, taking out his phone as the old tuxedoed grandfatherly waiter refilled their water glasses.

“Shouldn’t take them more than an hour to get there,” he said.

33

Sweating under the overcast morning sky, Ruby chugged along doing a long, lazy loop, jogging the Pensacola neighborhoods north of the naval base.

She’d let out an hour before from Lori’s house, where she was still staying over. She’d lived in the modest neighborhood when she first joined the navy and could have practically done the familiar five miles past the sunburned bungalows blindfolded. Lake Charlene north to Glendale, Glendale to Fairfax Terrace, then out to the strip of New Warrington Road that they just called Navy Road because it led into the base.

She jogged steadily at an easy pace past the curving blocks, not pushing it. She always loved running in the morning, that pleasant, still half-asleep hopeful feeling of being outside in the freshness of the new day. She’d run cross-country track in high school well enough to get a partial scholarship to the University of Miami and tried to keep it up. She’d sprained an ankle the year before and then work got busy, and she just kind of let it go for a bit. But now she was gradually coming back after the layoff in fits and starts.

As she ran, her mind wandered to all the crazy phone calls she had gotten.

She still hadn’t done anything about any of them. What could she do? Were Mark and the diver actually sick? Which seemed fishy. Or had the government gone nuts? Which seemed even fishier. Or was it something else?

She thought about the reporter. His YouTube videos. His advice on taking the battery out of her phone.

No, she thought as she ran. No way.