“Love you, too, babe.” She heard him yawn again, then rub his face on the other end of the phone. “Okay, so you have one really cool customer who seems to have some kind of tactical background and knows how to hold up under extreme duress. You think he’s former special ops?”

“We ran his prints through the system, but didn’t get any hits. I mean, even if he did top secret, deeply classified James Bond crap, the missions would be off the radar, but military service would put him in the system, right? We’d see that piece of the puzzle.”

“True. What does he look like?”

D.D. shrugged. “Kind of like Patrick Dempsey. Thick wavy hair, deep dark eyes—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. I’m looking for a suspect, not a blind date.”

She blushed. Definitely, definitely needed to get laid. “Five foot eleven, hundred and seventy pounds, early thirties, dark hair and eyes, no distinguishing marks or facial hair.”

“Build?”

“Fit.”

“Now, see, that does sound like special ops. Big guys can’t make it through the endurance training, which is why you should always look out for the small guy in the room.” Bobby sounded smug as he said this. A former sniper, he fit the small, dangerous model perfectly.

“But he’d have a record,” she singsonged.

“Shit.” Bobby was starting to sound tired. “All right, what kinds of things did light up?”

“Marriage certificate, driver’s license, Social Security number, and bank accounts. Basic stuff.”

“Birth certificate?”

“Still digging.”

“Speeding tickets, traffic citations?”

“Nada.”

“Credit cards?”

“One.”

“When was it opened?”

“Ummm …” D.D. had to think about it, trying to recall what she’d read in the report. “Within the past five years.”

“Let me guess, around the same time as the bank accounts,” Bobby said.

“Now that you mention it, most of the financial activity fell around the same time Jason and his wife moved to Boston.”

“Sure, but where’d the money come from?”

“Again, we’re still digging.”

Longer pause now. “In summary,” Bobby said slowly, “you got a name, a driver’s license, and a Social Security number, with no activity before the past five years.”

D.D. jolted. She hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but now that he mentioned it … “Yeah. Okay. Only activity is from the past five years.”

“Come on, D.D., you tell me. What’s wrong with that picture?”

“Crap,” D.D. exclaimed. She whacked her steering wheel. “‘Jones’ is an alias, isn’t it? I knew it. I just knew it. I’ve been saying that all along. More we learn about the family, the more everything feels … just right. Not too busy, not too boring. Not too social, not too anti social. Everything is just right. Goddammit, if they’re with WitSec, I will slit my wrists.”

“Can’t be,” Bobby assured her.