Yesterday, Hendricks had taken the table beside her. It was a small restaurant, and the tables were narrow and packed tight together. It had made it easy to get the two fairly clear recordings of her entering her laptop password—once when she arrived, and once when she returned from the restroom. Later, Hendricks slowed the recording down and the three of them sat around a monitor going backward and forward over the tape, arguing over whether it was a K or an L. Because of the camera angle, her left hand partially obscured the right side of the keyboard. But they were reasonably certain her password was DG5kjc790GD. Or possibly DG5kjl790GD. Jenn favored DG5lhj790GD. Definitely one of those.

When Denise sat down today, it was Gibson waiting for her at the next table. He apologized and moved his bag off her seat. She smiled thanks and made herself comfortable. She set up her laptop but didn’t comment on the fact they had the same computer. It was a pretty popular model after all.

Gibson went back to his work on his new laptop, which he’d bought only yesterday. Denise placed her order and proceeded to read a succession of blogs about the newly announced Lombard-Fleming ticket.

Overhead, Gibson could see Jenn’s reflection in the large mirror by the door. She was at the small sushi bar with her back to him. When the waitress picked up Denise’s food to take to the table, Jenn rose and went down the back hallway to the unisex bathroom. The waitress presented Denise with her food and asked them each in turn if they wanted anything else. Denise asked for a tea. Gibson asked for his check.

The past three nights, Denise had waited until her food arrived to wash her hands. Gibson held his breath until she shut her laptop and slipped out between the two tables. In the mirror, he watched her disappear around the corner. He switched laptops without looking up. Better to do something fast and with confidence than draw attention by looking around like a thief.

In his earpiece: “She’s knocked. Ninety seconds.”

He opened Denise’s laptop and entered the first password. The log-in window shook, rejecting it. Gibson blew air up his face in frustration. Always the last one you try, he thought darkly. He tried the second . . . same thing. The third—the log-in window shook disapprovingly again.

“How are you doing out there?” Jenn asked.

“I need a minute,” he muttered into his mic.

“Define a minute.”

“Look it up. I’m busy.”