Out of fear that WR8TH had compromised ACG’s corporate servers, Gibson and Mike Rilling had set up independent servers to receive all case-related communications and data. Rilling was running the faces through facial-recognition software tied into federal and state databases. Putting names with faces, essentially, and hoping to get really lucky with a criminal record. A home run would be a hit on the National Sex Offender Registry.

Gibson had the TV on mute for company and, once he’d seen the same highlights on SportsCenter three times, he switched over to the news. Benjamin Lombard’s campaign was continuing to battle Governor Fleming’s. Lombard had hired a new campaign manager and had performed surprisingly strongly in California, Fleming’s home state. The pundits discussed the pros and cons of his new, more aggressive strategy. The vice president was in the middle of a swing through New England and was giving a speech in Boston this morning. Turnout was expected to be heavy.

Gibson wondered what would happen if they actually found Suzanne. What kind of a bump would it give Lombard’s campaign? The American people were suckers for a good narrative, and the sight of a reunited family might be too much for them to resist. Would it put Lombard over the top? He wasn’t sure he’d live through the irony of being Benjamin Lombard’s savior.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Hendricks muttered grumpily. “Don’t anyone talk to me unless they spot someone wearing an ‘I kidnapped Suzanne Lombard’ T-shirt, all right?”

Five minutes later the next best thing arrived in the form of a tall, awkwardly thin man with a bowed back and skin that looked to be made of candle drippings. The Wax Man sat down at a worktable, took off a backpack, and laid it on the table. Then he proceeded to stare at the kids playing by the fountain like a tourist picking a lobster from a tank. There was definitely something not okay about him.

“Are you seeing this guy?” Gibson asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got eyes on him. He’s giving me the creeps from a distance. Does he have a laptop?” Jenn asked.

“Negative. He’s just sitting there like he’s posing for a NAMBLA recruitment poster.”

As if on cue, the Wax Man unzipped his backpack and took out a shiny silver laptop.

“He appears to be taking requests,” Gibson reported. “One laptop by popular demand. See if he knows any Radiohead.”

The Wax Man began typing, and Gibson watched a device connect to the Wi-Fi. In moments, his program began pulling pertinent information from the laptop’s system registry.

“What do you have, Gibson?” Jenn asked.

“Meet James MacArthur Bradley. I have his home address and cell-phone number.”

“Good. Forward it and his picture to Washington. Let’s see if Mr. Bradley has a criminal record,” she said.