“I’ve been with the company for almost thirty years. Lorna had Glen. Her world revolved around her little family—her husband and son. Zach blamed everyone for Lorna’s death, but it really was just an awful accident. Whenever I talked to Glen about it, he would become so sad. I suggested that he talk to a counselor, but he didn’t want to. And I didn’t push it—time usually heals.”

“Thank you for your help, Ms. Montclair.”

“Of course. But Glen—he’s not in trouble, is he? He’s never been in trouble. Not so much as a fight at school, at least when he lived with me. Never had detention, all his teachers liked him because he was so polite and studious.”

“He sounds like he was a good kid,” Matt said, noncommittal. “Again, thank you. I’ll call if I have any more questions.”

They walked out and Michael said, “Wasn’t Scott Peterson, the guy who killed his wife and baby, also described as a perfect son? Polite and respectful?”

“A lot of kids are polite without turning into killers.”

“It was just the way she was talking, Costa. Even my little brother, who was damn close to perfect, got in trouble from time to time.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He was killed in a drive-by when he was twelve,” Michael said.

“Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Michael shrugged and slid into the driver’s seat. “Long time ago. Back to Spokane?”

“Yes. As fast as you can.”

Matt had a few calls to make, one to Glen Hamilton’s employer. Hamilton lived in Tacoma, south of Seattle, but his employer was a major computer company in the city. It took several minutes before Matt got through to his supervisor. He learned that Glen worked remotely from home and was only in the office twice a month for staff meetings. The last time Glen had been in was the end of February. He was a valued employee who did his work well and on time, according to his boss, but had no real desire to move up or take on more responsibility even though he was capable.

Next Matt called the Seattle FBI field office. He asked that they send two more agents, this time down to Glen Hamilton’s residence and talk to him, then assign a car to sit on him for the next forty-eight hours. If he didn’t budge, then he wasn’t their killer. It was a four-hour drive from Spokane to Seattle. Hamilton could fly in an hour or less, which was possible but unlikely. It would leave a paper trail.

The phone number might be the best chance of locating him, but they needed a warrant for the records or to ping it. And right now, they didn’t have enough information for a warrant. If they couldn’t get it, Matt might call the number and hope Hamilton would pick up. It was definitely worth a shot.

Matt called Catherine and filled her in on what the aunt said.