Page 23

“Exactly. You want to see those knives?”
“Yes,” Skip said.
Nora realized the conversation was starting to veer off again, and she felt she had gotten what she needed. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” she said, rising. “We should be heading out. It’s after five o’clock.”
She could see Skip looked disappointed. “What about the knives?” he asked.
“I’ve got to run,” said Nora.
Nash turned to Skip. “You’re welcome to stay and have a look.”
Nora got up and exchanged glances with Skip. She hesitated a moment. Skip needed friends—and he could do worse than Edison Nash.
“No problem,” she said with a smile. “You two stay here and take a look at the knives—I can see my way out.”
“Great!” Skip said. “I’ll see you at home later.”
“Nice meeting you,” Nash said, rising and shaking her hand.
As she left, she heard Nash’s voice coming from the study. “Skip, all this talking has made me thirsty. I’ve got a bottle of Don Julio Añejo…”
She almost stopped and went back to fetch Skip, but he’d never forgive her if she dragged him away and humiliated him like that. He was a grown man, for God’s sake.
She closed the door and went to her car, gritting her teeth, suddenly sorry she had brought Skip at all.
13
CORRIE ENTERED THEconference room, trying to look as self-assured as possible. Agents Bellamy and O’Hara were waiting for her, each with their laptop computers and briefcases open, files spread across the table. The two agents looked almost like twins, both blond, tall, and Nordic, with buzz cuts, blue suits, white shirts, and muted ties. They were a few years more senior than her, and she could imagine what they’d felt when Sharp told them, in terse terms that left no room for questions, that she was lead agent in the case. She had gotten to know the two agents reasonably well during her last, rather notorious investigation—the Dead Mountain case—and despite the physical resemblance, they couldn’t be less alike. Bellamy was a whining, sexist, self-important douchebag, while O’Hara seemed more of a quiet, stand-up guy. And, naturally, they were in competition with each other, especially now that they’d been assigned a new case. All FBI cases were code-named, and this one had been labeled Badlands.
“Greetings,” said Corrie, laying her briefcase on the table and unhooking it, taking out her own laptop and files. “I hearyou have some good stuff for me today. But first—coffee?” This might prove to be a long meeting, and she was dying for a cup herself.
“Sure,” said Bellamy. “I’ll take mine with cream and sugar.”
Corrie realized too late the trap she’d walked into. But before she could think of how to respond, O’Hara rose. “And you, Agent Swanson? How do you take it?”
Now she felt even more awkward at inadvertently triggering this Goofus and Gallant exchange. “Why don’t we all just get our own?” she said with what she hoped sounded like a genuine laugh.
They went down the hall to the kitchenette, served themselves coffee, and returned to the conference room.
“Okay,” said Corrie in her best supervisory tone, “I’m all ears.”
O’Hara was about to talk but Bellamy interrupted him. “We’ve made really good progress,” he said, rapping away at the keyboard of his laptop. “Using the AI baked into the latest NamUs release candidate, we trimmed down that list from one thousand seventy-one names to thirteen.”
“Thirteen?” Corrie said, surprised. “That’s terrific.”
“Got ’em right here.” Bellamy whipped a folder out of his briefcase, slapped it on the table, and slid it over to Corrie.
She opened it. Inside were thirteen missing persons reports, each with a photograph clipped to the front. She sorted through them, amazed at how thirteen missing women could all look so much like her forensic reconstruction. Each report had, in addition to the picture, a host of personal details: addresses, employment history, bios, where last seen, investigative summaries, and in some cases much more.
“This is awesome,” said Corrie, looking up. “No way to narrow it down further, I suppose?”
O’Hara spoke. “Not without unwarranted guesswork.”
“I see.” She paused. It was possible, of course, that the actual victim was among the thousand-odd names that had been tossed aside, but she had enough confidence in the ever-stronger NamUs beta AIs that this baker’s dozen seemed a good enough place to start. “Agent O’Hara, what are your thoughts?”
O’Hara gave a small smile. “Since you asked, number three is my guess. Number ten a close runner-up.”
Corrie pulled out number three and glanced over it. Joyce Pollard Black, thirty-eight, freelance web designer, Albuquerque. Disappeared six years ago; BA in anthropology, University of New Mexico; single.