Page 54 of The Grave Artist

“Mother’s brilliant. The smartest one in the family. If she wanted to find me, she’d find me.”

He didn’t add the obvious—that she clearly hadn’t wanted to before now.

Julia winked. “So that’s where you and Dad got your brains.”

This was probably true, though their intelligence was different in kind: Rudy was an owl. Jake was a fox.

“Uncle Jake, did she ever consider going into computer science? Or was she just interested in doing good? At that nonprofit she and your dad worked for.”

“The nonprofit,” Jake answered. And he didn’t elaborate.

“I remember they didn’t come by during Christmas or other holidays very much. Always out helping the homeless.”

“That’s right.”

Doing good . . .

“Wouldn’t she leave a number?”

“You’d think.”

“Well, I guess you can get in touch with her through the foundation, the nonprofit, right?”

“Yes. I have their information.”

She asked, “And where is it, exactly?”

“North of San Francisco.”

“Cool! Wine country?” Julia said this wistfully. “Miss seeing you, Uncle Jake. When are you coming back to the Bay Area?”

“Don’t know how long this project will last. But, yeah, miss you too.”

Julia had always been a favorite. They understood each other and spoke the same language—English, as well as C++ and JavaScript. He noted now she was wearing the present he’d designed especially for her: a gold reproduction of the very first microchip in history, made in 1958 by a Texas Instruments engineer, Jack Kilby. It faithfully re-created the exact location of the transistors on the original.

Curiously, owing to complications at the time, it had been Carmen Sanchez who had played Santa on his behalf.

“Hey, Uncle Jake, got a question.”

“Sure. What?”

“Have you asked out Agent Sanchez yet?”

This was the last thing he’d expected. “What?”

“I think you should. I like her.”

Twice in one day. What the hell?

“We’re colleagues. That’s all. It never ends well when work partners start dating. And, anyway, didn’t your dad tell you? I don’t date. Don’t have time. Maybe someday—”

“You’re rambling, Uncle Jake. People ramble when they want to deflect the conversation. Okay, I’ll consider myself deflected—for now.” A laugh. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The memory of the phone call ended, and his eyes once more took in the murder board. Julia’s call—and his personal life—were now distant memories, and hardly even those. A killer roamed the streets of Los Angeles.

And it was time to stop him. Whatever it took.