Page 88 of The Grave Artist

“HTW.”

“DGT,” Heron replied.

Carmen frowned.

The hacker said breezily, “Don’t go there.”

“That’s funny, Heron. For a minute I thought it was referring to whatever you two got up to on your infamous moonlit night.”

“Anyway, no, it’s not Aruba,” he said, not taking her bait. “I’m getting real-time updates from the Swiss authorities, monitoring all the traffic into CERN.”

She recalled that CERN housed the world’s largest nuclear collider—and was a place Tristan Kane was apparently quite interested in.

Disturbing, to say the least.

Heron continued, “But there’ve been no breaches. Digital or physical.”

“Right.” Then she asked, “What the hell does he have in mind?”

Heron shrugged. An appropriate gesture. After all, what was the point of speculating?

“What does an accelerator do?” She could google it but wanted a quick and succinct answer rather than scrolling through screenfuls of information.

“Smashes atomic stuff into other stuff to make smaller stuff.”

Heron could be a bit too succinct. “And how is that helpful?”

“CERN cost five billion, so somebody must’ve thought it was worthwhile.”

A troubling thought popped into her mind.

“What?” he asked, clearly reading her expression.

“I’m pissed off,” she announced, nodding at his tablet. “The Swiss are cooperating. Why not the Italians?”

She and Williamson had both sent multiple requests for information on the cases in Verona and Florence. All were ignored. “I’ve worked with MI-5 and -6 in England, Police Nationale in France, Bundespolizei, Germany. Never a problem. But nothing from the Polizia di Stato and the Carabinieri—”

“The military police that helps out in civilian criminal cases,” Heron cut in.

Carmen lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know them? Get into trouble over there too?”

“Video game I play.”

“Well, the Italians are as good as the other LEOs, so I can’t understand why they’re not taking the crimes seriously. Or takingusseriously.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A barista, a slim man with elaborate body art, gestured toward the door, through which a stocky woman with short blonde hair was walking quickly. She wore jeans and a black blouse and had already donned her beige work apron.

Mary Nance, the manager, had spoken to Carmen from her mobile on the drive here and was aware of what they needed. She had come in a half hour early to meet them.

After introductions, she said, “This is about that officer who was stabbed at the cemetery?”

“That’s right,” Carmen said.

“Terrible.” Nance’s face showed concern.

Carmen understood why—sympathy for the victim, but more than that. “You don’t need to worry. The person in here wasn’t the attacker, but we think she may have some helpful information. Can we see that video?”

The relief was clear.