Page 18 of Wild Oblivion

"There doesn't have to be a next time," I said.

"Yes, there does.” With that, he ended the call.

I checked my audio files to make sure the app had recorded the incoming call. I forwarded the MP3 to Special Agent Thompson, then I called Isabella and asked her to trace the call again.

As I suspected, it had been routed through the Internet using multiple proxy servers. "I can't find a point of origin,” she said. “But I'll keep looking.”

"Run a voiceprint analysis. See if you come across anything.”

"Will do.”

The three-letter agencies had voiceprint files for high-level targets. I doubted they’d have one for a common thug, but maybe this guy was an international player.

We wrapped up at the station, then headed up to Oyster Avenue to unwind with an adult beverage or six.

JD and I grabbed a high-top table at Skyline and enjoyed the sunset as we chowed on appetizers and sipped fine whiskey. Pretty people mixed and mingled. There were plenty of short skirts, stiletto heels, and fresh faces. The trendy bar always had an upscale clientele.

I don't know what happened to our waitress. She had delivered the first round of drinks and appetizers, then disappeared. I hadn’t seen her since. My drink had grown precariously close to the bottom of the glass. I kept looking around for the cute brunette, but didn't see her anywhere. We’d had enough close calls for the day. There was no need to risk running dry.

I took matters into my own hands and ambled up to the bar. I may have had an ulterior motive. A gorgeous blonde leaned against the counter, scribbling on a napkin. From where I stood, she had all the right curves. With tortoiseshell glasses and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she gave off smart, sexy vibes. Like a librarian. Hopefully, a naughty one.

I pulled up next to her at the bar, and the fresh scent of her body wash delighted the senses. I tried not to pay her too much attention, but I couldn't help notice the hieroglyphicsshe scratched on the napkin—an advanced mathematical equation. It might as well have been a foreign language.

"It’s really not that hard," I said. “If you want my number, all you have to do is ask.”

She gave me an annoyed look over the rim of her glasses. "Excuse me?"

I extended my hand and smiled. "I'm Tyson."

"And I'm not interested.”

She went back to her equation.

I ordered two more whiskeys from the bartender. Undeterred, I tried again. "What are you working on?”

"You wouldn't understand.”

"Try me.”

She paused, huffed, then finally looked at me. "Okay, smart guy. If the phase transition point keeps shifting because the lattice constant changes under load, what’s the adjustment factor?”

She was so smug and arrogant about it.

But I admired confidence.

I stared at her, trying not to look like I was drowning. After a beat, I scoffed, “That’s easy. Are we talking about a pressure-sensitive, first-order transition?”

Her eyes widened with disbelief. “Maybe.”

“Well, we are or we aren’t?”

“Yes,” she said, growing intrigued.

“Well, you’ve got to reduce expansion stress.”

Something clicked in her brain as she stumbled across the answer she’d been looking for. It finally landed. “By cooling it more slowly.”

“Exactly.”