| but is heavily encrypted. The police can’t scratch its surface.” “So she knew the specs of his desktop.” “Again, we’re guessing at this point, but my answer would be yes. She and her pal had probably been inside Nelson’s condo. Did he have home security?” “Yes, there was an alarm system. There was a camera at the front door and another looking at the rear patio. Both were destroyed in the storm. The police think they may have been disabled beforehand.” “Where is his computer?” she asked. “Police. They’re supposed to hand it over, along with other personal effects, next week. Polly McCann will meet with them and take possession. I’ve been pushed out of the investigation, which is fine with me.” “What day next week?” “Wednesday.” “I’d like to be there.” “Come on down. I’ll give you the grand tour.” “We really need to look at the hard drive. If it’s a dummy left behind by the killer, that’s a clue, though I’m not sure what we can do with it. If it’s the real hard drive, then it could be a treasure trove of information.” “Assuming it can be accessed.” “Yes, but didn’t you say in your notes that his sister has the passcode for the thumb drive?” “She does.” Lindsey flashed a knowing smile and said, “That’s all we need. Our guys can get in with that.” “I’m drowning here. This is way over my head.” “Mine too. We’ll let the experts worry about it.” “So you’ll |
removed the bowls. He poured more wine, a cold Chablis, and began serving the next course, a small platter of smoked oysters. A breeze materialized from the east and gently ruffled the thick air. On his trips to and from the kitchen, Claude kept one eye on the small television near the stove. Leo was still out there, drifting, churning, puzzling the experts, with no apparent destination. Bruce preferred long dinners with gaps between courses for wine and conversation. After he and Claude cleared the oyster shells, they refilled the wineglasses and announced that the main dish would be blackened redfish, a delicacy that might take some time. Claude went to the stove, where his cast-iron skillet was already warm. From the fridge he removed a tray of marinated fillets and carefully placed two in the skillet. He covered them with his own recipe of Cajun seasoning—garlic, paprika, onion, salt, and spices. The aroma was pungent, delicious. He hummed as he cooked, happy as always to be at the stove, and he sipped wine and enjoyed the waves of laughter from the veranda. Dinner parties at Bruce’s were always an event. Great wines and food, interesting guests, no hurries, no worries. The evening broke up at midnight when Mercer and Thomas finally said good night. Bruce and Claude cleared the table and stacked the dishes on the counter. Someone else would clean up tomorrow. Regardless of how late he went to bed, Bruce was an early riser and walked |
