All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [127]
She found him on the computer at his desk, trolling through some area of cyberspace that she wasn’t familiar with. He threw up his hands as she walked up, yelling, “Score!”
“Playing games on company time again, Lincoln?” He turned, his smile wide, eyes shining. “Not that kind of game. The more esoteric version. I had a link set up to Whitney Connolly’s address, put a worm in her system that would enable me to see where any message she received came from. I got him, Taylor. I know where your Yahoo guy sent his last e-mail.”
Forty-Eight
Taylor, Baldwin and Lincoln stood outside a coffee shop named Bongo Java, right off the campus of Belmont University. The shop was teeming with people, bohemian students, yuppies in suits, grunge rockers with tattoos and black fingernail polish. It was one of those places that transcended class, didn’t care what your background was or who you were trying to be. It served coffee, had a great Internet café and was one of the most popular places in town precisely because it was so ordinary.
They’d secured a quick warrant to smooth their path. As they entered, Taylor took a deep breath, savoring the rich scent of coffee. A latte wouldn’t go amiss right now.
They went to the counter and ordered drinks. Baldwin paid, winking. The Bureau would be buying today, a semicelebratory drink for getting on the correct path at last. Taylor and Lincoln withdrew their badges and asked to see the manager. The owner of the shop came out from the back room instead, ready to help Nashville’s finest with anything they might need.
While Lincoln talked, explaining what they needed, Taylor looked around. Notices about bands playing, apartments for rent, an upcoming writers’ night all crowded into a small but organized corkboard. The realization hit her that the Strangler had probably stood right where she was standing, and a chill crept down her spine. They were close, she could feel it. A visceral reaction to the presence of evil. He could be here at this very moment. She glanced around. That one, with the semi-Mohawk and pierced nostril. Her gaze slid away when the punk gave her the finger. Anarchy, baby. Or him, the mild-mannered-looking man sitting by himself with his briefcase open, staring out the window as if his world had just ended? Perhaps the owner himself, a potbellied man easing into his fifties, looking somber while he talked to Baldwin. Evil took many faces, many of them benign. It just wasn’t always apparent.
Lincoln was sitting at a computer docking station, fingers flying, running a program he’d written through the hard drive of the computer. He looked over at her and made an okay sign. He’d found the right computer, found the tracks of their killer in cyberspace.
But the fact that the message had been sent the night before meant that countless people could have used the computer since the Strangler had sat there, typing out his message. Prints weren’t an option. There was no other way to trace him. They’d found his last vessel of communication, but couldn’t do anything about it.
Taylor went back to the owner, interrupting his conversation with Baldwin. “Is there anyone in here that you recognize from last night?”
Baldwin nodded at her. “That’s what we were talking about. He doesn’t see anyone that was here last night other than their regulars. They had a poetry reading, an open-mike night, and there were about fifty people gathered around. He didn’t notice anyone unusual.”
“I did.” A small voice peeped up, right below Baldwin’s elbow. A pixie dressed in a long flowing peasant skirt and a vivid rainbow scarf practically