security. She always gave a deep sigh of relief to be home, and today was no exception.
Lei squatted down and rubbed the dogs’ bellies, scratched under their chins. If she didn’t do exactly the same thing with each of them, they found a way to wriggle under her hands and compete. She scooped tiny Angel up and patted Keiki’s big broad head, rubbing behind the silky triangle ears as they walked to her little porch. More unlocking here and a quick deactivation of the alarm, and she was really home.
Lei walked into the bright yellow kitchen with its little table and orchid plant. She fed the dogs and left them happily munching, a comical echo of each other with their matching black-and-tan points.
In her room, she stripped out of her black slacks and unbuckled her weapon harness, hanging it off the iron bedstead of the king-sized bed she’d finally replaced after the fire on Maui. She’d rented the little house furnished but for the bed, and it was big enough for her and the dogs to sleep in without bumping into each other.
Looking at the pristine bed linens reminded her of the sad crime scene this morning; she unbuttoned her white button-down blouse, standard FBI “uniform” wear, as she thought about her conversation with Sophie Ang just before the workday ended.
“I don’t think the Hale boy is a suicide.” The tech agent had come into Workroom One, where Lei was using her fuming chamber, a glass aquarium-like cube, to raise fingerprints on the heroin “cooking kit” found beside the boy’s bed.
“We don’t think so either,” Lei said. “Come see.” They both squinted into the fuming chamber. “See anything?” The spoon, lighter, plastic packet, and hypodermic were all in the chamber.
“No.” Sophie Ang wore a short-sleeved shirt, and Lei noticed again the curlicued foreign-writing tattoos that traced down the inside of the agent’s toned arms. She’d always wondered about them.
“That’s the point. Looks like the kit was wiped. Why would Corby Hale wipe his prints off the drug apparatus?” Ken, crisp in his gray suit, leaned down beside them. “So why don’t you think this is a suicide?”
“Computer analysis of the scene information,” Ang said.
Lei was still looking at the tattoos. “What are those kanjis on your arms?”
“They aren’t kanjis—they’re Thai writing.” Ang stood, and Lei was struck again by her height, the leashed power of her movements. Marcella and Sophie seemed to be addicted to the Women’s Fight Club they went to together. “I’m half Thai, half American.”
“Oh.” Lei wanted to ask what the tattoos said but already felt like she’d overstepped herself with the very private tech agent. “What’s the computer saying about the case?”
“Seventy-percent confidence ratio that the boy’s death is murder. This additional information will likely bring it up into ninety.”
“What kind of program are you running?” Ken switched off the power to the hood and the lit interior flicked off. “I asked you that earlier during the team briefing on looking at these suicide cases, but I don’t think I got a straight answer.”
Lei hear d a defensive note in Sophie’s voice. “Classified.”
Ken gave a bark of laughter, putting his hands on his hips. “Got clearance just as high as you, Ang. You running something off the books?”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment.” Ang’s foreign birth sometimes showed up in how she used colloquialisms. “Something I’m working on. I’ll tell Waxman at the right time.”
“Well, so far we’re all on the same page. There’s something kapakahi with this one. It’s weird.” Lei told Ang about the boy’s left-handedness and imitated the tricky position needed to inject oneself in a major vein with the nondominant hand.
“What about the suicide note?” Ang frowned.
“That’s what we’re all wondering,” Lei’d said.
Lei pulled her eyes away from the bed and her obsessive thoughts and tossed her
Lei squatted down and rubbed the dogs’ bellies, scratched under their chins. If she didn’t do exactly the same thing with each of them, they found a way to wriggle under her hands and compete. She scooped tiny Angel up and patted Keiki’s big broad head, rubbing behind the silky triangle ears as they walked to her little porch. More unlocking here and a quick deactivation of the alarm, and she was really home.
Lei walked into the bright yellow kitchen with its little table and orchid plant. She fed the dogs and left them happily munching, a comical echo of each other with their matching black-and-tan points.
In her room, she stripped out of her black slacks and unbuckled her weapon harness, hanging it off the iron bedstead of the king-sized bed she’d finally replaced after the fire on Maui. She’d rented the little house furnished but for the bed, and it was big enough for her and the dogs to sleep in without bumping into each other.
Looking at the pristine bed linens reminded her of the sad crime scene this morning; she unbuttoned her white button-down blouse, standard FBI “uniform” wear, as she thought about her conversation with Sophie Ang just before the workday ended.
“I don’t think the Hale boy is a suicide.” The tech agent had come into Workroom One, where Lei was using her fuming chamber, a glass aquarium-like cube, to raise fingerprints on the heroin “cooking kit” found beside the boy’s bed.
“We don’t think so either,” Lei said. “Come see.” They both squinted into the fuming chamber. “See anything?” The spoon, lighter, plastic packet, and hypodermic were all in the chamber.
“No.” Sophie Ang wore a short-sleeved shirt, and Lei noticed again the curlicued foreign-writing tattoos that traced down the inside of the agent’s toned arms. She’d always wondered about them.
“That’s the point. Looks like the kit was wiped. Why would Corby Hale wipe his prints off the drug apparatus?” Ken, crisp in his gray suit, leaned down beside them. “So why don’t you think this is a suicide?”
“Computer analysis of the scene information,” Ang said.
Lei was still looking at the tattoos. “What are those kanjis on your arms?”
“They aren’t kanjis—they’re Thai writing.” Ang stood, and Lei was struck again by her height, the leashed power of her movements. Marcella and Sophie seemed to be addicted to the Women’s Fight Club they went to together. “I’m half Thai, half American.”
“Oh.” Lei wanted to ask what the tattoos said but already felt like she’d overstepped herself with the very private tech agent. “What’s the computer saying about the case?”
“Seventy-percent confidence ratio that the boy’s death is murder. This additional information will likely bring it up into ninety.”
“What kind of program are you running?” Ken switched off the power to the hood and the lit interior flicked off. “I asked you that earlier during the team briefing on looking at these suicide cases, but I don’t think I got a straight answer.”
Lei hear d a defensive note in Sophie’s voice. “Classified.”
Ken gave a bark of laughter, putting his hands on his hips. “Got clearance just as high as you, Ang. You running something off the books?”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment.” Ang’s foreign birth sometimes showed up in how she used colloquialisms. “Something I’m working on. I’ll tell Waxman at the right time.”
“Well, so far we’re all on the same page. There’s something kapakahi with this one. It’s weird.” Lei told Ang about the boy’s left-handedness and imitated the tricky position needed to inject oneself in a major vein with the nondominant hand.
“What about the suicide note?” Ang frowned.
“That’s what we’re all wondering,” Lei’d said.
Lei pulled her eyes away from the bed and her obsessive thoughts and tossed her
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