Page 21 of Philly
“Could it be something personal?”
“That’s my guess. She did access one archived file several times. An investigation started by an Agent Elizabeth Lightfoot, who happened to be Callie’s roommate at the academy.”
“Started but not finished?”
“Agent Lightfoot was killed in that bombing of the bar in France several years ago. She was on holiday and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Philly narrowed his gaze at the blue flames hugging the pile of logs. “Coincidence or something else?”
“Hard to say. Being an agent doesn’t make her immune from shit like that. Dozens of tourists and locals were killed that night. But maybe that investigation—the one Callie keeps looking into—had something to do with it.”
“The FBI closed it?”
Leo nodded. “There wasn’t enough in the file to figure out what caught Lightfoot’s attention. No names, no allegations, only a few dates, what looked like four shorthand transcripts of either interviews or her own thoughts, two phone numbers that haven’t been active in years, and an overlay for a map. I think she found a pattern, a series of things that could be tied together, but she didn’t have enough intel to make anything official.”
“Do you have any idea what might have caught her attention?”
Leo shook his head. “I’ll forward you the transcripts and the translation from shorthand to standard English. One almost reads like a psychology essay on fear, one is a bunch of notes on shipping patterns, the other two are lists of cities and stats about those cities.”
“What about the overlay?”
“Basic tracing paper with a few legible but indecipherable marks. It would give us more information if we had the map to set it on top of.”
Philly let Leo’s information sink in. Not a lot to go on, but he had the connection to Agent Lightfoot. When Callie returned—and he didn’t doubt she would—he’d havesomethingin his arsenal.
“They’re calling for snow next week,” Monk said, joining them in front of the fire.
“We’ll make it through the Halloween party, but it’s going to be colder than a witch’s tit out in the barn,” Leo said.
“Why a witch’s tit?” Philly asked. “Is it colder than anyone else’s? How would anyone know, let alone enough people know to make it a saying?”
“What’s going to be colder than a witch’s tit?” Lovell asked, pulling up a fourth chair and joining them.
“The Halloween party on Saturday,” Monk replied. “You have everything you need?”
Lovell, a man of few words, inclined his head.
“It comes from the Salem witch trial era,” Leo said. Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. “The saying. You asked; I assume you want an answer.”
“Oddly, I’m not sure I do,” Philly replied.
“I do,” Monk said.
“Witches were portrayed as old hags, all saggy and wrinkly.” He paused, then shook his head. “Which goes to show you how hysterical that time was considering that most people they accused of witchcraft werenotold. Anyway, saggy, wrinkly skin is colder than skin that sits close to a muscle mass. Hence the origin of the saying.”
They all stared at Leo.
“What’s the plan with Callie?” Lovell asked, turning his attention away from the genius.
Philly slid him a look. He loved his brother like, well, a brother, but Lovell did not pull any punches. Steady, frank green eyes stared back at him. “She’s coming back,” he continued, hisdeep voice making the statement sound more ominous than it should be. “What are you going to do about it?” he added.
“Not tell her anything about Laura, that’s for damn sure,” Philly replied.
“You should hear her out,” Lovell said.
“She’s more interested in asking questions than sharing any information,” Philly shot back.
“You ask her?”
