“Right.”
“Did he speak at all?”
“He never had the chance.”
“Hair color?”
“Light brown, I suppose. He had a rather severe flattop haircut.”
“What was he packing?”
“The Beretta 9mm that’s the standard army sidearm.”
“Lots of those around. You said that he went for the gun with his right hand, but his wristwatch was on his right wrist?”
“Right. I thought that was odd.”
“Let’s type in ‘ambidextrous,’” Holly said, and did so. “Any apparent skills?”
“Burglary and car theft,” Stone said.
“There was no fight?”
“Not that I saw. Apparently, she heard something downstairs and went down there with her grandfather’s shotgun. I got there just in time to see it used.”
Holly clicked on “search” and waited. She did not have to wait long. “Is that the guy?” she asked, turning the screen toward him.
Stone stared into a familiar face. “Holy shit, it is! How’d you do that?”
“The ambidexterity did it,” she said. “Only about three percent of the population has that gift.” She tapped some more and came up with another photograph, this one in the uniform of a United States Marine, with a file attached.
“Name, John Simpson, no middle initial. White-bread all the way through. English descent, born in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, thirty-nine years ago. Attended the local schools, got his high school diploma, joined the Marines on graduation at seventeen, with parental permission, rose to master sergeant, two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan— Uh-oh. Detached for special service four years ago—that means Special Forces or Navy SEALs . . .”
“Or CIA,” Stone pointed out.
“Oh, Jesus,” Holly said.
19
The two of them sat in bed and stared at the file of John, no middle initial, Simpson. “Is that all there is?” Stone asked.
“In this particular file, yes,” Holly replied. “His service record ended when he was transferred to Special Operations, and a new record was started. That file is heavily encrypted, and only the director of Central Intelligence—and others at his level in the various services—can retrieve it. That explains why his fingerprints and DNA didn’t produce a match.”
“Wouldn’t his whole service record be sequestered, then?”
“Yes, but we didn’t request his record—we made him with the facial recognition program, and I guess that was a back door to his original service record. Watch.” She started over on the mainframe and requested the army service record of John, no middle initial, Simpson. Immediately, she got a response: NO RECORD EXISTS.
“So, call Lance and ask him to retrieve the file.”
“Can’t you think of a reason why we shouldn’t do that?” Holly asked.
Stone thought that over. “Because there’s a chance that Simpson could be CIA?”
“Right, and if that’s the case, Lance might know what Simpson was doing at your friend’s house. And I don’t think I want to ask Lance about that.”