Will Trent 09: The Last Widow by Karin Slaughter

Author:Karin Slaughter
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781460710807
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

12

Monday, August 5, 2:30 p.m.

Faith scrolled through her emails as she waited in an empty conference room inside the CDC’s sprawling headquarters. The place was like Fort Knox. She’d had to check her gun at the gate. They’d made her pop open the trunk and hood of her car. A guy with a mirror on the end of a stick had swept underneath for bombs. Then a very disciplined Belgian Shepherd had ignored the Cheerios under the seats as he’d sniffed for explosive residue.

Considering all the nasty things percolating in their labs, it made sense that access into the facility was tightly controlled. Faith’s only question at this point was why her mysterious meeting was taking place at the CDC. Amanda had given her the usual prep—or lack thereof—texting Faith to be there at exactly two-thirty, but offering no additional details. Faith didn’t even have a contact name. By process of elimination, or just by plain duh, she could assume she was here to receive a confidential briefing on Michelle Spivey. The same group who had abducted Michelle had taken Sara. So maybe, possibly, hopefully, please God, Faith would be able to take a piece of information she learned here and spool it down a path that led straight to the asshole who was still holding them both hostage: Dash.

Dash.

Faith hated the man just for his stupid nickname. What was it short for, anyway? Or was he called Dash because he was a really fast runner, or worked as a delivery guy, or was he always in a hurry, or prone to diarrhea?

She had absolutely no idea.

Her entire evening had been wasted trying to find the leader of the IPA. And speaking of the Invisible Patriot Army, good luck scrolling through the approximately 3,347,000 results that search generated. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack without knowing what, exactly, a needle looked like. Will had been useless. The FBI had been useless. Faith needed an age range. An identifying scar or tattoo. A vehicle. A known hangout. A last known residence. Even a possible regional accent would’ve been something.

Usually, the one thing criminals reliably did was spend time with other criminals. All you had to do was find somebody who knew somebody who was in a jam and wanted to make a deal. That TV stuff about not snitching was a load of crap. Everybody talked when talking would save their ass from prison. Faith had concentrated all of her searches on Carter, Vale, Monroe and Hurley, looking for a credit card charge or an ATM withdrawal or a phone number or a parking ticket or a GPS location that connected them to a Dashiell or Dasher or Dashy or any fucking body whose first or last name started with a D.

Nothing.

Faith stood up and looked out the window.

All that she knew right now was that Michelle Spivey had worked in this building. Or one of these buildings. There were several on the compound, with a rock garden and bridges and a daycare center for the children of employees.

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