Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 17
Aiden leaned against the doorframe of the tech cave where Diggy sat with two other data analysts. Despite the nickname, the room was clean and smelled vaguely of lavender. He knocked on the jamb. When no one acknowledged his presence, Aiden threw the bribe bag of Sour Patch Kids at Diggy’s back. The kid—at twenty-eight, he was only two years younger than Aiden, but he looked seventeen—pulled off his headphones and grabbed the candy.
“Thanks, man.”
“You summoned me?”
“Yeah, you need to see this.” Diggy tapped a few keys, and his screen changed to a wall of numbers. “This is the data download from Regina Phelps’s phone.”
“What am I looking at?” Aiden asked.
“I’m pretty sure her phone had been cloned. Look at this.” Diggy pointed to the screen. “Starting about three months ago, there are two different locations, receiving download info.”
“In English this time.”
Diggy shook his head. “When you want to summon an Uber or check… What are you, forty-five?”
“Thirty, you dick.”
The tech smirked. “Thirty, so you’d be checking Instagram or Reddit. Anyway, those are apps on your phone. When you engage those apps, you’re exchanging data.”
“I’m with you so far,” Aiden said.
“So see here? The incoming data to Regina’s phone is going to two different locations. One in Manhattan and one in Clarksville, Kentucky. Then, for the three weeks before she was killed, still two sources of data outflow, but both in New York City.”
“He escalated,” Aiden said.
“Looks like he wanted to catch the live show.”
“So why Philly?”
“Hmm?” Diggy checked something on the screen.
“Why kill her in Philly?”
“I do not venture into the intricacies of the psyche. Ask your human interactors.” Diggy pointed to the offices upstairs.
Aiden sighed heavily. “Thanks, Diggy.”
“I’ll text you if anything else pops.”
Aiden jogged up the stairs and back to his desk in the bullpen. Four bankers boxes sat stacked against the wall, Regina Phelps’s articles and accompanying research from her filing cabinet. He hauled the top box onto his desk—time to see who Regina Phelps pissed off enough to kill her.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 17
Aiden leaned against the doorframe of the tech cave where Diggy sat with two other data analysts. Despite the nickname, the room was clean and smelled vaguely of lavender. He knocked on the jamb. When no one acknowledged his presence, Aiden threw the bribe bag of Sour Patch Kids at Diggy’s back. The kid—at twenty-eight, he was only two years younger than Aiden, but he looked seventeen—pulled off his headphones and grabbed the candy.
“Thanks, man.”
“You summoned me?”
“Yeah, you need to see this.” Diggy tapped a few keys, and his screen changed to a wall of numbers. “This is the data download from Regina Phelps’s phone.”
“What am I looking at?” Aiden asked.