The naked edge

"C."

Cavanaugh still detected nothing to suggest that the name was important to her. No pursing of the lips. No tightening of the cheek muscles. In his experience, most dopers couldn't repress telltales when they were under stress.

"Sorry," Kim said. "Carl Duran doesn't have a file."

"Doesn't…? You must have made a mistake."

"When it involves computers, I don't make mistakes."

"But GPS always keeps records about former employees."

Kim tapped more keys. "Nope. No assignment list. No photograph. Nothing."

"Duran must have deleted it," Jamie said.

"Couldn't have. At least, not on his own. Only three people know the codes to get that far into the system. Gerald, Ali, and-"

"You," Cavanaugh said.

"Another nasty mark against me, right? But before you get judgmental again, watch this." Kim tapped more keys. "The purging was so thorough, I can't retrieve Duran's file. But I can search every assignment we've ever had and tell the computer to isolate any that Duran worked on." Kim touched a final key. "And here you are."

The printer came to life, flipping out pages.

"Plenty of trouble at GPS," Kim remarked.

"Yes," Cavanaugh agreed. "Frank Tamblyn's the latest casualty."

"I mean new trouble."

The phone rang.

"And I'm afraid," Kim said, "that this'll be more."