Perfect killer

CHAPTER 67

Beneath the fluorescent glare in the Greenwood courthouse offices commandeered by Homeland Security, David Brown sucked another Marlboro down to his fingertips as the encrypted wireless phone rang.

"Brown."

"We got something."

"Go on."

"The tap on Tyrone Freedman's ISP shows a lot of activity; it's encrypted and running through proxy servers outside our jurisdiction,"

"Isn't that illegal?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"Well, we squeeze those bastards on Capitol Hill and make it illegal." Brown grabbed his Marlboro box. It was empty. He ran his finger hopefully inside the box.

Nothing. "Shit."

"Sir?"

"Nothing." Brown threw the box toward the wastebasket and missed. The red-and-white flip-top landed on the floor near two other empties. "So, if we can't figure out this guy's net traffic, what the fuck good is it?"

"It's coming from his trailer."

"So?"

"Freedman's at the hospital."

"Bring his black ass to me." Brown smiled.

"Sir! And something else."

"Speak."

"We have a make, model, and license plate for the dead blonde's new rental car." "APB everything."

"Sir!"