Cuts Through Bone Read Online Free Page B

dredged in computer files. After he finished with the phone, he joined her.
    Guthrie wanted background. His process resembled picking apart a résumé and looking for what had been deliberately omitted. This time, though, they had to supply everything. They had only names. The real information had to be pulled from the air with only a few starting points. In a few short hours, Vasquez saw a dirtier side of what he did.
    â€œSome of this shit ain’t legal, is it?” she asked while she scrolled through a list of ATM withdrawals.
    The little man shrugged. “It’s fast. I want to know where they were at, when, all that. Copy anything with one of the names on it. That dumps to a disc and holds in a file. That file gets searched for what leads elsewhere, like SSNs.”
    While they gathered data, they quietly announced back and forth when they found something. Guthrie was beginning at the beginning. The victim was Camille Bowman. The suspect in her murder was Greg Olsen. Michelle Tompkins was the only other person they knew with a possible motive. All three attended Columbia University. That was the beginning.
    Bowman was simplest, partly because she was the youngest. Young people haven’t had years to leave fingerprints on the world around them. She’d been a sophomore without a declared major, had gotten mediocre grades, and came from a society background. The world mostly noticed her after she was dead, and then she provided a sensational arc of pictures and thoroughly chewed information. Death was her moment in the spotlight, as if twenty years was the exact time required to groom her to be a victim.
    Tompkins was older—easier—and in a social register far higher. Who’s Who listed her birth. Her grades at Columbia were impressive, even as a graduate student. She had studied overseas. Both of the young women had unblemished records, but Guthrie was quick to point out that no amount of superficial scanning would reveal anything that had been deliberately hidden. Some things became obvious only after thinking and back-checking.
    Greg Olsen was the mutt of the group, only partly from being the eldest. The slow voice came from Wisconsin, and his military service was long and distinguished. He was discharged as a lieutenant colonel, then resumed his interrupted education. Guthrie was puzzled by the rank, because Olsen was only twenty-eight. The big man had played hockey for the Wisconsin Badgers, and Uncle Sam was paying his way at Columbia.
    Until the murder, and then the arrest, all three had led ordinary lives. They did the things everyone else did—bought CDs and books, had traffic tickets, and went unnoticed by the people around them. Bowman and Olsen had the distinction of having faces that caught attention. Tompkins was invisible, protected by a machine that would keep her overlooked forever, if that was what she wanted. The night had grown old and died into morning before Guthrie was satisfied and called a stop.
    By then, Vasquez was sober and frustrated. “What’s this going to do for us?” she demanded.
    â€œMaybe nothing. But suppose I wanted to ask one of Olsen’s old girlfriends if he’s a jealous type. How do I find her?”
    She drummed a pencil on the desktop for a moment. “We go to Wisconsin?”
    â€œThat’s right. Or we could make some calls, or I could hire someone out there. But eventually we knock on a door, ask a question, and decide if we believe what we hear. But anyway, how do you know about Wisconsin?”
    â€œOkay, you win that one,” she said. “It’s quitting time?”
    â€œNot yet. Now we take a little ride. I think it’s finally late enough.”
    â€œLate enough? We going to work all night?”
    Guthrie grunted. Sometimes, late nights or all nights were part of the job. “You’re driving. We’re going to Washington Heights.”
    Once they reached Highbridge Park, the night