Reid eyed Sawyer. She spoke with authority. “Depends on who’s taking
the prints, Lee. A borderline competent tech can be fooled, you know
that. There’s synthetic material out there you’d swear was skin. You
can buy prints on the street. Put it all together and a career criminal
becomes a respectable citizen.”
Barracks piped in. “And :f the guy was wanted on all those other
crimes, he probably had a new face put on. Five gets you ten the face
in that morgue isn’t the face on those wanted posters.”
Sawyer looked at Jackson. “How did Riker end up fueling Flight 3223?”
“About a week ago he asked to be switched to the graveyard shift, twelve
to seven. Flight 3223’s scheduled departure time was six forty-five.
Same time every day. Log shows the plane was fueled at five-fifteen.
That put it on Riker’s rounds. Most people don’t volunteer for that
shift, so Riker got it pretty much by default.”
Another question occurred to Sawyer. “So where’s the real Robert
Sinclair?”
“Probably dead,” said Barracks. “Riker took over his identity.”
No one commented on that theory until Sawyer pursued the issue with a
startling query. “Or what if Robert Sinclair doesn’t exist?”
Now even Reid looked puzzled. Sawyer looked deep in thought when he
spoke. “There are a lot of problems with taking over a real person’s
identity. Old photos, coworkers or friends who show up unexpectedly and
blow your cover. There’s another way to do it.”
Sawyer pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows as he thought his idea
through. “I’ve got a gut feeling on this one that’s telling me we need
to redo everything that Vector did when they performed their background
check on Riker. Get on that, Ray, like yesterday.”
Jackson nodded and jotted down some notes.
Reid looked at Sawyer. “Are you thinking what I think you are?”
Sawyer smiled. “It wouldn’t be the first time a person was invented our
of whole cloth. Social Security number, job history, past residences,
photo identification, bank accounts, training certifications, fake phone
numbers, dummy references.” He looked at Reid.
“Even false prints, Marsha.”
“Then we’re talking some pretty sophisticated guys,” she replied.
“I never doubted they were anything less, Ms. Reid,” Sawyer rejoined.
Sawyer looked around the table. “I don’t want to stray from SOP, so
we’ll still continue to conduct interviews of family members of the
victims, but I don’t want to waste too much time on that.
Lieberman is the key to this whole thing.” He suddenly changed gears.
“Rapid Start running smoothly?” he asked Ray Jackson.
“Very.”
Rapid Start was the FBI’s version of the show on the road and Sawyer had
used it successfully in the past. The premise of Rapid Starr was the
veracity of an electronic clearinghouse for every bit of information,
leads and anonymous tips involved in an investigation that otherwise
would become unorganized and muddled. With an integrated investigation
and pretty close to real-time access to information, the chances of
success, the bureau believed, were immeasurably increased.
The Rapid Start operation for Flight 3223 was housed in an abandoned
tobacco warehouse on the outskirts of Standardsville. Instead of
tobacco leaves stored floor to ceiling, the building now housed the
latest in computer and telecommunications equipment manned by dozens of
agents working in shifts who inputted information into the massive
databases twenty-four hours a day.
“We’re gonna need every miracle it can produce. And even that might not
be enough.” Sawyer was silent for a moment and then snapped to
attention. “Let’s get to work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Quentin?” Sidney stood at the front door of her house, the surprise
evident on her face.
Quentin Rowe stared back at her through his oval glasses. “May I come
in?”
Sidney’s parents were out grocery shopping. While Sidney and Quentin
headed toward the living room, a sleepy Amy wandered into the room
dragging Pooh. “Hi, Amy,” Rowe said. He knelt down and put out a hand
to her, but the little girl drew back. Rowe smiled at her. “I was shy
when I was your age too.” He looked up at Sidney. “That’s probably why
I turned to computers. They didn’t talk back at you, or try to touch