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  Mr. Winters turned to her. “Hey, kitten. Sandy’s a touch nervous from all this. We’ll eat dinner and watch a show till you get back.”

  As Mr. Winters and Sandy left, Delamagente called the police and Rowe called James. Rowe waited on hold, enjoying Delamagente’s indignant, “What do you mean I can’t file a complaint without proof of a break-in? How do you think my dog ran away?” She gave a good argument—”Anyone who belongs in my house knows about Sandy—do you have a pet? ... How would I know what they used—I’m not into B&E.” Rowe was sure they heard because she was screaming, but they remained unimpressed.

  James asked, “How the hell did you come up with a picture?”

  “Old half-blind gunny next door uses a camera phone to keep an eye on the neighborhood. I think this is related to our case. Can you send your people over—and slap one of those anti-theft stickers on Mr. Winters’ door? And Kali’s.” There was something else he needed to ask, and then he remembered. “Did Carston Devore call yet? It’d be nice to know if this is the man he left DARPA with.”

  “No. Times still says he’s on assignment.”

  “He’s avoiding me, too. I stopped at his office with urgent information. Got nowhere, but the receptionist was worried.”

  “I’ll send an agent by.”

  They talked a few more minutes and Rowe hung up. Delamagente was still arguing with the police and he couldn’t think of anything to do so he sat on the curb. James’s team arrived, a matched triplet in dark suits, white rolled sleeves, blue silk ties, and loafers. They ignored Rowe’s insights, so he and Delamagente left. The entire trip back to her lab, she ranted about the cops and would Sandy being hit by a car fit their protocols? Rowe added what he could or nodded sagely.

  She finally fell silent when she was back in front of Otto, checking on his activity while they’d been gone.

  Time to call Bobby, see what he found.

  “My team found four sets of fingerprints. One’s probably Delamagente. Another’s worn down so should be her neighbor.” Age smoothed out fingerprint whorls. “The last two, one’ll be her son and the other if we’re lucky, our intruder.”

  Or her ex or a date or Sean’s friends, but they might get a break. James kept talking.

  “We also found two surveillance bugs. One in the back of a clock in the kitchen and the other in the living room. Ajit is tracing them.”

  That surprised Rowe. Why bug her home? As far as he knew, Delamagente did all her work at Columbia, but Rowe located no hidden cameras yesterday when he dropped off the note and checked around with a sniffer James swore would find anything.

  Thankfully Sean was gone. Not a day passed on the dig Delamagente didn’t tell a funny story about him or wonder aloud what she’d do when he left for college. The bond between those two was more Krazy Glue than Elmer’s.

  As Rowe disconnected, his phone chirped again. It had a Columbia prefix.

  “Rowe.” He put a gruff edge on his voice. He didn’t have time to chat with administrators.

  “Zeke Rowe. Eitan Sun. Kalian Delamagente asked me to help you.”

  “Dr. Sun—”

  “Eitan.”

  Rowe wanted to ask Sun if he ever did work for the SEALs, but decided to wait until they met in person. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Fred Kaczynski hid his face from the cameras, but I got patches from his ear, neck and temple. He’s not Kali’s intruder. Skin color, body build, facial structure—nothing matches.”

  Sun spoke in a soothing, mellow tone without the pauses people use to allow their mouth to catch up with their brain.

  “There’s an 89%—” He muttered what sounded like prime number, followed by a clatter more jackhammer than typing, “…chance this is the man in Mr. Winters’ photograph… The apartment’s automated surveillance de-activates when a life form included in the pre-programmed parameters enters. When it found Mr. Winters, it shut down. An error which has been rectified.”

  Neither man spoke. Five seconds passed and ten, before Sun said. “You remember me.” A statement, not a question.

  Rowe stared into a middle distance, seeing events he struggled daily to bury, as clear as if they happened yesterday. “You flooded a Bedouin camp with sightings of a stranded Coalition unit. That gave Duck Peters all the time he needed to rescue me. If not for you, I’d be dead.”

  A text came in from James. Call me.

  “The police—”

  “More likely FBI.”

  Rowe relaxed. “Glad to work with you again.”

  Chapter 19

  “Got something?”

  “We’re going to update the software that runs Delamagente’s webcam. Whoever planted the bugs will have to physically access them for a reset. I lined up an agent-bodyguard for Delamagente who will follow anyone suspicious. Make an excuse for her to arrive this evening.”

  Rowe tingled with excitement. In the last few weeks, Demsky had been killed, Delamagente tailed to Israel, her home broken into, and Rowe attacked. DARPA was some sort of tipping point, but he had no clue why. This was their first real break.

  James continued, voice tighter. “This doesn’t make sense, Zeke. They should be after Stockbury’s research. Why the interest in Delamagente?”

  Rowe paced the narrow University hallway, head down, oblivious to the students who veered around him, the angry stares, or the noise of his shoes on the old tile floor. “I’m not sure. Yet.”

  In fact, Rowe had been asking himself the same question. Though Delamagente called her AI a research tool, it used the same methods cyberexperts did.

  What became clear at her presentation was, this could be applied to submarines.

  There was a connection, Rowe just didn’t see it yet. He would bet his Ph.D. they were following Delamagente’s work with Otto, waiting for her to complete it.

  “I’ll get back to you,” and disconnected. He jumped in his car, made one stop, and then hurried over to Columbia’s Department of Public Safety. He shook hands all around and extended the box of donuts as an ice-breaker. The officers grimaced like he insulted them, so he tucked the pink box under his arm and explained he worked late Sundays, wanted to chat with the man who covered that shift. That would be Hector Rosado and he’s off. No problem. He’d check back later. Rowe offered to leave the donuts, but they said no one would eat them, so Rowe took his pink box to Delamagente’s lab where he found Catherine Stockbury.

  “The presentation hunk.”

  Stockbury wore a black sleeveless blouse that clung to her curves, tucked into grey light-weight capris. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail that tumbled past her shoulders in a tawny waterfall. She batted long-lashed bedroom eyes as she fingered a flash drive that hung into her cleavage.

  “I like your older-man aura.”

  Rowe didn’t think of himself as ‘older’, but Stockbury made it sound sexy. She placed a finger to her lips. Rowe tightened his grip on the donut box like a life preserver.

  Thank God Kali arrived.

  “Allow me to introduce Dr. Zeke Rowe, DARPA mystery man, my colleague in Israel and Columbia’s newest paleoanthropology professor. Catherine Stockbury, officemate extraordinaire.” Her voice shook slightly and her eyes were red and puffy.

  “You can call me Cat,” she purred. “I feel like we’re already intimate friends.”

  No wonder Stockbury had boy trouble. Rowe turned to Delamagente and cocked his head.

  “I’m fine, Zeke. Sandy’s fine. He and Mr. Winters are having an early dinner and watching Evolution of Dogs on Discovery Channel. What’s in the box?”

  “Here are the donuts I promised—anything but glazed, right sweetheart?”

  Kali glared. “Cat won’t believe—” She stopped short as she peered inside and picked an old-fashioned. “We can talk about it later—sweetheart.”

  Stockbury’s eyes moved between Rowe and Kali until she seemed to arrive at a decision she didn’t share.

  “I love love love donuts.” Stockbury selected choco
late buttermilk and asked, “What’s with your trigger fingers?”

  “Got the tips chopped off by some bad guys so I couldn’t shoot.”

  Stockbury grimaced. “And your limp—same bad guys?”

  “They didn’t want me to escape.”

  “Was it Dean Manfried?”

  “Porter?” That stopped Rowe.

  “He can’t keep qualified professors.”

  Kali saved him from finding an answer. “While we were out, Otto completed the DNA integration from your Israeli bones, Zeke. Want to see what changed?” Her cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened

  “I do,” Stockbury mumbled through a mouthful of donut.

  Kali’s eyes locked onto a male and female who had just appeared in a bucolic clearing. Both their heads were larger than in prior scenes and their stomachs flatter than a vegetable-rich diet would predict. “I can’t believe this is Lucy and Raza.” Awe filled Kali’s voice. “Lucy’s face is so clear, freckles even show.”

  “All this from adding DNA?” Rowe wouldn’t have believed it if he weren’t seeing it.

  “It’s like exploding a zip file,” Kali responded absently. “DNA contains all the phenotypic and genotypic data—mental and physical characteristics—to reproduce a species.”

  Rowe’s heart raced as he studied the scene. “The indigenous life and volcanics are African, which means these two or descendants with the same mitochondrial DNA migrated to Israel.”

  Kali touched a tear dimpling Lucy’s cheek. “Lucy and I both have loved ones to defend.”

  That startled Rowe. “You mean Sandy?”

  “The intruder—it must be Fletcher, Sean’s dad. He wants to see Sean.”

  “Does Mr. Winters’ photo match Fletcher?”

  “No, but I filed a restraining order against him so he would have to send someone.”

  “Why break in?”

  Kali shrugged. “Why does he do anything he does?”

  Rowe left to update James, passing a man he’d hoped never to see again.

  Cat leaped to her feet. “Kalian Delamagente. Dr. Wynton Fairgrove.”

  Kali pressed ‘screen hide’ and Lucy’s face dissolved into a binary formula, then turned to face the pedagogue who spear-headed her DARPA failure.

  Dr. Fairgrove wore a rugby-striped polo over tailored jeans and white-stitched navy Top-Siders. He should be on the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly rather than in her unkempt lab. He extended a soft hand, not what she expected from a paleoanthropologist. She smelled Old Spice and lemon drops.

  “How many?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How many computer programmers does it take to screw in a light bulb?” He pointed at the zeros and ones floating in a marquee across her screen.

  “Wow. No one’s ever gotten that.”

  Dr. Fairgrove chuckled as he punched buttons on his phone. “I, too, would share my research with only trusted colleagues. If you’re wrong, they denigrate you. If you’re right, they steal it.”

  Was he warning her or hoping she’d warm to his honesty? He continued, unfazed by her silence. “I asked Catherine to introduce us. I’m sure you intended a different outcome at the presentation. Do you mind sharing?”

  Kali cocked her head to the side. Why not? He would have heard everything at the presentation if Otto had cooperated. She synopsized her research, but left out the new DNA results. “I apologize for using you as an example.”

  “Ah, and I had hoped you were interested.”

  Kali blushed. “No I didn’t—I mean…” and she sputtered to a halt, not sure what to say next.

  “What’s your time frame for completion?”

  Kali picked her words carefully. “I have acquired backing which will speed the process up.”

  Dr. Fairgrove snatched a picture from Kali’s desk. “This must be your son. A good-looking boy and a musician.” A dreaminess softened the scientist’s face. Kali started to tell him about Sean, but Cat tugged him to the door. He seemed to resist, as though he wanted to listen, then stuffed his phone into his pocket and shuffled after Cat.

  “Join us, Kal. Afternoon Tea is in Dr. Fairgrove’s honor.”

  This Columbia tradition gave up-and-coming researchers a chance to mingle with the era’s leading researchers. Fairgrove’s warm smile made the invitation personal.

  “I’ll try,” but she wouldn’t. Gossiping was as appealing to her as drinking vinegar.

  As they left, Dr. Fairgrove whispered, “The answer’s one.”

  “One?”

  “It takes one programmer to screw a light bulb in because they count in binary,” and he winked.

  Chapter 20

  It had been too long since Kali felt excited about a man, and now two. She took a deep breath, trying to focus, only to be interrupted by a smiling Fairgrove and a seething Rowe.

  She blurted, “Dr. Fairgrove—”

  “Please, call me Wynton.”

  “And Dr. Rowe. Have you two met?”

  Annoyance flushed Fairgrove’s face and a forced calm overtook Rowe’s.

  “Hello, Wyn. Can’t say I’ve missed you since our days at Max Planck.”

  “Of course. Dr. Rowe. It’s good to see you again, too.”

  He offered a cursory handshake. “Excuse me. I need to take this.” His fingers stabbed at his phone as he stepped into the hall.

  “Why is he here?” Rowe asked in a tone Kali would use to discuss pantry moths. She hadn’t realized how childish he could be.

  “He’s a colleague, Zeke. Is it impossible that you treat him with respect?”

  “There are only two things I consider impossible, world peace and a friendship with Fairgrove. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you will soon agree.”

  Before she could respond, Fairgrove returned. “I hope you will join me at the reception, Kalian. I’d like to hear more about your research.”

  He left without waiting for an answer. Rowe’s jaw clenched. Kali stifled a grin.

  Fairgrove glanced back at the building, hoping Delamagente had already fallen for his star-power, but instead found Catherine Stockbury. He’d used groupies like Catherine his entire life. He acknowledged her and she turned on a tilted hip and left.

  He flipped through the photographs taken before—what was his name? Rove?—interrupted. He zoomed in on Delamagente’s monitor, tapped a hi-tech app that adjusted for curve and glare, and brought the corrected image into focus. It showed a fissured graben valley, littered with bleached bones and footprints turned to stone by the passage of time. Atop the precipice, a male stood limned against the moonlight, a Homo erectus judging by the vaulted forehead and the graceful upright stance. One hand gripped a staff as his eyes scoured the chasm. Hiding in the shadows was a Homo habilis female. Her eyes canted upward at the male. Tension rippled through her neck and shoulders. The hair on her lightly-furred body stood on end and her protruding snout stretched in a tight line across her flat face. She was a beautiful specimen of the extinct species.

  But this image didn’t exist. He shivered at the thought it might be the result of the AI, Otto. The reception would be a perfect time to ask.

  Rowe knew Dr. Wynton Fairgrove as a devious liar and a probable murderer, all prettily packaged with rugged movie-star looks and a skin-deep reputation. Women he got close to disappeared and their brilliant research ended up published under Fairgrove’s name. Delamagente and Stockbury of course would catch his attention. They were undergrads, unpublished, unfunded, academically vulnerable, and on the verge of changing the world with the product of their brains.

  Rowe sat on top of Stockbury’s desk, one foot planted on her chair, the other dangling over the side in an effort to radiate a peaceful serenity he didn’t feel. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and tossed it in the air as he spoke. He began this habit after Paulette’s death, when his tortured subconscious demanded distraction.

  “Fairgrove wasn’t talking on his phone.” He eyed Kali, curious what her response would be.


  “What do you mean?”

  Here I go. Rowe flipped his pencil twice before answering. “He lied, but why?” Rowe suspected Fairgrove was buying time to record images of Delamagente and her lab.

  “Is it so odd he made up an excuse to talk to me?” Rowe stiffened. He didn’t expect this.

  “I didn’t mean he wouldn’t… I meant…” but everything he thought of sounded defensive and petty so he leaned back, scratched a shoulder, and changed the subject.

  “If Otto can use data as small as DNA to search—well, that would be revolutionary.” He flipped his pencil.

  Something flickered through Delamagente’s eye.

  Rowe cocked his head and said as innocently as he could manage, “For example, the military catalogues submarines, tanks, and other weaponry by magnetic signatures, but these can’t be used from a geographic distance, which means their worthless for tracking. If Otto can change that, DARPA will pay attention.”

  Delamagente’s eyes glazed over for long seconds before stuttering, “I don’t know,” then disappeared into a world that didn’t include Rowe. He waited a minute, two, before standing.

  “I guess I’ll go. Oh—I have a friend, an anthropology grad student, coming to Columbia to finish her dissertation. Can she stay with you a few weeks?”

  Delamagente’s body turned toward him, but he doubted she saw him. “Kali?”

  “Sure. No problem. Where would I be without your ancient bones?”

  His phone buzzed saving Rowe from a response. He waved goodbye as he answered.

  “Bobby. All arranged.”

  “Good. She arrives tonight.”

  “Anyone try to hack Stockbury yet?”

  “No, and we better not be wrong about this. It’s hell getting those Tridents to call in. Their security depends upon being unreachable.”

  “Fairgrove was just here, making friends with Delamagente. That puts him close enough to Stockbury’s computer to cause all sorts of trouble. As a visiting professor, he’ll be inside the firewalls.”

  “You think he might try to infect it remotely? I don’t know. I ran him through NCIC. A few problems, but he’s never been involved in illegal activities or any police or federal investigation.”