Edge

But why do you think it’s her?”
    She nodded at the computer, her sister’s. “Mar left it out here last night.”
    I remembered seeing it when I’d come back from Garcia’s house.
    Joanne said, “I wondered if Andrew was behind this. I wanted to see if there was anything in her saved emails that suggested that.”
    Her husband glanced my way. “Andrew. Is that possible?”
    I said, “No, we checked him out. I had my associate look into him as soon as I heard his name mentioned. In the car, on Saturday? Remember, I told Maree she should call him? I did that to capture his phone number. Claire checked him out. He’sclean—from our perspective. He’s got some assault charges, two battery domestic abuse counts a few years ago. Some restraining orders. But he has no connection to Henry Loving.”
    Joanne said, “I’m not talking about Andrew. I found something else. Look.” She spun the computer toward us. I saw the Global Software Innovations logo on the screen, as Joanne opened folders with the editing and archiving software. She called up some of her sister’s recent photographs—the series in downtown D.C., which included the pictures I had helped her choose from. She paused at another image, one I’d looked at but had paid no attention to. It was also of two men, engaged in a serious conversation, as they sat at an outdoor café somewhere near the Mall. One appeared to be in his late fifties, the other about twenty years younger. The background was blurred—intentionally out of focus, I judged—and the intense faces of the men took the viewer’s attention.
    “You see anything unusual?” Joanne asked.
    I studied the picture carefully. Then I noticed that the older man was dropping something into the hand of the younger one. It was impossible to see for certain what it might be. But it looked like a thumb drive for a computer. I asked her if that’s what she meant.
    “Yes.”
    “So?” Ryan asked.
    His wife continued, “Don’t you recognize the older man?”
    “No,” I said. “Should I?”
    Ryan shook his head.
    “Martin Allende. He was on the news last week.” Joanne explained that he was a Colombian diplomat suspected of laundering al Qaeda money through banks in his country.
    I took her word for it. I had only a vague memory of a passing news report.
    Joanne added that the story reported no charges could be brought because authorities couldn’t find a trail to the terrorists or offshore banks. “Maree got a picture of him with his contact—the younger man,” she raged. I saw her hands were shaking in anger. “ That’s why they’re after her. To get her camera, computer, find out if she made any copies, see if she took any more pictures. The terrorist cell is worried that somebody in national security—the CIA, the FBI, Intelligence Assessment—could identify who Allende’s with. Remember the man who bumped into Maree, knocked her down? I bet it was to grab something from her purse, find out her address.”
    I looked closely at the picture. I leaned over, plugged a cable into her computer and downloaded the picture to my phone, wrote out instructions to duBois and uploaded the email with the phone.
    Joanne was sitting forward. The numbness masking her face all weekend was now gone. She was furious, her face flushed, eyes flaring. “My little innocent sister poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. . . . Does she ever use her fucking brain? What did she think would happen when she started taking pictures of people in public? Did she ever think that might be a stupid idea?”
    I wondered if she was heading for the predictedbreakdown. She’d bottled her feelings up since Saturday morning. The explosion loomed. I’d seen it happen dozens of times.
    “We’ll find out,” I said, nodding at the phone.
    “She never thinks there could be consequences. . . . And who’s taking the shit? Us. Our daughter was almost killed because of her! Because I took her in. No good deed goes unpunished, right? I didn’t even want her in my house. It’s been the worst month of my life. She lectures about the sanctity of art but she can’t even afford to pay for the food she eats. Ever since she moved in, Ryan and I’ve been at each other’s throats. It’s been a fucking nightmare.”
    “Jo,” her husband said.
    She snapped, “I should let her go back to Andrew. They fucking deserve each other. Let him beat some sense into her.”
    A piercing alarm made us all start. Ryan