The Blue Nowhere

called, as he’d asked her to do last night.
    Well, Frank Bishop knew that feelings about loved ones weren’t limited to upstanding citizens. He’d collared dozens of worthless killers who’d broken into tears when they were led away in cuffs—not at the thought of the hard years ahead of them in prison but because they’d be separated from their wives and children.
    Bishop noted that once again the hacker’s fingers had started typing—no, keying —in the air as he stared at the ceiling. Was he writing something to his wife right now? Or maybe he was asking his father—the engineer in the dusty sand fields of the Middle East—for some advice or support, or telling his brother that once he was released he’d like to spend some time with him.
    “Nothing,” Nolan muttered. “We’re not getting anywhere.”
    For a moment Bishop felt the same discouragement he saw in her face. But then he thought, Wait a minute . . . I’m getting distracted here. He realized that he too had been pulled deep under the hypnotic spell of the Blue Nowhere. It had skewed his thoughts. He now walked to the white-board and stared at the notations about the evidence, the printouts and pictures.
    Do something with that . . .
    Bishop glanced at the printout of the terrible picture of Lara Gibson.
    Do something . . .
    The detective walked closer to the picture, studied it carefully.
    “Look at this,” he said to Shelton. The stocky, sullen cop joined him.
    “What about it?”
    “What do you see?”
    Shelton shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you see?”
    “I see clues, ” Bishop responded. “The other things in the picture—what’s on the floor, the walls. . . . They can tell us something about where Phate killed her, I’ll bet.”
    Gillette scooted forward and stared at the gruesome photo.
    The picture showed the poor girl in the foreground. Bishop pointed out what else the shot revealed: The floor she lay on was greenish tile. There was a square galvanized-metal duct running from a beige air-conditioning or furnace unit. The wall was the backside of unpainted Sheetrock nailed to wooden studs. This was probably the furnace room in a partially finished basement. You could also see part of a white-painted door and what seemed to be a trash can next to it, brimming with refuse.
    Bishop said, “We’ll send the picture to the FBI. Let their techs look it over.”
    Shelton shook his head. “I don’t know, Frank. I think he’s too smart to piss where he eats. Way too traceable.” He nodded toward the picture. “He took her someplace else to kill her. That’s not where he lives.”
    But Nolan said, “I don’t agree. You’re right that he’s smart but he doesn’t see things the way we do.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    Gillette seemed to understand exactly. “Phate doesn’t think about the Real World. He’d try to cover up any computer evidence but I think he’d tend to overlook physical clues.”
    Bishop nodded at the picture. “The basement looks pretty new—the furnace too. Or air conditioner, whatever it is. The feds might be able to figure out if there’s a particular builder who makes residential properties with those brands of materials. We could narrow down the building.”
    Shelton shrugged. “It’s a long shot. But what can it hurt?”
    Bishop called a friend of his in the FBI. He told him about the picture and what they needed. They conversed for a moment or two and the detective hung up.
    “He’s going to download an original of the picture himself and send it to the lab,” Bishop said. The detective then glanced down at a nearby desk and noticed a large envelope addressed to him. The routing slip indicated it had come from the California State Police Juvenile Division central files department and must have arrived when he was at the Bay View. He opened it and read through the contents. It was the juvenile court file on Gillette he’d requested when the hacker had escaped last night. He dropped it on the desk then glanced up at the dusty wall clock. It was 10:30. “I think we all need some rest,” he said.
    Shelton hadn’t mentioned his wife but Bishop sensed he was eager to return home to her. The brawny detective left with a nod to his partner. “See you in the morning, Frank.” He smiled at Nolan. Gillette received neither a word nor a gesture of farewell.
    Bishop said to Gillette, “I don’t feel like spending the night here again. I’m going home. And you’re