Free The Short Drop by Matthew FitzSimmons Page A

child pornography traffickers, and hackers all used remote server farms to grant themselves a layer of anonymity. Chances were good that whoever had sent the e-mail had never been within a thousand miles of the server that generated it.
    “What do you think?” Abe asked.
    “Of the backpack? Not much. I could probably find three dozen on eBay before lunch. Probably just someone trolling you because they saw you on TV.”
    Abe nodded. “That’s what we thought too.”
    “I assume you replied?”
    Abe gestured to Rilling. A new e-mail appeared.
For a photograph of a backpack? Nothing. However, our investigators are very interested in talking to anyone with evidence in the case.
    “And?”
    “A day later, this.”
    Another photograph appeared on the screen. This time, Gibson rose from his seat, his mind reeling as it fought to acknowledge what it saw: the same photograph, only larger. The first image had been cropped from this one, and this photo just might be worth ten million dollars.
    Suzanne Lombard.
    Still the child she’d been when she ran away, sitting at an old kitchen table. The backpack sat at her left elbow. She was cupping a glass of what looked like milk and giving the camera a weary half smile. A Phillies baseball cap was pushed back high on her head.
    Gibson stared dumbly at Bear.
    “We all had the same reaction,” Abe said.
    “And you think . . .” Gibson trailed off, not knowing how to finish his thought.
    “We do.”
    Gibson looked back and forth between George and the photo. It was unbelievable.
    “We believe it’s authentic,” Abe said. “Likely taken the night she disappeared in Breezewood. And I would very much like to speak to the person who took it.”
    Gibson nodded, fury stoking itself back to life inside him. That was a conversation he very much wanted in on. Whoever this guy was, he was playing games. Playing games and using Bear as a pawn. He realized now why he was here.
    “But you can’t. Can you?”
    Abe nodded thoughtfully.
    “Let me guess. You tried to hack the e-mail server.”
    “Yes.”
    “But you fumbled it. Spooked him, and he went to ground.”
    Mike began to protest, but Abe cut him off. “Yes.”
    “And you think I’m going to find him for you.”
    “Can you?”
    “No. I can’t. It doesn’t work like that, George. You burned the only lead with that e-mail stunt. If he’s clever enough to have covered his tracks all this time, then how are we even going to . . . ?” Gibson drifted into silence, lost in thought. Something was wrong here.
    “What is it?”
    Gibson held up a hand for quiet. What was he missing? He shut his eyes to block everyone and everything out. He stood there until the answer appeared. It was exactly what he would have done. Exactly what he’d advised Abe to do.
    Bait the hook.
    “You ever ask yourself why he sent that first picture?” he asked.
    “What do you mean?” asked Jenn.
    Gibson turned to each of them in turn, grinning at the realization.
    “Oh, he’s clever, isn’t he? Folks, I do believe you’ve been played.”

CHAPTER TEN
    Gibson rubbed feeling back into his face with the heel of his hand. He took out his earbuds and stretched backward in his chair—a satisfying crack ran the length of his spine.
    Better.
    His phone said it was two thirty a.m.
    On Friday.
    It felt like a Friday. Fridays were always a little grimy and worn out—a week on its last legs. Or maybe it was just that he hadn’t been home since he’d arrived at ACG on Sunday.
    He’d been working for almost five straight days. Was that possible? He often lost track of time once he’d sunk his teeth into a problem, and he hadn’t had a puzzle this interesting since he’d left the Marines. He felt exhilarated—answers beckoned just out of reach. He was close now. Another few hours and he’d know if his suspicion were correct.
    Where are you, WR8TH? What do you know that you don’t want me to find out?
    He could have gone home at night, but the