15
Jeannie liked Sergeant Davis already. Anyone who would salute Emily Beale so seriously was all right in Jeannie’s book.
The sergeant went to the computer Cal had poked at earlier. Was he being distant? No. Yet they still hadn’t had a moment alone since the river. Not even a small one.
Davis typed in a password, pressed a thumb on a reader, and the screen cleared. Then she went to open a file. A big, red warning flashed on the screen. Connie leaned in close, as if putting one eye in line with the tiny camera at the center of the screen.
“Thumbprint on the machine and retinal scan on the file,” Cal whispered from over her shoulder. “Hell, I use a six-digit password.”
“Your birthday?” she whispered back.
“Actually Calvin Hobbes Jackson’s birthday.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t know his
