“Dimitriadus,” he said. “Back in nineteen ninety-eight.”
“Could Dimitriadus have missed seeing the tag?”
“It might have been jammed way up under the lip of the box. When the cardboard loosened with age, it could have slid into view.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Danny removed the tag from the sonicator and returned to the sink for another go with the brush.
Seconds passed. A full minute.
Scrub.
Glasses off.
Squint.
Glasses on.
Scrub.
Repeat.
Agitated by Katy’s texting, I almost snatched the tag from his hand.
At last, the glasses came off and the myopic eyes narrowed.
“Holy shit.”
Danny rarely used profanity.
“What?” I asked.
Danny read aloud.
“Let me see.” I shot out a hand.
Danny yielded the tag.
He was right. The stamped info was easier to discern as an indentation.
I reversed the letters and digits in my mind.
Did Baptists commonly have A positive blood?
Inane, but that’s the first question that formed in my mind.
“That’s a Social Security number, right?”
Danny nodded. “The military made the switch from service numbers sometime in the sixties.”
“This can’t be
“Let’s check.”
We hurried to Danny’s office.
Pulled Spider’s file.
The SS number belonged to John Charles Lowery from Lumberton, North Carolina. Spider.
But Spider Lowery died in Quebec.
Forty years after crashing in Long Binh.
Sweet Mother Mary, could the situation possibly grow more confused?
“Shall we lay the guy out?” Danny’s voice held little enthusiasm.
My eyes flicked to my watch.
Five fifty.
I was anxious to get home to Katy. And I wanted to learn whether Ryan had found an alternate source of DNA for Spider.
“Let’s do it first thing tomorrow.”
“It’s a date.”
“You’re on, big guy.” I mimicked Danny’s earlier wink. “But we both keep our clothes on.”
I called out, explored.
Katy was not in the house.
At the pool.
On the lanai.
I found no note explaining her whereabouts.
