The Clouds Roll Away Read Online Free

the forensics lab in D.C. Trained as a geologist, I came to the Bureau as a forensic technician in the mineralogy department. When my father was murdered, I went to Quantico, hoping to turn grief into something productive.
    In the letter, I explained to the technician that the soil inside the paint can was evidence from a hate crime, an automatic expedite for the lab. I wanted to know what substance was used to light the fire and what minerals were in the lawn soil itself, in case it could be matched later to somebody’s clothing or shoes. Ignoring the one-sided cell phone conversation echoing down the stairwell—“Hello? Are you there? Hello?”—I sent Phaup an e-mail offering a tedious blow-by-blow of my procedure. Ducking under the heat vent, I walked down to the second floor.
    The main squad room sat empty. For several moments I gazed at the gathered cubicles, the cartoons taped to partitions, the running gags and inside jokes, and suddenly I felt isolated and lonely, as if everyone had left for a party I wasn’t invited to.
    Giving my mood a swift kick, I rang the buzzer beside the Dutch door to Evidence Control. Get over it , I thought. Get to work .
    The top half of the Dutch door opened.
    â€œYou’re back,” said Allene Caron.
    She wore a yellow satin blouse that lay on her brown skin like filaments of polished brass. Picking up my paperwork, she raised her chin and ran her dark eyes over my request.
    â€œHere to stay?” she asked, looking over the top of the document.
    â€œThat’s the plan.”
    She harrumphed and circled a section of my paperwork. Fifteen years ago, Allene started here as a clerk. She now ran Evidence Control and nothing could convince her that agents wrote competent paperwork. She tapped the red pen on my intake form.
    â€œWhat day is it, Raleigh?”
    â€œI’m guessing it’s not the sixth.”
    â€œNot in this world.”
    â€œBut I got December right.”
    Raising an eyebrow, she corrected the date, December 7, then initialed the correction. She stamped her official seal and assigned a bar code to track the evidence through the FBI system. Just before closing the Dutch door, she threw me an expression that conveyed her suspicions concerning my survival.
    â€œBe good, you hear?”
    â€œI promise, I’ll be good.”
    Harrumphing again, she closed the door.

chapter four
    T he Title III surveillance operations—known as the T-III room—was stashed with the heating and cooling equipment behind a gray door on the third floor. With half of the ceiling’s acoustic tiles missing, the place had a ghoulish jack-o’-lantern appearance. But it made it easier for the tech guys to run cables for routers and modems and phones and monitors.
    On Wednesday afternoon I opened the gray door and heard the loud whooshing of air pumps. An almost chubby young man sat at a dinged-up stainless steel table, his back to the door. Bose earphones connected to the laptop, and when I tapped his shoulder he jumped, kicking a yellow Hardee’s bucket, scattering gray chicken bones across the floor.
    He pulled off the headset and smoothed down pale tufts of hair.
    â€œStan.” He shook my hand. “Stan Norton.”
    â€œI’m Raleigh.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWe’ve met?”
    â€œNo. But I came up from Savannah right after you . . . after you left for Seattle. Here, let me clean up this mess.”
    Brushing the biscuit crumbs off the table into the Hardee’s bucket, he picked up the greasy bones, placing the bucket near the garbage can where a delta formed of soggy tea bags, oxidized apple cores, wet coffee grounds, and paper napkins smeared with the primary-colored condiments. Although the room was kept cool for the electronic equipment, putrid odors filled the air. I sat down at the laptop.
    In the once-upon-a-time I was only too happy to miss, we recorded conversations on magnetic tape.