2
Jensen sat in his third-floor office gazing over Tony Margiotta's shoulder. The only light in the room came from the computer screen. These things were a pain in the ass but in the right hands, they were amazing. Margiotta had been doing an online search for anything—anything—about John Robertson. Even though the guy had been dead two years and retired for years before that, this Google thing had come up with almost a thousand hits. But the hits, a thousand or not, weren't proving very useful.
"This is all shit," Margiotta said.
"Maybe, but keep at it. I want every one of them looked into.
"But what am I looking for?"
Margiotta hadn't been told any more than he needed to know. He already knew that Jason Amurri had been an impostor, and Jensen had told him that an outside investigation had linked him to Robertson. Any connection or reference to the missing Jamie Grant had been left out of the story.
"Find me something, anything that connects Robertson to New York City—and I don't mean just Manhattan—or to our Church or to any other church or organization that might have it in for us."
Margiotta looked up at him with an anguished expression. "This could take me all night."
Poor baby, Jensen wanted to say, but resisted. "It's already taken half the night. Consider yourself on the homestretch. Besides, you're getting time and a half."
"Yeah, but I've got a wife and a kid—"
"Who'll be glad for the bigger paycheck. Now keep at it."
Margiotta grumbled something unintelligible as he returned to the keyboard.
Jensen gave him a comradely clap on the shoulder as he rose.
"Good man. I'm going to take a stroll around to stretch my legs, maybe get a coffee. You want one?"
Margiotta looked surprised at the offer. And well he should be. Jensen didn't play gopher for anyone. But he wanted Margiotta to stay alert as he followed those hits.
He stepped out into the hallway and began making the rounds.