A guy saddled with the name ‘Jack Diamond’ probably should not be making bones about other folks’s monikers, but I completely understood why Lincoln Danforth III preferred to be called Spider.

Why he seemed to want to live like a spider is another issue altogether and I’m sure he has a therapist who knows all about it. His room, at the back of Mike Halloran’s bar, was lit only by computer screens - lots and lots of computer screens. Wires stretched everywhere, making the room really feel like a spider’s web. Lincoln himself was a round young man, starting to go bald, with a spotty complexion and hair that I think was sandy brown, but I had never seen him in bright enough light to be certain. He always wore black and favored track suits.

He also wears an ankle monitor and allegedly works for at least one government agency though not sure if it was the Department of Justice, the NSA or someone else - or if he is somehow gaming the system and working for more than one of them. He is supposed to have a twenty-four hour “chaperone” but his minders only seem to turn up for about two or three hours at a time, at seemingly random intervals, and then go off and do their own things for a while. Of course, he’s evasive when asked about all of this, but he’s good at what he does

Milt opened pleasantries with the elaborate “Hey, Spider.”

“Hey, cop,” was his well-thought out and highly articulate reply.

“Got a number for you to trace,” Milt continued.

Without looking away from his bank of monitors, Spider replied: “Got fifty bucks?”

“Gone up a bit,” Milt said, unrolling some bills.

“Inflation sucks,” was the accurate, curt answer. Eyes still on his monitors.

“Here is sixty. Give him the number, Jack.”

Spider actually perked up at this and even glanced our way: “Overpaying? This must be big.”

“No, just urgent,” I said, “we’re tracking the burner on a kidnap victim.”

Spider typed the number out on one keyboard and then grabbed another and started some rapid-fire typing on it as well. The only sound in the room was the humming of fans and the clacking of keys.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Two minutes passed, and then: “the phone is on, seems to be moving. No, wait, it seems to have just stopped. Accessing GPS,” he announced. Then he rattled off an address.

An address I knew: Vito Mercotti’s address.

“What game are you playing at, Vito?” I asked under my breath.

“Am I mistaken,” Milt asked, “Or is that about where we picked up that thing you call a car earlier?”

“The exact spot,” I admitted.

“Huh.”

After that insightful comment, I continued with my thoughts: “Pretty sure that this is not enough for a warrant, and I strongly suspect someone needs to pay a certain Mister Price a visit. Wanna drop me off a couple of blocks from the Mercotti place and go talk to the antiques guy?”

Instead of an answer, Milt gave me a warning: “You realize that if you get caught doing anything shady, it’ll mean your badge, right?”

I took a deep breath and answered: “I promised to protect Carol and failed. I need to set things right.”

Spider interrupted us with: “I turned on the camera and microphone. Not seeing anything so it’s probably still inside something, but I’m getting some audio.”

We crowded around his workstation and strained to listen; the sound was muffled, and he was constantly tweaking settings to pick up more details.

“...only way?” We heard one voice ask. Sounded like Vito but could not be sure due to the poor quality.

The next voice faded in and out, as if the speaker were pacing back and forth. My best guess is the man we could not identify said: “I will check with Morgan but” this part we could not make out and it ended with: “at least without having to wait several…” The last word was muffled but I am pretty sure it was “years.”

Then we heard what sounded like footsteps going away followed by muffled sobs.

“Think you can clean that up a bit, Spider?” Milt asked.

“‘Course I can. May take some time and I do better without goons breathing down my back,” was the reply. “Also, I could use some fried mushrooms.”

“Right. Jack, I’ll drop you off and go visit Price - if I can find a uniform who can be discreet, I’ll grab him for backup. Get the kid an order of mushrooms then meet me at the car. Gotta hit the can.”

After ordering a large plate of fried mushrooms and an energy drink for good measure for Spider, I rejoined Milt just as I had an idea: “Might want to see if Pat Cline is free - he is good and already got himself involved in this a bit.”

“Your old partner? Good call,” Milt replied.

That said, we filed out into his car and did not speak again until he let me off a few blocks from the Mercotti house.

“Be careful, kid,” he said, “I’m getting too old to break in any more rookies…”

I laughed: “You be careful too - this thing seems to be bigger and weirder than we could have imagined.”