Somewhere in the old building a faucet was dripping, possibly in one of the staff bathrooms on the floor above. It had to have been right above Jack's office, because it was somehow echoing in the pipes and carrying that vibration down into the walls right behind his desk. The light but insistent "bink-ding" sound was driving him nuts.
Fitting that the run-down place had been a psychiatric hospital for five decades.
"Quinn!" Jack yelled, shuffling through a stack of intelligence folders on his desk. "I need you to find that damn drip and plug it!"
Jack opened one of the files. Several black and white surveillance photos flipped out in front of him. The paper was yellowed but the images were still clear: A young woman walking in the midst of a large crowd of p...
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