The power cords for the Blackberries the Los Angeles County deputies used weren’t compatible with the very new, very sleek—and very damaged—model everyone hoped was Warner Hayden’s, but the desk clerk at the Islander produced one from a drawerful of cords he kept for guests who’d forgotten theirs at home.
Once in the sheriff’s station, MacFarlane and Price tested the phone for prints while Canham paced. They’d been hopeful, but they couldn’t come up with a single print, not Hayden’s, if it was his, much less the prints of anyone else who might have handled the phone.
“Damn dust,” Canham said. “Well, what are you waiting for? Plug the blasted thing in.”
They plugged in the phone. Nothing happened.
“s**t. You get what looks like the big break and it’s nothing. Not so much as a single eff
