Page 15

“I’ll inform him, but the task force won’t be interested without indisputable evidence linking this guy to their escapee.”
“And we can’t get the evidence if they won’t expend resources to get it for us.”
It was hard not to take offense. “Raiker Forensics is one of the top criminalistics firms in the world. We have access to thesame databases law enforcement do. If Pollack is in the system—and I’d bet you twenty he is—I’ll find him.”
7
“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! You didn’t just get a gun shoved in your face.” Greg whirled from the park bench and walked jerkily away, out of hearing distance of the woman checking him out from behind her upheld newspaper. With her stringy gray hair and judgy eyes, she reminded him of his mom. Always ready to give a criticism or lecture.Stand up straight, Gregory. Maintain eye contact. How are you ever going to get a job if you don’t possess self-confidence?Like she hadn’t made it her life’s mission to grind that out of him from birth.
He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Yeah, well, you also said she’d be alone and that was a lie. She’s got some psycho bodyguard or something.” He listened for a moment longer. “How the hell would I know who it is? Think we made introductions? The guy was gonna call the cops. If he catches me again I’ll be in lockup. And they’ll send me to prison this time. The judge warned me about that.”
Greg knew damn well that he didn’t stand a chance in the pen. Local jail was bad enough. He had one of those faces that just made people want to pound the shit out of him.That’d started with his mom’s boyfriend and continued into high school. Like he had an invisible “punch me” tattoo on his forehead.
He put the cell down in frustration to avoid the barrage of verbal abuse. When there was a pause, he raised it again. “There was nothing I could do. Follow her home, that’s what you said. Discover what car she drives. Let you know where else she went. I done most of that. It’s a white Hyundai. Local.” Greg picked up the note he’d scribbled and read off the license plate. “They ate at that restaurant on Third and Pinecrest. It didn’t look like she talked to anyone else there. I kept it real cool, just drove by a couple of times.” He listened, but the bitching turned to accusations, and fuck that. He’d done the best he could.
“How the hell would I know how he saw me? It wasn’t like I was tailgating him. I stayed a few cars back. Maybe he’s trained to spot a tail. That’s probably part of the his job.”
The voice calmed. Talking and more talking. Nerves twisted in Greg’s gut. Tightened his shoulders. “I know I said I’d help, but not this way. Not again. He knows my car. He took pictures of it, for crissakes! And of me. He’ll make me easily if he sees me again.” The familiar craving had lodged in his brain, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll wait for your call.” He eyed a passing police cruiser, and a knot of anxiety balled in his throat.
He shoved the phone in his back pocket, heading to where he’d illegally parked his car. A ticket was the least of his worries. He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be towed, but you never knew. Some of these asshole businesses worked with scam tow trucks that refused to release owners’ cars until they coughed up serious cash for the impound and storage. Greg couldn’t afford to let that happen. Especially since he wasn’t going to get paid for this afternoon, even though it wasn’t his fault the thing went sideways.
That was the story of his life, man. Try to do right by someone, and he got fucked over himself. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and retraced his steps to the Fusion. He needed what was in his glove box. Just a taste to take the edge off. Then he’d head to the beach where he could really relax in peace while he waited for his next instructions.
8
Reese straightened from her position on the floor and rolled her shoulders. When they’d returned home, Hayes had set up his computer at the kitchen island, leaving the dining table she’d cleared off open. After giving him the Wi-Fi password, Reese re-sorted the piles before delving in again, focusing on the towering stack from the trustee. Organizing the sheets by date, she discovered reams dating back to when her parents had died.
Not for the first time, she wondered why her aunt had chosen to print out all of this when she must have had digital copies. Rivers had mentioned emailing Julia. Reese rubbed her neck and considered. The correspondence from the trustee and financial advisor would have been available by email or online. Julia had been tech-savvy. She’d spent most of her nights selecting and editing her photographs. She’d know how to access the information she wanted.
But when Reese was working on a story, she often did the same thing, especially when it became bigger and more complex. It helped to put a timeline together with physical documents to easily compare interviews and other notes. Every bit of thisinformation had no doubt come from Julia’s laptop, but that and her phone had disappeared from the scene.
A hit-and-run might start off as an “accident”, but driving off without taking responsibility was a conscious choice. And one the driver deserved punishment for.
Her temples pounded with the beginning of a headache. Since she was taking a break anyway, she grabbed her phone and called a familiar number. Was gratified to hear a real person on the end of the line rather than a voicemail.
“Detective Gibbons.”
“This is Reese Decody.” When her words didn’t garner a reply, she added, “Julia Backworth’s niece?” The SDPD detective had seemed unbearably young and earnest in their previous conversations. Far too youthful to be a detective, although he must be older than he appeared to have reached that level. “I was wondering if you have any updates on my aunt’s death.”
“Nothing of note, I’m afraid.” She pictured him behind his desk, raking a hand through his thick red hair, his broad, freckled face scrunched up in frustration. “The investigation remains active.”
She blew out a breath, although she’d figured if they had found something, she would have been notified. But her job had taught her that persistence was the only avenue to information. “I sort of figured that getting a positive ID on the minivan would have led us to the driver quickly.”
“Normally it would have. But since the owner had reported it stolen the night before, we can’t tie him to the incident. Especially when no one caught sight of the driver before the van took off.”
After leaving Rivers’s office, Julia had driven to the Core Division, which housed one of the business hubs. She’d parked in a public ramp and had left on foot through the front entrance. She’d died before reaching her final destination. Reese had noidea where she’d been headed. There’d been no appointment noted in her planner, and cell phone records hadn’t recorded any incoming or outgoing calls that day. A storefront camera had shown only partial angles, but a tourist filming the area had caught more details. They had the color, make, model, and license number of the Honda Odyssey, which had led them to the VIN and owner. But the video hadn’t shown the driver, and since the owner had an alibi for the time in question, the investigation focused on the theft itself, which had been similarly fruitless. The vehicle’s GPS navigation system had been disabled. The operator had taken a route that managed to avoid most traffic cameras, although the van was spotted again taking an exit onto Interstate 5.
And then poof. It’d seemingly disappeared.
“So the van hasn’t shown up.” Gibbons had conjectured that it could have been driven to a neighborhood and abandoned, where it’d be stripped for parts within hours. Or continued on to the desert and set on fire. Pushed into a quarry or pit. The driver might have it sitting in a storage shed somewhere.
“It hasn’t. We’re making the rounds to salvage yards. Sometimes an disreputable owner will take cash to make a vehicle ‘disappear.’ Checking with all of them is a slow process.”
“Did Julia’s phone or laptop show up?” Reese couldn’t help believing both of them would have been helpful in piecing together her aunt’s final days.
“No. We checked pawn shops, but there’s a market for that stuff on the dark web, too.” Accidents drew rubberneckers along with some people who genuinely wanted to help. It wouldn’t have been difficult to ease into the crowd and make off with personal belongings while everyone focused on the victim. Tragedy was just another opportunity for human parasites to exploit.
As if plucking the thought from her, he added, “We’re reinterviewing the bystanders at the scene. And have followed up with every call Julia made or received in the month leading up to her death.”