Page 24

Story: Guilty as Sin

His response was muffled. “Do you have a flashlight?”
She knew she had one somewhere. First, she checked the back of her SUV. Not finding it there, Reese looked in the glove box and finally discovered it under the driver’s seat. She turned it on, gratified to see that the batteries still worked, and walked to where Hayes waited. He lowered himself to scooch headfirst beneath the Equinox and waved the scanner and light over the undercarriage.
Proximity was the only reason she heard his next request. “Get me a pair of nitrile gloves and a plastic bag from the box in the back, will you?”
Again she obeyed, this time getting down on all fours to slap them into his outstretched hand. A slow fist of trepidation tightened in her stomach as she waited. Reese hadn’t expected the search to be a success. Didn’t want to consider what it meant. Flashes went off, and she realized he was taking pictures of something. A few minutes later, he inched out from beneath the vehicle, the scanner and flashlight balanced on his chest.
Her gaze zeroed in on the plastic bag he clutched in one gloved hand. “Is that…”
“Yeah. Whatever ability you lost eighteen months ago, your instincts are still solid.”
12
“It’s an active tracker, rather than a passive one.”
“Passive. Those are the teen driver trackers, right?”
Hayes sent Reese a quizzical look over his shoulder as he fit her key into the lock. He opened the door and did a quick walk-through of her apartment as if he expected someone might have been there in their absence. When he rejoined her, he picked up the thread of conversation. “I’ve never heard of them referred to that way. You’re saying parents try to track where their kids have been? Seems sort of shady.”
“Maybe.” She’d written an article several years ago about the lengths parents went to ensure their children obeyed safety rules. “More recently, they’ve turned to apps to track their cell phones. But for families with firm orders about how far their kids can travel and where they go, I spoke to more than a few parents who would check a tracker they put on the car to monitor their young drivers’ whereabouts.”
The conversation was a buffer from the wall of emotion that threatened to steamroll her. Someone had put a geolocator on Julia’s vehicle. The realization blazed through her mind, butonly elicited more questions. “What does active mean? That the car’s location can be tracked in real time?”
“Yes.” Setting the plastic bag down on the table, he headed to the kitchen and transferred the plastic container with last night’s dinner from the refrigerator to the microwave. Of course. They’d missed lunch. Or, in her case, breakfast too, but food was the last thing she was thinking about right now.
“There’s no way to tell at this point if the tracker is still live. But it has a serial number, which means it can be traced back to the manufacturer, and with a warrant, it shouldn’t be difficult to identify the purchaser.” The microwave dinged, and he divided the stir-fry onto two plates, added forks, and set both on the table. “Sit. You need to eat.”
She obeyed, not because she had an appetite but because she had more queries. “How could the manufacturer identify the person who bought it?”
“Someone has to contact them to activate the device.” Hayes spoke between bites. “Real-life tracking requires a subscription, which means a credit card would be on file.” His next words doused her rush of adrenaline. “How long ago did your aunt die?”
“Three months.”
“The subscription has likely been terminated. But that doesn’t mean the company wouldn’t still have their information. We’ll do a little research and look at the specifications for the tracker, so I’ll have a better idea of how it worked.”
“I need to share this with Detective Gibbons. He’s investigating the hit-and-run.” All sorts of ideas were crashing and colliding in her head, and Reese reined them in, trying not to get ahead of herself.
“You can do that while I figure out what we’ve got here. Eat.” To soften the command, he added, “You’ve had some hardknocks in the last few hours. Your body—and your brain—needs fuel.”
Because he wasn’t wrong, she scooped up a forkful of the dish and chewed without enthusiasm. “Is the gadget wireless or battery-operated? Or does it somehow connect to the vehicle’s power?”
“I don’t see where it would hold batteries, so I’m guessing it’s wireless. Bluetooth, maybe. I’ll know more when I pin down the manufacturer.”
“If the device was active when Julia died, we can conclude someone could have followed her from Rivers’s office.”
When his plate was empty, he took it to the kitchen and tossed it before returning with a bag of trail mix. “Right now, there’s no way to tell how long the device has been on her car or who put it there. It could have been a jealous ex or a competitor. Maybe a stalker.”
“Julia was in a long-term relationship. His name is Lucas Morrow. He’s wrecked over her death.” She scooped up another bite and considered his words. “A competitor is possible. She never mentioned any worries in that area, but other journalists are always looking for an edge. My aunt was experienced in her field, with a solid reputation. But she also traveled a lot. Trailing her movements in San Diego would often just lead to the airport.”
He reached over and tipped the bag to spill some of the contents on her plate. “I’m not sure I can even finish what I have,” she protested.
“It’s nutritious and gives you energy.” He grabbed another handful. “Anyway, it’s a waste of time speculating when we might have solid answers soon.”
She took her cell from her pocket and called Gibbons’s number and extension. As expected, she got his voicemail, and after leaving him a detailed message about the tracker they’ddiscovered, she hung up and finished what she could before pushing the plate away.
Hayes had returned the snack to the kitchen and came back to the table with his laptop, booting it up.
Curious, Reese rounded the table to watch over his shoulder. For the first time she realized how filthy his shirt was. She plucked at it with her thumb and index finger. “I may owe you a new T-shirt.” His jeans were probably no better. Crawling around on the concrete of a parking garage would do that.