Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 58163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“What was he doing in the middle of Colorado?” Shane wants to know.
“Not hunting elk,” I murmur and take a bite of pepperoni. “He wasn’t dressed like a hunter. If he was trying to blend in as someone from here, a hunter, he didn’t do a good job of it.”
“Hardly,” Curt agrees. “However, I did a lot of digging, and I can’t trace him back to any syndicate. He doesn’t work for the government. He doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. He was born and raised in Georgia, not far from Atlanta.”
“Family?” I ask.
“A wife and three kids.” I frown, but Curt keeps talking. “On the surface. It’s a cover. I dug a little deeper. His name is Art Fink. How he came up with Sugarbaker, I don’t know.”
“Designing Women, of course.” Both men turn and stare at me. “The TV show from the eighties. Come on, surely you’ve heard of it. I mean, I was hardly born in the eighties, but even I know about it. It’s a classic.”
“Nope,” Curt says, but I do get a half-smile out of him, and I consider that a win. “However, just because I uncovered his legal name, doesn’t mean I found much of anything else. No marriage on file. No kids. Also, like Brutus Sugarbaker, no ties to any organization. Just the vehicle registration, the one he had with him. No mortgage. No credit history.”
“How can he have no credit history?” I demand. “Surely, he can’t be a ghost. Is this another false name?”
“I found the birth certificate,” Curt replies.
“Did you find what he does for a living?” Shane asks.
“No.”
Shane blows out a breath. “So, we still don’t know who, exactly, he was trying to find. He could have been here for Ivie or me.”
“Or me, really,” Curt says philosophically. “God knows I’ve pissed people off over the years.”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re too sweet and quiet.”
“Keep flirting with Curt, and I’ll break his legs,” Shane snarls.
Now Curt does smile, showing off straight, white teeth. “Fooled you, have I?”
“No.” I shake my head and reach for another slice of the delicious pizza. “I know shitty people when I see them. Trust me, I’ve seen my fair share, especially when I was younger. I’ve seen the worst of the worst. The scariest. You’re not that, Curt.”
“Hmm,” is all he says in reply. “Well, whoever this Fink asshole was, he won’t be bothering us again. What I want to know is, who sent him, and who was he supposed to report back to?”
“The million-dollar question,” Shane agrees. “He worked for someone, and they’ll be looking for him. Did you find anything on his phone?”
“Nope. He had no email loaded on it, no text messages. It was wiped clean. No calls, in or out.”
“On the phone,” I say, thinking it over.
“That’s right.”
“But not on the number itself. Gimme.” I motion for Curt to hand over the cell, which he does. I open it and frown when I see it’s locked.
“I have the—” Curt begins, but I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head and tap the screen.
“These are easy to break open,” I say and smile when the screen opens. “Ah, you’re right. It looks like it’s straight from the factory. No apps, no messages. No call log. However, I can get the number off of it and do a little hacking on the computer.”
I find the phone number and sit at the computer. I crack my knuckles, shift my head back and forth, and then get down to business. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I search the number, find the carrier, and hack into their system.
“Jesus,” Curt mutters in surprise. “You’re in their server.”
“Yeah, we’re going to find out who this jerk talked to. This is a burner phone, but I can still find out what calls came in and out, and we can search those numbers, trace them back to their owners. He wasn’t speaking to everyone on burner phones. That’s impossible. And it’s a mistake that’s going to help us.”
I type furiously, excited at the idea of helping, of getting to the bottom of this.
“I know solving this won’t solve everything, but it’s a start. Okay, he called four people. Write these numbers down.”
Shane pulls out a notepad and pen and scribbles furiously.
“How am I supposed to read this?” I demand when I glance down. “Are you sure you’re not a doctor with that chicken scratch?”
“Who owns the numbers?” he asks.
“Okay, this first one is owned by an Oliver Freemont. Lives in New York.”
“Got it,” Shane says, still scribbling. “No idea who that is. The next?”
“Give me a second.” This one doesn’t want to give so easily. “It could be another burner phone. It’s under some layers, which is unusual. I’ve got it. Billy Sergi.”