“Did you follow the source back to anyone unusual?”
I can’t see Brandon, but I can picture him shaking his head when a whooshing sound trickles down the line. “That’s the issue. There is no source. That station is empty.”
“So someone took up residence in a vacant cubicle for the night; that’s not a big deal.”
Brandon laughs a mocking chuckle. “It is when they don’t sign in to the Bureau’s mainframe while doing it.”
His reply stumps me for all of a second. “What about the surveillance from the alley? Did you conduct searches for anyone exiting or entering in the timeframe I gave you?”
“Yes.” His swift reply relays his eagerness. “It hasn’t found a match.Yet.I uploaded the footage to a shared server in case you want to view it. Might trigger something.”
I drag Regan’s phone from my ear before the entire sentence leaves his mouth. With my mind hazy from a lack of sleep and perhaps fewer brain cells since I fried many while climaxing the hardest I’ve ever come—before fucking things up as I’ve never done—it takes attempting to log in four times before I remember the FBI database is still in the stone ages. If you aren’t on a PC, you won’t be granted access.
“Hold on,” I say to Brandon before tossing Regan’s cell onto the mattress to fire up her laptop.
My lips twist when it requests a code. Remembering her lack of security, I hit the zero button four times.Rejected.I go through the standard password hack every agent uses before calling in a techie for help. Target’s birthday.Fail.Their mom’s birthday.Fail.Pet name.Fail.I punch the keys a little harder when I input my fifth attempt: Isaac Holt.Fail.
Fuck yeah!
Allowing my ego to get the better of me, I type in my name.Fail.
Fuck it.
The cusses keep coming when reality smacks into me.
I type my last try slowly, more out of respect than anything: Luca.Bingo!
In a few more keystrokes, I’m logged into the Bureau’s main network. May as well not be; I have no fucking clue where to go from here. After reattaching Regan’s phone to my ear, Brandon directs me on what to do.
Before a minute has passed, the video surveillance from across the street of the alley streams from Regan’s laptop.
“How do I rewind it?” I ask Brandon when the footage rolls past Regan and me entering an idling cab.
“I downloaded stills onto your hard drive—”
“That wasn’t what I asked,” I cut Brandon off. “I asked how do I rewind the footage? I’m not interested in what you’ve seen. I’ve got my own set of eyes, which means I have an entirely different perspective.”
I run a hand along my scruffy jaw, recognizing that I’m taking my frustration out on the wrong person. “Can you show me how to work this thing?Please.There’s a reflection in the cab window I want to take a closer look at.”
“Alright.”
Thirty seconds after agreeing with my request, Brandon somehow takes control of Regan’s computer. I don’t know how, and in all honesty, I don’t fucking care, because within seconds of him taking over the reins, I’m peering at the man I saw in the back quarter panel of the taxi’s window.
I stare a long, penetrating glare. I’ve seen him before; I swear I have. “Can you run his face through facial recognition?”
“Already on it.” Brandon’s reply is barely heard over the clicking of a mouse. “I sent duplicate photos to the printer at The Manor’s reception desk. They’re a little grainy, but not any worse than they are on screen.”
“We have a printer at the main desk?”
When Brandon makes an agreeing noise, I balk. One, how does he know where I am? Two, how does he have access to our printers? And three, how the fuck can I get him on my team permanently? Having someone this quick off the mark would be a brilliant move. I’ve had techies who knew their way around a computer, but none have been this skilled. Brandon must have flown under the radar at the academy, because he would have been nabbed by a more senior supervisor than Theresa if they were aware of his skillset.
After logging me out of the Bureau mainframe and removing any traces of my steps from Regan’s computer, Brandon logs out of her device. I need to get the printouts before they disappear into the sinkhole that apparently eats paperwork owned by my family, so I shout to Regan that I’ll be back in a minute before hotfooting it into the hallway.
I dip and weave between guests preparing to spend their day viewing the monuments in Washington before taking the servant stairs two at a time. Halfway down, the reasoning behind the perp’s familiarity smacks into me. He’s the man who flew with us business class to Texas. The smirking fucker who picked a seat across from Regan when there were four better options at his disposal.
My pace slows even more as the knocks keep coming. I thought telling Regan I loved herwaytoo early in our relationship was my most worst fuck up this week. Clearly, I overlooked my previous incidents. Theresa had footage of Regan and me on the plane, photos that could have only been taken by someone nearby, i.e. the chairs opposite us. Then the “janitor” who smacked me over the head entered HQ without notice, meaning he was there before everyone left. . . or he never left.
That can only mean one thing.
