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“Yay!” The glumness evaporated as quickly as it had come. Abby’s voice was filled with joy, and Marc could almost see her jumping up and down. “Can we start before dinner?”
“Of course we can. But you have to get some sleep now. Otherwise, you’ll be tired and Aunt Maddy will have to do the whole thing herself.”
“Night, Uncle Marc. I love you.”
The phone clunked to a table or a desk, and Abby was off, racing to her room. “Daddy, I want to sleep in my dress,” she called as she ran. “I’ll brush my teeth. Can you read me a story?”
“Only if you take off the dress and put on your nightgown,” Aidan called back. “I’ll be in by the time you’re done.” He picked up the phone. “You’ve got five minutes,” he informed Marc.
Marc didn’t waste one of them. “I need you to do some recon for us,” he said. He then swiftly filled Aidan in on what they knew and what they needed to know. “Can you do it?” he concluded.
“Of course I can do it. Marines rule.” Aidan never got tired of their rivalry over the Marines versus the Navy SEALs.
“How did I know that was coming?”
“Because you’re pretty smart—for a SEAL.”
“Daddy, are you coming?” Abby’s voice drifted down the hall from her bedroom. “I want to show you my purple glitter. I tried it on the wall and it looks really nice.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Aidan told Marc between gritted teeth. “You’re getting a never-ending parade of strippers and lap dancers at your bachelor party.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Email me everything you’ve got. Bring the cup that has this Slava Petrovich’s DNA with you tomorrow night. I’ll have something for you within a few days. Now I’ve got to get some rags to wipe the wall with. Good night.”
Office of Forensic Instincts
Downstairs in his lair, Ryan munched on another handful of trail mix and studied his computer screen, waiting for his results. When they came, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile, and he pumped the air with his fist.
“Oh, yeah, Yoda. I’m good.”
“I know that, Ryan,” Yoda replied. “You do exceptional work.”
Ryan chuckled. “I’m so glad I programmed you with all the right answers.”
He continued to stare at the screen, his ebullience fading as intense concentration replaced it. He clicked a few more times and delved deeper into his findings.
He hated big companies—except when he loved big companies. Big companies had the resources to do big things. And, in the case of Facebook, that meant successfully working on using facial recognition software and technology for social media purposes. Precisely what Ryan had needed to work his magic. It would be Facebook-specific, precluding his extending the search to the broader Net, but that was okay by him. Facebook was ginormous.
Armed with the photos John Nickels had taken at the Montclair Starbucks, Ryan had spent the past two hours deftly poking around, using Facebook’s capability to search for the two thugs who’d attempted to kidnap Shannon. Not that he believed they’d have Facebook profiles—that would be ridiculous, not to mention way too easy for him. But their girlfriends? Friends? Family members? Ryan had gone under the absolute assumption that any or all of them had Facebook profiles, and Ryan would be able to exploit the social media giant’s data for FI’s benefit.
He’d started out by hacking into Facebook’s skunkworks and finding their facial recognition project. He’d then downloaded a copy of it, tweaked it for his own purposes, and let it loose against Facebook’s live database. His program hadn’t let him down. He’d just gotten an email with a URL pointing to the picture and the name of the Facebook profile in which it was found. One click and he’d seen the profile picture, along with the name associated with it.
Thanks to a squishy family reunion photo posted by the sister of Thug Number One, Ryan had just identified him as Alexei Kozlov. Not only had the facial recognition software identified him but Kozlov’s bare arm was completely exposed in the photo. His tattoos were clear as a bell and exactly as Claire had described them.
This was the scumbag who had not only attempted to snatch Shannon Barker but who had killed Julie Forman.
Well, now the fucker would get his.
On to Thug Number Two, which was a lot trickier. No one had actually seen him. John had gotten a half-visible shot of him through the van window. Ryan had enhanced and enhanced the photo until he got a telltale marker—a jagged scar on his right cheek. Also, his head was shaved. Nice—not thrilling, but nice. There’d still be no identifying him from this scratchy shot.
But Ryan got lucky. In Alexei’s photo, his sister had named everyone present. Sure enough, right in there with the group clench was their dear friend, Vitaliy Bolshov, who looked just like the blurry picture John had taken, right down to his bald head and the jagged scar on his face.
Vitaliy’s left arm was slung over the shoulder of one of Alexei’s cousins, and his right arm was gripping a slutty-looking woman who was pressed up against him and who he might as well be screwing on screen. The good news was that, thanks to Vitaliy’s arm-baring stance, Ryan could see that he had a few ominous-looking tattoos of his own. The better news was that Vitaliy’s girlfriend, Olga Dubova, was tagged, her name in blue, which meant she had a Facebook profile.
Ryan lined up his cursor and clicked on Olga’s name.
Up came her profile, complete with intimate poses of her and Vitaliy, some of them downright gross and some of them just what Ryan needed—camera-facing, clear-as-a-bell face shots.
