Hidden

by Laura Griffin

  “What if she doesn’t have a driver’s license?”

  “Then I’d focus on social media,” he said. “Twenty-five years old? I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a dummy profile, just so she can follow what some of her friends are doing. Like I said, people are bad at resisting temptation. They want to reenter their lives, even if only to observe what’s going on without them. She probably has a profile on one or more platforms. With enough research, someone could find it. From there, it’s not hard to narrow down a location.”

  Bailey thought about all the time Dana Smith had spent on the computers at Villa Paloma. Was that what she’d been doing? Checking up on her old life, her old friends? Watching people move on without her?

  “What about phones?” she asked. “I heard about a case in Milwaukee where a stalker tracked down a woman by paying a bounty hunter to ping her cell phone. Did you hear about that case?”

  Colt nodded.

  “How does that work?”

  “It doesn’t. It’s illegal, for one thing.”

  “But if someone was willing to break the law?”

  Colt waited a beat before answering. “Bail bondsmen are treated like quasi law enforcement agencies in some ways. They’re given more access than the general public when it comes to databases. But anyone who did what you’re describing could lose his license.”

  “Still, you’ve heard of this happening?”

  He nodded.

  “WITSEC is a buttoned-up program, though,” he said. “One of the most secure in the world. I doubt they’d provide a witness with a phone that could be traced, even if someone had the means to ping it.” He emptied his coffee and reached for his wallet. “I need to go.”

  “This is on me. Thank you for meeting me.”

  “No problem,” Colt said. “So, I take it the victim at the lake was a witness?”

  Bailey cursed inwardly. She should have known he’d figure out what she was working on, but she hadn’t thought Colt read her stories.

  “I’m just doing some research,” she said vaguely.

  “Understood.”

  “This is purely for background.”

  “Relax, Bailey. I get it.” He scooted from the booth.

  “One more question.”

  He watched her expectantly.

  “Given what you know, would you describe WITSEC as impenetrable?”

  He smiled slightly. “Nothing’s impenetrable.”

  * * *

  * * *

  TABITHA WHIRLED FROM table to table, dropping off food and picking up empties. She collected a stack of baskets from a high-top, then spun to the neighboring table to deliver beers.

  “This is a light.”

  She glanced up at the customer. The man was tall and heavyset. His T-shirt had a swoosh with the words Just Do Me under it.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked.

  “I ordered Genuine Draft.” He held up his glass as if it had piss in it. “This is light.”

  “Oh. You’re right.” She glanced at his friend, who was staring at her boobs. They weren’t that impressive, but she’d discovered a Wonderbra did wonders for her tips. “I’ll bring you a new one. You want to keep that or—”

  “You can have it.” He plunked it on her tray, throwing it off balance, but she caught the side an instant before it tipped.

  “Be right back.”

  She whirled around and darted a glance behind the bar. No sign of Theo, her manager, and she’d been watching for him all afternoon, panic growing inside her as the hours ticked by.

  She’d been a wreck for three days, jumping at shadows and constantly looking over her shoulder. She’d had to close last night, and she’d practically sprinted home, clutching her tube of pepper spray in her hand.

  “Miss? Waitress?”

  She turned around.

  “We’re still waiting on those nachos.” The woman looked tired and annoyed as she pointed at the tray. “And is that my wine?”

  “Yes. Here you go. Sorry for the—” Tabitha tripped, sloshing wine on the table. “Oops! My bad, I—” She looked down and saw that she’d stepped on a tote bag someone had left on the floor. “Sorry.” She set the half-empty glass down in front of the customer, who looked even more peeved now as Tabitha mopped up the spill with a stack of napkins. “I’ll bring you a new one.” She turned away before the woman could reply.

  And spotted Theo walking into the kitchen.

  Tabitha hurried to catch up with him, unloading her tray at the bar before entering the kitchen. It was hot, crowded, and noisy, with dishes clattering and music playing on a radio somewhere. She caught sight of Theo as he ducked into the office next to the supply room.

  Tabitha stashed her tray in a corner and rushed over before he had a chance to close the door.

  “Theo?” She stepped into the cramped room, which was barely big enough for his desk and the putty-colored computer that took up most of it.

  He stood at the file cabinet and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Not now, Red.”

  “I just needed to ask—”

  “Not now. A food delivery just pulled up, and I’ve got ATC here.”

  “ATC?”

  “Alcohol and Tobacco Control.” He jerked a file from the cabinet and turned to slap it on the desk. He flipped the folder open and grabbed the reading glasses from the top of his bald head.

  Would ATC be looking at employment records? Tabitha’s stomach did a somersault as Theo read the file, ignoring her.

  She’d selected O’Shea’s carefully. It was one of a dozen bars and restaurants she’d scoped out when she first came to town. None of the kitchen staff spoke English, and she had a hunch some didn’t have papers. When she’d turned in her job application, she’d waited until Theo was looking at her breasts to mention that she’d lost her social security card. His response was a shrug, and it hadn’t come up again. As far as she knew, he had no idea that Rachel Moore was an alias, and since everyone called her Red, he might have even forgotten her full name. Theo seemed happy to have an off-the-books employee, and every other Friday he paid her wages in cash, no questions. It was all very wink-wink.

  He glanced up. “What? I told you, I’m busy.”

  “I just wanted to see if I could get a small advance on my next payday.”

  “What, do I look like a bank?”

  “I’ve been working a lot of doubles and—”

  “I don’t do advances. Shit.” He turned back to the file cabinet and started thumbing through the drawer again.

  “I wouldn’t normally ask, but my car is in the shop and it turns out it needs new brake pads and—”

  “Not happening.” He slapped another folder on his desk and ran his hand over his bare head. Then he looked at her and his eyes softened. This was why she liked him. One of the reasons, anyway. He talked with a lot of bluster, but he had a generous streak, too. He was protective of his employees, and she’d seen him turn a blind eye when people took home leftover food.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Her stomach did another somersault. “You mean . . . today?”

  “Today’s not happening.” He darted an anxious look at the door. “Maybe tomorrow. You’re working, right? We’ve got that wake tomorrow at four. I need everyone.”

  Tabitha’s heart sank. The pub would be packed tomorrow, and there was no way he’d make time to pay her. A sour lump clogged her throat as she thought about waiting another day or maybe two. She’d hardly slept since that phone message. She couldn’t eat. Her nerves were raw, and her stomach seemed to be filled with battery acid.

  He glanced up from the file. “Don’t flake out on me, Red.”

  “No, I’ll be here.”

  But she knew she wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  J
ACOB DUCKED UNDER the yellow tape and pulled open the door to the liquor store. Kendra stood beside a display of mini tequila bottles near the cash register. She had a notebook in her hand and was interviewing a middle-aged guy on a stool behind the counter as he rubbed his forehead and looked distraught.

  Jacob caught Kendra’s eye, and she walked over.

  “What do we have?” he asked.

  “Two men, both in ski masks. One gun.”

  “What kind?”

  “A black pistol. Big, according to the clerk.”

  Jacob glanced at the man. Any pistol looked big if it was aimed at your face.

  “Our witness here says they came in through the back. Someone had left the door propped open, so there could be a third accomplice. They made him empty the register at gunpoint and bumped into his stock boy on the way out and took a shot at him, getting him in the arm. He’s at Seton Hospital. Stock boy says they took off in a dark gray sedan. We don’t have the make and model yet.”

  “Cameras?”

  “Trujillo’s in the back office working on that. He says the whole thing’s on tape.”

  “Good.”

  “You see Bailey?” Kendra asked.

  “No. Where?”

  She nodded toward the door. “Outside. She was talking to some bystanders when I pulled in. Must have caught it on the scanner.”

  Jacob resisted the urge to go looking for her.

  “She asked me if you were here,” Kendra said pointedly. Then she looked back at the witness, who was bent over the stool, clutching his knees. “I need to finish getting this guy’s statement before he loses his lunch. Meet me in back and we’ll go over the security footage.”

  Jacob left the store and ducked back under the scene tape. He spotted Bailey at the side of the building, leaning against the trunk of her white Toyota and talking on her phone as she flipped through a notepad. She ended her call as Jacob approached.

  This evening she wore cutoff shorts and flip-flops, and her press pass dangled on a lanyard around her neck. Jacob made an effort not to stare at her legs.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “They call you back in for this?”

  “I was out grabbing dinner. Max picked it up on the scanner.” She looked at the store entrance.

  “Is the clerk okay?”

  “He will be.”

  “I hear the guy at the hospital has a flesh wound,” she said.

  She didn’t ask him to confirm, and he didn’t.

  “Listen, can you talk for a minute?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She glanced at the patrol officer who was stationed beside the door. He was close enough to eavesdrop, and Jacob followed Bailey to the passenger side, where she rummaged through the glove compartment for a fresh notepad. She set it on the roof of her car and held her pen poised, as though she were interviewing him about the crime at hand.

  Apparently, she didn’t want the other cops on the scene to think they had a personal relationship.

  “I went back to Villa Paloma,” she said in a low voice.

  “Why?”

  “Dana Smith spent a lot of time in the library there, using their computers. I checked all the caches.”

  Jacob’s irritation battled with his curiosity. He’d been by Villa Paloma and interviewed several people, but he hadn’t thought to check the library computers. Bailey was one step ahead of him, and that didn’t sit well. What if she stumbled into something dangerous? It could have happened already.

  “I thought you were done with this story,” he said.

  “I didn’t say I was done. I said the story was on hold. At least the profile is. Now it could be scuttled altogether.”

  “So, why are you still working on it?”

  She tipped her head to the side. “Don’t you want to know what I found?”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. She cleared all the caches after each use, apparently. So there’s no way of knowing if she visited social media sites that might have tipped off someone searching for her.”

  Clearing caches wasn’t a permanent way to erase someone’s tracks, but he didn’t bother saying that. He wanted Bailey to drop the story, not get more immersed.

  She eased closer. Just a fraction, but it was close enough for him to smell her shampoo. “But you want to know what I did learn?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The name of the museum’s security company. Granite Tech Enterprises. They’re a local start-up with a headquarters on Lake Austin.”

  Jacob frowned. “What does that—”

  “They provide IDs to all the museum employees and handle security on the grounds. And I got to thinking, what if that’s how Dana’s name and photo and possibly her fingerprints ended up in some database that may have been compromised and—”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. You’re investigating WITSEC now?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “What did you think? If someone penetrated the witness protection program, that’s a huge story.”

  “I thought we agreed you were dropping this.”

  She frowned. “I agreed to no such thing. We agreed I wouldn’t run anything without corroboration, and I agreed not to use you as my source.”

  “So, what are you using?”

  “I’m investigating. That’s what investigative reporters do. I’ve got an interview lined up at Granite Tech tomorrow so I can learn more about their operation and—”

  “Are you serious? You think you might want to slow down?”

  “Why?” She looked genuinely confused.

  “Because a woman was stabbed to death less than a week ago. And we don’t know who’s responsible. Or have anyone in custody. And now you want to go snooping around, turning over rocks and asking questions all over the place? I guarantee you whoever killed Dana Smith is monitoring this investigation, and that includes the news coverage.”

  Her phone chimed and she looked annoyed as she pulled it out. “That’s my boss. I need to get this story in. Chill out, okay? Tomorrow’s just an interview. I haven’t written anything yet that would flag anyone’s attention.”

  “You don’t know what might flag someone’s attention. That’s the whole point.”

  She looked around, and Jacob realized their conversation was attracting notice from people in the parking lot, including the patrol cop stationed by the door. Jacob didn’t want to be seen getting into it with a reporter, for either of their sakes.

  He stepped away from her. “I have to get back to work.”

  “You’re overreacting, Jacob.”

  “No. I’m reacting to the facts.”

  * * *

  * * *

  BAILEY ROLLED THE windows down and let the wind whip around her as she crossed the bridge. Moonlight shimmered off the inky lake. The cypress trees along the banks looked tall and protective, guarding secrets most people would never know about. But Bailey knew. And Jacob. Covering crime had given her a view of the city’s dark side. She still loved it, but she’d never see it the way she had before her job had taken her into squalid apartment buildings and vomit-scented alleyways.

  After the bridge, Bailey passed the shiny restaurants and nightclubs of South Congress. She turned into a neighborhood with tree-lined streets and cars parked along the curbs. Glowing porch lights revealed a hodgepodge of architecture—thirties-era cottages, midcentury bungalows, bloated new construction. She surveyed the street numbers and slowed in front of a modest one-story with a flat roof and a black Chevy pickup in the drive. A light on the porch illuminated a black front door flanked by two large windows, both dark.

  Bailey parked and checked her reflection in the mirror. Not great, but not bad, either. She pulled the elastic band from her hair and ran her fingers through it. She had on the same clothes as earlier, minus the press pass.<
br />
  She got out and glanced up and down the block as she made her way up the concrete walk. The thick lawn needed mowing, but the flower beds beneath the windows were devoid of plants. A thin strip of light outlined a shade covering one of the windows, indicating someone was home, and Bailey felt a surge of nervousness as she approached the door. She hoped he didn’t have company.

  She rang the bell and waited, listening to the muffled sound of a television inside.

  She rang again. The TV noise ceased. A moment later the peephole went dark briefly, and the door swung open.

  Jacob stood there in faded jeans, no shirt. Bailey’s mind went blank. His hair was mussed, and his slick skin was covered in a thin layer of . . . something.

  “Hi,” he said, clearly surprised.

  “Hey. I hope it’s not too late.”

  He stared at her for a second, then stepped back to let her inside.

  The spacious room had gleaming wooden floors and no furniture. The air smelled of sawdust.

  “You’re working?” She turned and smiled, trying to seem more relaxed than she felt.

  “Yeah.” He looked down at her for a long moment, and those deep brown eyes made her nerves flutter. She kept her focus on his face, but it was hard not to gape at his muscular arms and perfectly sculpted torso. His feet were bare, too. He rested his hands on his hips and watched her curiously, but she didn’t explain what she was doing here.

  “I was about to take a beer break,” he said. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He turned and led her across the room, and she noted a ladder in the corner beside a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Squares of sandpaper littered the floor.

  “You really are doing it yourself,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “You thought I lied?”

  “No, it’s just people say that. But what they really mean is they’ve hired a crew.”

  Hannah’s husband made his living off people like that, and Austin was getting more of them each day as people moved down from the Bay Area and New York to take advantage of a lower cost of living. The tech sector was thriving, and the city had been nicknamed Silicon Hills.