Dax
My phone vibrates on the desk. “Call from: Wren.”
“Tell me you have something.” The headache I’ve had since yesterday turned into a full-blown migraine around 2:00 p.m., and my right eye throbs in time with my heartbeat. Flashes of light mar my limited vision, though at least the nausea subsided quickly.
“Your guy’s name is Louie Stein. Thirty-one years old. And he’s basically a ghost. His driver’s license expired three years ago. No bank accounts, credit cards, leases, loans, or mortgages in his name.”
“Where is he, and why is he after Evianna?” I lay an ice pack over my forehead as I lean back in my chair.
“No fudging clue,” she mutters, and the sounds of typing carry over the line. “But he can’t hide from me for long. He has a private mailbox in Watertown—one of those places that let you pay an extra fee to remain anonymous—and I’m hacking into their system now. Also the traffic cameras around the store. He’s got to have a bank account, a cell phone, or something I can trace. I just need a place to start.”
“How can I help?” I have to do something. Sitting in my office while Evianna’s in danger makes me want to punch the walls, but I can’t surveil her building. Can’t watch traffic camera footage, can’t even go clean up her house.
“I’ll find him, Dax.”
Pain skitters up my arm as I slam my hand against the desk. “Dammit. That’s not what I asked!”
“Whoa there, boss. I’m working my apples off on this—”
“Fuck.” I drop my head as my eyes burn. “I’m an ass.”
“You’re human.” Her voice softens. “And…you care about her. You’re allowed to be…a little overprotective. Pretty sure Ry would have me cocooned in bubble wrap if he could.”
For a minute, neither of us speak. Fingering the scars at my wrist, I straighten my shoulders. “How are you, Wren?”
“What?”
I put that hesitation in her voice. “After Russia…I never asked. Are you…okay?”
She clears her throat, and when she replies, there’s a little wobble to her tone. “I’m mostly good. There are days I’m not sure I’d make it without Ry. I miss Boston. But…it wasn’t home anymore. Not without Z.”
“I should have believed you.”
“Dax—”
“I never met your brother, Wren. For me to judge him—it was wrong. I know you. I trust you. And I let my own shit get in the way.”
“You were there for me—for us—in the end.”
Wren’s computer beeps, and I flinch at the high-pitched noise. The ice pack isn’t doing shit for my headache, so I drop it on the desk, followed by my glasses, so I can rub my eyes.
“Holy snackcakes,” Wren says. “I found Kyle. He gave a fake name, but he was arrested this morning. Public drunkenness. Then tack on resisting and assaulting an officer. He…uh…urinated on the statue of Paul Revere.”
“He still in custody?”
“Oh, heck yeah. He’s not going anywhere. Not with the assault charge. He was booked under the name Jack Simmons.” Wren rattles off the precinct address, and I commit it to memory. Maybe I can do something after all.
“I’m going to try to get in to see him. Find out if he had anything to do with the break-in at Evianna’s.”
“Just…be careful, boss. This case…there are too many layers. Why would someone try to kill Evianna over a thumb drive? A thumb drive she doesn’t know anything about. This is the age of the geek. I might be one of the best, but there are probably a couple dozen other hackers in the world who could break through her company’s firewall and take whatever they wanted. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“I survived Hell, Wren. This case isn’t going to do me in. I’ll contact you tonight.”
Having a purpose leaves me so fired up, I don’t even wait for her to say goodbye.
The police station is a bustle of activity, and the various conversations, shouts, and random noises leave me a little disoriented. The migraine’s fading, but not fast enough. Standing just inside the entrance, I wait, cane clasped in both hands in front of me, hoping for a little assistance.
“Can I help ya’?” The thick, Boston accent booms from just ahead and to my left, and I carefully edge forward until my cane hits the front of a tall desk.
