After the dayI’ve had, I purposely wait until after five to return to Second Sight’s office. I’m not in the mood for conversation. My target was sitting in a coffee shop for three hours today, and I didn’t notice until she left.
Zephyr’s smart. Knew exactly how to disguise herself so her face wouldn’t trigger any of Wren’s facial recognition algorithms. Oversized glasses, a scarf wound around her neck and over her mouth… She even walked with a bit of a limp.
Thank God Dax is gone for the day. I donotwant to explain how I managed to lose her on the fringe of Back Bay. One moment she was two blocks ahead of me, and the next? Gone.
I sprinted to the alley I thought she’d gone down and found nothing but a tall chain-link fence. I’d bet money she climbed it and took off in another direction, but hell if I know where.
Dropping into my chair, I open my laptop and send Wren an email. If anyone can figure out where Zephyr went, it’s her. She’s offline, and I don’t want to call her in case she’s resting.
Street View of the area shows me a dozen different ways to disappear. The T station less than a hundred feet from the fence, a women’s clothing store on the corner, and a bus stop across the street.
“Fuck it. She could be anywhere by now.” Martín Levi—aka Michael Lawrence—has an account at the Boston National Bank I visited this morning, but despite flashing my PI license and doing my best to charm the manager, I couldn’t get an address or phone number for the man.
A burly shadow passes by my open door, and I frown. “Tank? Do you have a minute?”
The former Army Ranger ambles silently into my office and leans against the door jamb. “I’m on the night shift,” he says, folding his corded arms across his chest. “Got all the time in the world.”
“When you spent that week in Seattle, did Wren and Ripper teach you anythin’ about our facial recognition program?”
His full lips curve into a smile. “Wren might have shown me a thing or two.”
“Brilliant. Can you teach me how to upload a photo and run it against the local traffic cameras?”
Pulling out my phone, I send the only pictures I took of Zephyr to the server while Tank grabs one of my guest chairs and sets it next to me. Up close, he’s almost as intimidating as Ryker. Tattoos cover his arms, the ink only a few shades darker than his skin.
“Crop the photos as much as you can,” he says, gesturing to the three images on my screen. “All those background colors will fuck up the algorithm.”
I’m shit at this tech stuff, and after two attempts, Tank arches his brows and elbows me out of the way.
“When you finish with this case, you need to go out to Seattle and beg Wren to take pity on you and teach you how to use a damn mouse.” With a shake of his head, he crops the three pictures in under a minute, then launches the software.
“Shit. I don’t even have a login.” What was Dax thinking when he promoted me? I’m a low-level screw up and always will be.
“Mum didn’t want you,” my older brother taunts from the seat of his bicycle. “Why do you think your da’ split so fast?”
He and my sister pedal away, leaving me standing on the front steps of the old, run-down row house. At sixteen and seventeen, they can go wherever they want, and no matter how many times I ask to tag along, they always say no.
“Ronan? Pay attention. Ford’s keeping an eye on some bigwig senator tonight, and if he calls for backup, I gotta go.”
Cracking my knuckles, I relish each pop and use the slight pain to pull me out of my memories. “Sorry. I’m makin’ a bags of this case.” Tank stares at me like I’m from another planet, and I groan. “It means I’m fuckin’ everythin’ up. This is my first solo gig. I didn’t see the target forat leastthree hours, and then I lost her somewhere between the South End and Back Bay.”
“Oh, snap.” Leaning back in his chair, Tank blows out a slow breath. “I know I’m the new guy, but Dax isn’t one to make mistakes. If he thought you could handle this case, then you gotta trust him.”
I wish I could.
Instead of listing the dozens of reasons I think my boss is completely off his rocker, I nod.
Tank’s phone buzzes. “It’s Ford. Give that at least fifteen minutes before you bail on it. Okay?” He pushes to his feet, and he’s out the door before I can answer.
Rather than watch the ungodly slow progress bar, I head for the electric kettle next to the coffee machine and set it to boil. Marjorie keeps a stash of Barry’s Gold Blend tea in the cabinet for me, and if I’m lucky, the milk is fresh.
By the time I return with a steaming mug, there are two potential matches listed on screen. The first is a false positive. The woman looks nothing like Zephyr. She’s taller, her skin is half a dozen shades darker, and when I play the video, it’s obvious her legs are much longer.
The next result loads automatically, and I choke on a sip of tea, the hot liquid burning the inside of my nose. Grabbing for a tissue from my desk drawer, I dry my lips and my keyboard without taking my eyes from the screen.
“There you are, Zephyr.” Teal hair falls in an angled bob, and that slight limp is back. Gone is the scarf and bright green rain coat. Now, she’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater, a ball cap, and sparkly sunglasses, despite the rain.
The camera loses her as she turns onto Newbury Street, but now, I have somewhere to look.
