“Yeah. Right.” Patrick scowled. He was the strings to the team’s kite, yanking hard whenever the team was stepping way too far over the line. “I’ll keep us on track.”
“And I’ll keep us out of jail,” Angela added with a hint of a grin.
“Sounds great,” Casey responded. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”
With that, she turned to Emma. “Where do things stand on Caitlin’s social media platforms? Have you completed the list of her personal friends?”
“I was as thorough as possible,” Emma told her. “I uploaded everything to the cloud, so it’s all set for you to review.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on. “I don’t know if this falls under Yoda’s jurisdiction, but maybe, if it comes down to it, he could sort through some of this, even categorize it? It’s pretty complicated and time-consuming for us mortals.”
“Good thought,” Casey replied. “Well, Yoda?” she called out. “How are you at analyzing social media data?”
“I’m exceptional at analyzing any data you ask me to, Casey,” Yoda stated. “Ryan has trained me to be extraordinary in all areas.”
Casey rolled her eyes. “Why did I even ask?” She angled her head toward Emma, shot her a proud look. “It’s a great idea. I’ll start with what you’ve given me and take it to Maureen McKay. Hopefully, she’ll meet with Claire and me tomorrow. After that, we’ll run the situation by Ryan, and then turn the project over to Yoda.”
“Just a heads’ up,” Emma added. “I don’t know if it means anything, but one of Caitlin’s friends showed up on Instagram a lot more often than the others; sometimes mentioned in posts, but mostly referenced in a fair number of photos—more than any of Caitlin’s other friends. None of the photos was actually of the two of them, so we can’t identify her with a visual. Lots of pictures of the places they visited together, along with a significant number showing great-looking dinners and desserts they made. Oh, and one was of a mouthwatering-looking brunch that I would have died to take part in. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with the friend’s name, only her handle.”
“What is it?” Casey asked.
“@mimosagirl121. I’m not sure if it has significance. But one thing’s for sure. She’s going out of her way not to disclose her real name anywhere. I cross-referenced with Caitlin’s Facebook friends and posts. Even tried to find that gorgeous brunch photo. Nothing. So you might want to show everything I compiled to Mrs. McKay and ask if she knows anything about her.”
Casey typed in a note for herself. “I will.”
Offices of Forensic Instincts
Ryan’s Lair
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York
11:05 pm
Ryan settled himself behind his computer. He and Claire had stopped for a cup of coffee and herbal tea on their way back from the Bronx, to bandy about the filaments of sensory perception that Claire had picked up off Maureen’s cell phone. Most of them were too vague to give credence to. But the strongest one was the absence of malice, the sense of harmlessness that emanated from the initiator of the text. An unwilling ally? A detached hire?
Something didn’t fit.
The remainder of the drive to FI’s offices was quiet and pensive. As soon as they got there, Claire reluctantly turned the phone over to Ryan. She’d then switched gears, locating the items Marc had left for her, and taken them right upstairs to her yoga room, eager to see what energy she could pick up from them.
At the same time, Ryan had headed directly downstairs to his lair, his mom’s cell phone in hand.
Now he readied himself for a long and intricate process.
“Hey, Yoda,” he said. “We’re on duty tonight. No rest for the weary.”
“I don’t rest, Ryan,” Yoda replied. “I’m always processing data, and I also survey the brownstone when everyone is away.”
“I meant me,” Ryan responded, rolling his eyes. “Unlike you, I require sleep. But I won’t be getting any tonight. And I’ll need you on standby.”
“Consider it done. I’ll await your instructions.”
“Good. We’re tracing a text, sent to my mom from a burner. That’s all we’ve got.”
With that, Ryan logged into his Phonneo account and got busy.
Forehead furrowed in concentration, he went about finding the right API call that would enable him to determine the carrier used to send the cryptic text to his mom’s cell phone. He shifted in his chair, impatient and annoyed at the shitty documentation and examples Phonneo provided.
Finally. He found something he could use. Following the proper syntax, Ryan entered the cURL command in his terminal window. Instant success.
The carrier was National Mobile Telephone, or NMT as it was known colloquially.
