“You’ll have to unlock it,” Austin added.
Another shrug from Billy. “Okay. It’s on the charger.”
“Go get the SUV,” I said to Austin, and Vance tossed him the keys. Austin headed back through the woods on foot, at a jog, while Vance and I escorted Billy to his trailer.
Billy marched into the living room without a hint of modesty. He plucked his phone from the charger and unlocked it, then dropped it in my open palm on his way past me into the master bedroom. A room I’d spent considerable time in, two years ago.
Vance followed him and left the door open.
While Billy got dressed—Vance told him to pack a small bag—I scrolled through his texts and emails. Through the open windows in his browser, hitting the back button ad nauseam. Then through his cached history. There was nothing on his phone that referenced any of the victims, the most recent of which was Yvette Graham-Mattheson, and nothing in any of his map searches that indicated he’d ever been to Covington, where Yvette, Bishop, and Austin lived. In fact, his most recent map search was nearly eight months old, which seemed to indicate that unless he had another phone or a separate GPS unit somewhere, he hadn’t left town in at least that long, unless he’d gone somewhere he was familiar enough with that he wouldn’t need directions.
His ancient truck did not have built-in GPS capabilities.
Austin pulled up in Vance’s SUV as I was securing Billy’s hands at his back with a zip tie. He got into the back without complaint.
We drove Austin to his 4Runner, and he followed us back to the Fat Cat, where Vance and Tucker had Billy locked up in the basement a full two hours before he was due to show up for his shift.
With any luck, the lunch crowd would never even know he was there.
“Well?” Tucker said as he closed the basement door.
Davey held up one finger, telling us to wait as she pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. She was on the phone, trying to cover Billy’s shift.
She came back in as I was pulling a stack of burger patties from the walk-in fridge. “Okay, Mitch will be here at nine to prep and open for lunch. We’ll need someone else to start cooking at five, though, when he goes home.”
I shrugged. “I still remember how to sling burgers.” Assuming I could catch a nap before then.
“Debrief?” Tucker asked as Bishop came in from the front room.
Another shrug, as beef sizzled on the hot griddle. “No smoking gun. He didn’t resist arrest. We found him shifting back into human form outside the trailer.”
“Seriously?” Bishop sounded incredulous, and that was understandable. A shifter was never more vulnerable, in any single moment of life, than when he was defenseless in mid-shift. Which meant that Billy had not only chosen not to run from us, but he had intentionally put himself at our mercy.
I nodded. “We haven’t questioned him yet, because he’s high, but that won’t last long.” It was as hard for a shifter to stay high as it was to stay drunk. “So far, he seems to have no idea why we were at his home, or that we could have been any threat to him whatsoever.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Davey asked.
“Well, Billy needs to sober up, and I owe Eamon another phone call. And if he doesn’t answer the goddamn phone this time, I’m going to fly to Montana and rip the information out of him in person.” I flipped all six burgers, then turned to the row of plated buns Vance had set out on the prep station. “Where are we with Billy’s alibi?”
“Still working it,” Davey said as she sliced tomatoes on a chopping block. “It’s taking us a while to narrow down the dates, considering that Yvette is the only one we have good information for.”
“Fine.” I dropped an onion into the industrial slicer and turned the crank, while Vance slapped slices of cheddar onto the buns. “Tucker, where are we on verifying Billy’s identity?”
“Nowhere. But it turns out that if Billy Bullenisan alias, he hasn’t entirely stopped using his real name, including his father’s surname. Denny Morelock still has at least one social media account, which was last active two days ago.”
I divided the stack of sliced onions among the waiting buns. “Do we know that it’sourDenny Morelock?”
Tucker shrugged. “The publicly accessible data says he’s from Tennessee, and Billy Bullen is listed as one of his friends, so there’s a good chance. All of his photos are friend-locked, though, so I created a fake account and sent him a friend request. If he accepts it, I should be able to see at least some of his photos.”
“You think Billy has an account under both of his names?” And would be stupid enough to friend his own alias?
Another shrug from Tucker, as I began slathering top buns in mayo and mustard. “If he does, we may be able to link him to some of the victims through that other account. I’ll let you know when I know more.”
“Thanks.” I handed him the plate holding the first finished burger and dismissed him to return to his laptop. “Everyone else help yourselves. I have to make a phone call. And Bishop, stay the hell out of the basement!”
“Pick. Up. The phone,” I mumbled around a big bite of my burger as the phone rang in my ear. And rang. And rang. Yes, it was an hour earlier in Montana, but—
The phone went to voicemail again, so I hung up and redialed. And chewed. Then redialed. And chewed. Then redialed. And—
