Sean wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed that Brian was wrong, that this traced straight back to his failure to stay sharp. But Grace needed him thinking, not spiraling.
He drew a rough breath and gave a stiff nod. “All right.”
Forcing himself to focus, he scanned the back lot. Deputies were canvassing every business and residence within three blocks. BCI techs searched the dumpster, Grace’s car, and the area surrounding them inch by inch for fibers, prints, tire tracks—anything. The lack of security cameras gnawed at him. In a larger city, every alley would have been under surveillance.
Some people in Whisper were too trusting for that.
“Got something!”
Sean and Brian spun as Rafe jogged down the alley from the opposite direction, Brad and Matt flanking him. Behind them came a television camera crew and an older man struggling to keep pace.
Sean’s first instinct was fury.
The media.
The last thing he needed.
He was halfway to telling them exactly where they could shove their cameras when Rafe raised a hand.
“We think we might have him on camera. Mr. Tomkins lives down the side street. He was walking his dog and saw a man sitting in a white sedan at the end of the lot, but didn’t think anything of it.”
The older man adjusted his glasses, his face pale. “I’m sorry I didn’t question him.”
“It’s all right, sir,” Rafe said before turning back to Sean. “The news crew was filming at the firehouse for next week’s fundraiser. Their camera was pointed down the street toward Grace’s place.”
Understanding clicked into place, and Sean's hope sprang anew. “So we may have the guy driving past?”
“Yup.”
One of the cameramen lifted a laptop and hit play. “We get an exclusive out of this, right?”
Five pairs of law-enforcement eyes pinned him where he stood.
The man swallowed. “Worth asking.”
Sean barely heard him as the footage rolled. The video fast-forwarded until the firehouse came into view. Cars moved through the frame. One minute passed. Then another.
Beside him, Brian shifted. Sean saw it too.
A white sedan emerged in the distance.
He forced himself to stay silent. They needed Mr. Tomkins to identify it without influence.
“That’s it,” the older man said, pointing. “That sure looks like it.”
Good enough for an APB. But they needed more.
Sean extended his hand. “Give me the laptop. We need the lab to clean up that driver’s image or get a plate.”
The cameraman shook his head. “No need. I’ve got enhancement equipment in the van. Give me ten minutes.”
When every eye turned to Sean, he gave a single nod. “Do it.”
Once the cameraman repositioned the van beside the small rear lot and threw open the sliding side door, Sean climbed into the cramped editing bay while the others crowded outside, waiting. The space smelled of stale coffee and overheated electronics, and there was barely enough room to stand. Twice, he clipped his recovering shoulder against a low cabinet. Pain shot through him, but he ignored it.
His focus never left the screen.
The cameraman worked quickly, adjusting resolution, sharpening pixels, and isolating frames, but the license plate remained illegible, obscured by mud.
