He caressed her back, hoping to comfort her. “You can do it.”
Over the course of that evening, Claire-Marie and Casey sat at the bar, then moved to the dance floor. After two dances, Casey walked her back to her friends and left.
“He’s smooth,” Emerson said. “He didn’t touch her, didn’t slow dance with her, didn’t hug her goodbye.”
The second time they met, Claire-Marie was at the club with a different masked man.
“Who’s that?” Emerson asked.
Stryker used IDware to identify the member. “He goes by Zeus. Real name is Rob Consuelo. He’s been a member for four years.”
That evening, Claire-Marie spoke briefly to Casey in passing. The third time, Casey was waiting at the bar when she arrived. He went right over when he saw her and stayed by her side all evening. This time, he walked her to her car.
Before she got in, he handed her a business card. “Claire-Marie told us she met a photographer at the club, then ran into him at the grocery store.”
“He’s stalking them, finding out where they live, then staging a run-in.”
“He’s creating a false sense of security,” she said. “I need one more thing.”
“What, babe?”
“A background check on Lyle Barnham.”
While the background check ran, Stryker checked the program pulling the data from Claire-Marie’s phone. “We’ve got the cell phone data.”
There were thousands of texts, phone calls, and photos. He downloaded the data into a report they could filter. When he searched for Casey Quinn in her address book, he got a hit.
“This might be him,” Stryker said. “She’s got a ‘Casey’ in her contact list, no last name.” He aggregated the data and threw the text thread onto a wall monitor.
She covered his hand with hers. “I love working with you.”
Stryker leaned over, kissed her. “Me, too, baby.”
Emerson squeezed his hand, then read the text thread out loud. “See you Sat,” Casey had texted. “Perfect weather for test shots.”
A few days later, Claire-Marie texted back. “Saturday was great! I have to cancel our photo shoot. Sorry! Work deadline.”
“Casey never replied,” Stryker said. “A few days later, she sent another text to him.”
“So glad we ran into each other,” Emerson read out loud. “Thx for coffee. See you later with the gowns!”
Emerson shook her head. “He’s a master at gaining their trust.”
Stryker pulled up a computer program. “I’m gonna call him, but block him from tracing it.” He typed in the number. After a few seconds, the line connected, but the call went to a computerized message.
“This number is not set up to receive voice mail.”
Stryker disconnected. “He knows what he’s doing. I can’t triangulate a phone that’s off, but I can create a program so when he turns it on, the system will capture his location and notify me. And just to piss him off, I’ll download his phone data.”
Her smile brightened her eyes. “I love how smart you are.”
“We make a good team.”
She nodded before checking the time. “It’s late. Let’s take off.”
After Stryker wrote the program, he saw that Lyle’s background check was completed. They read the report.
Lyle Barnham was twenty-five years old and a resident of Palm Beach, Florida. Three years ago, he graduated from a small Florida college. Since then, he’d had a string of jobs. Pizza joint, grocery store, and courier. He was the only child of Tee and Carla Barnham.
