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made two calls on it, and nothing incoming.”
“Nothing? Did you confirm the number I gave you?” Jacob had texted Luis with the number of Dana’s phone, according to Celeste Camden.
“Yeah, that’s the other thing. That number doesn’t match.”
“It’s not her number?”
“Not on this phone it isn’t.” Luis slid the device across the counter. “This is a different number.”
“What’s the area code?”
“Nine three seven. But that doesn’t necessarily tell you anything because these burners are sold in batches to stores like Walmart, Target, Best Buy. It could have come from anywhere.”
“Can you track down the batch?”
“Maybe, but you’re missing the point. She had two outgoing calls, and one of them was made Saturday.”
“As in three days ago?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Saturday at 6:26 a.m. Based on the timeline the ME gave us, that sounds like she called someone right around the time she was murdered.”
Jacob stared down at the phone. This lead sounded too good to be true, and maybe it was. Luis slid a slip of paper in front of him. It had two ten-digit numbers scrawled across it.
“Top number is her phone,” Luis said. “Bottom number is the one she called.”
“What about the first phone call?”
“Both outgoing calls were to the same number.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“Have you tried—”
“I called this number from another phone, but it’s out of service. I’m still working on this, though, so I’ll let you know when I have more.” He nodded at the file folder in Jacob’s hand. “What’s that?”
“A picture of the victim’s tattoo. I’m looking for someone who can translate the words.” He handed him the folder.
“That’s easy.” He tapped each of the characters. “Love, strength, happiness.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
Jacob sighed. “I was thinking it might say a name. Or something about flight.”
“Because of the robin?”
“Yeah.”
“Birds are pretty common, as far as women’s tattoos go. Maybe she just liked the design.” He handed back the file.
“Thanks for the language help. I didn’t know you were an expert.”
“My mom is from Hong Kong. I spent ten years in Saturday school.”
Jacob’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. Bailey. He stood and stepped into the neighboring cubicle, where Muse was playing.
“Hey, I’m tied up right now,” he told her.
“I figured, or you would have called me.” She didn’t sound irritated, but he definitely caught something in her tone.
“Can I call you later?” he asked.
“When?”
“When I get off work.”
“It’s better if you come by. I need to talk to you face-to-face. It’s about the case.”
Jacob didn’t say anything. Going to her home was a bad idea, for many reasons. But he didn’t want to say no.
“When do you get off?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Probably seven or eight.”
“Come by my place, even if it’s late.”
Jacob paused. “Which unit?”
“Two fifteen.”
He was committed now. Unless he made up an excuse.
“And don’t blow me off,” she said. “It’s important.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
BY NINE O’CLOCK, Bailey decided he’d blown her off. She sat cross-legged on her sofa, stroking Boba Fett’s ears while she read through the autopsy report on her computer for the third time.
Murder cases were the worst ones she covered, partly because of ME’s reports. She hated the dense passages filled with clinical prose that distilled a life, a person, down to a few stock phrases. It was the same thing she hated about funerals. People issued emotional clichés that, at best, gave a snapshot of someone’s life but didn’t come close to giving a full picture.
Bailey closed out of the document and sighed. Glancing up at the ceiling, she wondered about her upstairs neighbors. Not a sound tonight, which probably meant they were out. It was nice to have some quiet, but they could come home stumbling drunk at any time.
Boba Fett got up and rubbed his chin against her arm.
“What’s up with you?” she asked, scratching his neck. Usually, he was sacked out in her bedroom by now, not wide awake and clamoring for attention. Maybe he sensed her nervous energy tonight. Bailey was wired. She felt like she’d had three cups of coffee, but she hadn’t had a drop since the morning.
Her cat settled back on his haunches and watched her with those sea-green eyes, and his look of concern reminded her of Hannah.
How do you do your job, Bay?
Her sister had asked that once after reading a three-part series Bailey had written about online sex predators grooming kids as young as nine.
It was a strange question coming from someone who dealt with blood and sickness every day, and Bailey had tossed the question right back