Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,137

doing it. If I could do whatever this is in your place, I would, just to ensure that Mercy and the others have a normal life. But if there is any whiff of danger, we want you out of there.”

Liza nodded, knowing that by keeping Pastor’s presence a secret she was deceiving them, and she hated that. At the same time, having a car that could possibly be traced to an FBI agent was probably not the best idea. Having a car that could be traced to Karl wasn’t, either.

“The Expedition can’t be traced to you?”

“No. I’ve got a tangle of corporations that would keep even the most talented hackers scratching their heads for a while. I should know,” Karl added dryly. “I paid enough for hackers to try to bust in.”

“You’re that scared of stalkers?” Liza asked, now worried for Karl and Irina.

“No, dorogaya maya,” Irina said. “Karl, you have made her afraid for us. Liza, Karl’s marketing business works with celebrities who film endorsements and commercials. There is a lot of information in the company’s computer that could damage some very influential people. Their addresses, phone numbers, children’s names, products or brands that they haven’t yet launched, for example. Good security is necessary.”

“That makes me feel better.” Liza stood, kissing both of them on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll be careful with your SUV.”

“Be careful with yourself,” Karl said gruffly.

“I will.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 8:30 A.M.

“You got all this in eight hours?” Croft asked, looking at the photographs Tom had spread over the conference table in Raeburn’s office, products of his overnight facial recognition searches. “Wow. Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” Tom lied. He hadn’t closed his eyes all night, Liza’s words banging in his head like sledgehammers. I need more than that.

He’d worked at his keyboard for hours, then had run on the treadmill. He’d even bathed Pebbles and baked a cake, but nothing had helped.

I need more than that. At some point he’d stopped hearing her voice say the words, instead hearing his own. I need more than that.

But did he? He didn’t have any idea.

“I mostly let the facial recognition software run,” he went on. “Knowing his initials and that he had a six-year-old son helped narrow things down.”

“So this is Kowalski,” Raeburn mused, examining each photo.

“Roland Kowalski,” Tom said, “when he’s working his drug business.”

Croft was looking at a photo of the man in a fancy three-piece suit. “And Anthony Ward when he’s developing real estate.”

“His office is in Granite Bay,” Tom said. Too close to the Sokolovs’ house.

“Lots of pricey real estate out there,” Raeburn said, turning to the second stack of photos. “His wife and kids, too? How did you find these?”

“His wife’s Facebook page,” Tom said. “Her name is Angelina. Their six-year-old son is Anthony Junior. They call him Tony. They have another son who’s about two.”

Raeburn’s brows went up. “The wife didn’t have her Facebook account locked?”

Tom shrugged.

Raeburn chuckled. “Right. No locks can keep you out.”

“I never said that.” But her password had been criminally easy to break. Her son’s birthday, easy to find from his birth certificate once he had the father’s name. Amateurs.

Raeburn waved a hand as if his denial was of no consequence. “Never mind. Bring the bastard in.”

“We’ll start at his business,” Croft said. “We’re more likely to be allowed in.”

Raeburn nodded. “Take Hall and Summerfield with you. I doubt he’ll come in easily.”

Tom felt a rush of adrenaline at that. He hadn’t been in a takedown situation since Ephraim’s last stand at Dunsmuir. He really wanted to take someone down today.

“Will do,” Croft said. “Anything else?”

Raeburn nodded. “I had your tattoo artist, Dixie Serratt, put in protective custody. She can’t ID Kowalski if she’s been harmed in the general population. When you bring Kowalski in, we’ll put him in a lineup. Any chance that your source would agree to do a visual?”

“Yes. He’s already agreed to that.”

“Good.” Raeburn pushed away from the conference table and returned to the chair behind his desk. “You have your orders. Keep me informed.”

When they were in the hall, Croft lifted a brow. “Who’s your source, Hunter? That sixteen-year-old who brought us Cameron Cook?”

“No.” Tom was saved further reply by the buzzing of his work phone. It was a San Francisco area code. “This is Agent Hunter.”

“This is Cameron Cook.”

Speaking of. Tom stopped midstep and leaned his back against the hallway wall, letting others pass. Croft stood beside him, looking concerned. “Cameron,” Tom said, and Croft tilted her head,