Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,42
programmed it into your phone, and this call is seven minutes long.”
“Aah, yes. I believe that’s—a real estate agent. That’s right. I’m thinking of buying a cabin on the lake.”
Travis laughed. “I don’t think so.” He pulled out his phone and called Dawson. “Hang on just a minute,” he said to Whitley.
When Dawson answered, Travis said, “Hey. I’m with Whitley. Just took a look at his phone and found out he’s been talking to our friend. Want the number?”
“Absolutely.”
Travis read the phone number off to Dawson. “It’s labeled B.W.”
Whitley started to rise. “You can’t do that—”
Travis glared at him. He sat.
Dawson said, “Great. This’ll simplify a lot of things.”
“Thanks.” Travis hung up, then deleted the listing from Whitley’s phone. He turned the congressman’s phone over, took out the battery and dropped it on the floor. “Oh, no!” Travis exclaimed and took a step, stomping on the battery and smashing it. “Look what I’ve done. I’m so sorry. You’ll have to get a new one.” He set the phone back on the desk and dug a couple bills out of his pocket. “Here’s some money for your new battery. Again, I’m truly sorry.” He glanced at his watch and saw that it had been just over two minutes since he’d walked past the secretary.
Travis headed for the door. “When I find the kidnapper, he’s going to be begging the police to let him tell all about who hired him and why. Oh, by the way, I hope you had that number memorized. Because it’s not in your phone anymore.”
To his satisfaction, Whitley’s mouth dropped open as he realized Travis had deleted the phone number. He slipped through the office door and closed it behind him.
Travis scooted past Mary’s desk, giving her a half salute. “Thanks, Mary. Tell the security guys I hate it that I missed them.”
Mary was apparently struck speechless, because she didn’t say a word as Travis left the office and headed toward the rear of the building. He was counting on the guards to come in the front. He slipped down the rear fire stairs and circled the building just in time to see two uniformed men heading up the steps at the front of the building. He waited until they’d entered, then jogged to his car and took off, wondering if Whitley was planning to tell them that a Delancey had come into his office, destroyed his phone battery and walked out.
Once he was back in traffic and headed toward Kate’s, he called Dawson again. “Is it too early to ask if you got anything from that number?”
“Five-and-a-half minutes? Nah. Not too early,” Dawson said wryly. “Dusty’s already done some computer magic and traced the number to a very busy store on Canal Street. Nobody at the shop recalls who bought it, but the store has been helping the NOPD trace the cell phones of a drug ring, so they’ve been trying to get license plates when they can.”
“They have the kidnapper’s plate?”
“Yep. We caught a break there. The plate was partially obscured by mud but it’s a Cook County, Illinois, plate and the first two numbers match the numbers you saw. When we checked with the Cook County DMV, they confirmed the make and model.”
“So it’s the same vehicle I saw. It belongs to the kidnapper.”
“Yep. We’ve been trying to pick up the phone’s GPS signal but we haven’t had any luck. He must turn it off when he’s not using it. But we will. When we call him, Dusty will pinpoint him to the nearest tower, or triangulate off three if we’re lucky.”
“Great,” Travis said.
“Do you have time to drive over here to Biloxi this evening? We could talk about when to get Lucas or Ryker involved.”
“Not tonight. I’m going to be late getting back to Kate’s house and I don’t like her to be there alone in the dark. And I’m not so sure about getting them involved.”
“Okay, but if you try to do something dangerous by yourself, I’ll sic every Delancey on the police force on you if you try.”
“Yeah,” Travis said with a wry chuckle. “I hear you.”
Chapter Eight
Kate had spent the morning reading the rest of the police reports and witness statements in the shoot-out at Paul Guillame’s house. In the afternoon, she’d interviewed both Stamps and Guillame. The interviews had been an exercise in futility. It was as though the two of them had made some kind of pact to say as little as possible about the shooting.
Stamps spent most