Hidden

by Laura Griffin

  After pulling a glove on, Jacob stepped into the studio apartment and caught a whiff of bleach. It was faint, but it was one of those things he noticed instantly since becoming a cop.

  The studio was sparsely furnished with a gray futon with red throw pillows, a gray armchair, and a light wood coffee table. A tiny kitchen that consisted of about four square feet of checkered linoleum lined the far wall.

  “Not much of a kitchen,” Kendra observed.

  “More than I’ve got.” Jacob stepped over to the stove, which was spotlessly clean. He took a mini-Maglite from his pocket and shined it over the sink. It looked clean, too. There was a pedal-operated trash can. Jacob stepped on the pedal and found the can empty—not even a bag.

  Kendra opened the fridge. “No food. No drinks. Whoever was staying here didn’t leave much. Or else Rydell cleaned the room right after he left.”

  “Rydell could have been dead by then. Maybe the guest cleaned up after himself. And how do we know when he left?” Jacob asked.

  “We don’t.”

  Jacob walked down a short hallway and opened a door to find a closet with a set of gray sheets and gray towels, along with an unopened three-pack of soap. He stepped into a tiny bathroom, where the bleach smell was stronger. The bathroom had a prefab shower stall and a Formica vanity with a small sink. Jacob shined his flashlight around the rim.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He glanced at Kendra behind him in the mirror. “I don’t like coincidences,” he said.

  “You’re talking about the timing?”

  “The timing. The knife wound. The Illinois plates.”

  She crossed her arms. “So, you’re thinking what? McKinney’s hit man came down here, checked into this room, murdered Dana Smith, aka Robin Nally, and then decided to kill the man who rented him the room before leaving town? Why do that?”

  “Could be Rydell saw something or heard something he wasn’t supposed to,” Jacob said. “I mean, look around. The place is immaculate and it reeks of bleach.” He took out his flashlight and shined it over the vanity. Crouching down, he studied the lip of the sink. “Check this out.”

  “What?” Kendra knelt beside him, and he pointed his flashlight at a tiny brown speck on the underside of the faucet.

  “Blood,” she said. “Maybe he cut himself shaving.”

  “Or cleaned up a murder weapon.” Jacob stood. “We need a CSI in here with some luminol. Ten-to-one odds, this place lights up like a Christmas tree.”

  * * *

  * * *

  PAIN POUNDED THROUGH Tabitha’s head. Her eyes seemed to be glued shut.

  She managed to lift her lids, but closed her eyes again, wincing at the light.

  The pain intensified. It had a sound. A rhythm. It echoed through her head and traveled down her body to her toes, making everything in between throb, too.

  She wanted water. Her tongue felt dry and thick. The thought of a tall glass of water made her open her eyes again.

  She was in a dim room with wavy, flower-printed walls. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the pain. Where was she?

  She tried again, opening her eyes a slit. The room was small. There was a faint beeping noise coming from somewhere close by. She looked around. The wavy, flower-printed walls weren’t walls at all. She was surrounded by a curtain.

  The memories crashed over her all at once—the headlights, the impact, the rush of voices and sirens. There had been a man with dark hair looming over her with something blue over his mouth and nose. A mask.

  You’re in the hospital. Can you tell me your name?

  Tabitha sat up. Pain blasted through her skull, taking her breath away. She fell back against the pillow.

  She was in a hospital. She wasn’t alone. She sensed people on the other side of the curtain.

  Looking around now, she noticed the IV bag. The tube attached to her hand. The plastic bracelet. She lifted her hand and looked at it, struggling to bring the blurry words into focus.

  WALKER, TABITHA

  An electric jolt went through her. She sat forward. As she stared at the bracelet, her breath came in shallow gasps and her head seemed to expand like a balloon.

  They knew her name.

  How did they know it? She was supposed to be Rachel Moore, known as “Red” to her co-workers.

  She glanced around frantically. Tucked around her was a blue blanket. Beside the bed was a table covered with equipment. There was a chair, too, and on it was a folded pair of jeans and a black T-shirt.

  Her clothes.

  She glanced down and realized she was wearing a thin cotton hospital gown. How long had she been here? Had she been asleep? In surgery?

  Tabitha’s heart thudded as she looked herself over. Aside from the IV in her hand, everything seemed okay. No casts or bandages. The pain seemed to be centered in her head, radiating down from the back of her skull.

  A memory flashed through her brain: headlights coming at her. A screech of brakes. She must have conked her head on the pavement when she bounced off the hood of that car. She remembered a crowd of legs around her and wailing sirens.

  Tabitha glanced at her wrist again, and the sight of her name sent a burst of adrenaline through her. She pulled off the covers and swung her legs out of bed. She tugged the IV from her hand. A drop of blood oozed out, and she dabbed it with the edge of the gown.

  She stood up, but her knees buckled and she sat down. Shaking off the dizziness, she tried again and took a wobbly step toward the chair. Pain ricocheted through her head as she pulled off the hospital gown and reached for her jeans. It took her two tries to step into them. She shoved her fingers into the front pocket.

  No wallet! Panic seized her again. The hospital must have confiscated it. Or someone had stolen it. The result was the same. Half of the money she so desperately needed to leave town was gone.

  Her bra and underwear were in tatters. It looked like someone had cut them off her with scissors. Same for her T-shirt. She pulled the shirt on anyway and saw that it had been sliced right up the front. She tied the ends together at her navel and blinked down at herself. Her gaze landed on the wristband again, spurring her into action.

  She moved toward the curtain and opened it a few inches to see another hospital bed. On it was a long mound covered with a blue blanket. The person was turned away, and she couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. Beside the bed was a pair of plastic slippers. After a quick glance around, Tabitha stepped through the curtain. Her legs felt like wet noodles, but she managed to slide her feet into the shoes, which turned out to be man-sized.

  She crept to the edge of the man’s curtain and peered out.

  The room was long and rectangular with lots of beds and curtains. The space was dimly lit except for a counter at one end where two women in scrubs sat in front of computers. One wore a headset and seemed to be talking on the phone. The other woman was hunched over the desk reading something. Beyond the desk was a glowing red EXIT sign.

  Tabitha took a deep breath to steady herself. She studied the curtains. Four stalls between her and that exit. She eased past the bed, and the body there shifted. Tabitha froze. She held her breath as she watched him. He shifted again, grunting, but his eyes stayed shut. He was out cold.

  Carefully, quietly, Tabitha crept past him.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE POLICE STATION was humming with activity. Bailey watched from the bench as a steady flow of people streamed in and out. Today’s visitors looked to be a mix of patrol officers, defense attorneys, and off-duty cops.

  Bailey’s cell phone vibrated, and she glanced down to check it.

  SBUX 10 min.

  The response put a knot in her stomach even though she’d expected it. Jacob didn’t want to talk to her at the police station. And she didn’t blame him.
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br />   Bailey gathered her messenger bag and hiked down the street to the coffee shop. She needed to suck it up and not let her feelings get in the way of her work. She had a job to do, and she couldn’t get distracted by a budding—or fizzling—romance with the lead detective. Right now she needed his help, and she figured she had a decent chance of getting it if she kept things professional. Jacob was a good cop. He wouldn’t turn his back on a victim in need.

  She was counting on it.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder as she reached the coffee shop. All morning she’d been jumpy and she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched.

  Bailey didn’t need any more caffeine, so she stood in line for a juice and snagged a stool at the long wooden table facing the window. The guy next to her finished off a scone and got up, leaving behind a pile of crumbs. As she sipped her drink and waited, Bailey noted the security camera mounted above the coffee shop door. She was hyper-aware of every camera she spotted now, and they seemed to be everywhere.

  Jacob walked in right on time and peeled off his shades. He scanned the room, probably looking for any cops he knew.

  “Hi,” he said, taking the stool beside her.

  “Busy morning?”

  He nodded. “You heard about the homicide by the airport.”

  “Yep.”

  He glanced at his watch. “The press conference is at noon. Don’t you need to—”

  “It’s not mine. They gave it to the weekend reporter. I’m off today, finally. First weekend this month.”

  His eyes turned wary. She hadn’t invited him here to talk about a fresh homicide.

  “You wanted to know about last night,” she said. “I told you I’d explain.”

  His look of surprise confirmed what she’d thought yesterday—that he hadn’t actually believed she’d tell him. He definitely still had trust issues.

  Jacob leaned his elbow on the table. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  She took a deep breath. “So. I’ve been looking into the federal witness protection program.”

  He didn’t look happy with the segue. “That’s not really your beat, is it?”

  “This goes way beyond any beat.” Bailey leaned closer. “If someone managed to penetrate the witness protection program, that’s huge. Just think of the law enforcement implications. Think of all the lives in jeopardy, the cases in jeopardy. Without cooperating witnesses, federal prosecutions would grind to a halt.”

  “What’s this got to do with where you were last night?” he asked. He seemed impatient now. Or maybe he wasn’t thrilled about her pursuing such a high-stakes story.

  “Since Wednesday, I’ve been trying to figure out how someone uncovered the new identity of a protected witness,” she said. “Is there a hole in the government’s program? I thought maybe someone at the Bureau or the Marshals Office messed up. Or maybe someone paid off a federal agent to leak Robin Nally’s alias and then passed it along to some hit man. But what I discovered was worse.”

  “Worse than someone selling her out to a hit man?”

  “Turns out, a hit man didn’t need her alias. He only needed her face.”

  Jacob’s brow furrowed.

  “When Robin went into the program, they gave her a new name, a new social security number, a new location. She built a whole new life for herself here, but none of that mattered because her face had already been added to a vast privately controlled database of faceprints. All someone had to do was query the program, and they got a hit.”

  “Privately controlled as in Granite Tech,” he stated.

  “Right.”

  “I thought they did background checks and document security?”

  Clearly, he’d been checking up on the company ever since Bailey hinted they might be linked to his murder case.

  “That’s not all they do.”

  “And is this a theory or do you know it for a fact?” he asked.

  “It’s confirmed. My source—”

  “Who is that again?”

  “Stop asking me that. My source confirmed that Robin is in the database. Anyone looking for her could have found recent images of her.” She swiped at her phone and brought up a photo Seth had sent her this morning. It showed a woman with long dark hair walking across a busy intersection. In the background was the UT clock tower.

  Jacob frowned at the image. “This is on campus.”

  “Right. They’ve got a number of surveillance cams there. This was captured last month. I’m guessing she was going to meet Celeste Camden and her daughter, Jillian.”

  Bailey had probably been captured by the same camera walking through the very same intersection just a few days ago.

  “You think someone found her based on this surveillance photo?” Jacob sounded skeptical. “With the dark hair, it doesn’t even really look like Robin Nally.”

  “That’s not the only photo. Look at this one.” She opened the second image Seth had sent. “The angle is straight on, and the facial features are clearer. This is her employee badge from Villa Paloma. Once someone had this, they could figure out where she worked. And once they knew where she worked, they could go there and wait for her to show up and then follow her around and learn her routines.”

  Jacob looked tense, but he didn’t talk. He waited for her to fill the silence. It was one of those conversational tricks he used to get information from people while giving up as little as possible. Bailey knew his tactics because she used them, too.

  But Jacob’s silence didn’t matter. She didn’t need him to confirm all this.

  “I’m thinking maybe he learned that she ran at the lake every morning,” she said. “And he figured that would be a good time to catch her alone, with the added benefit that the crime might look like a random mugging or sexual assault gone wrong instead of what it actually was—a carefully planned hit.”

  Jacob slid the phone back. “I need your source. And I’m not fucking around, Bailey. Whoever it is, I have to talk to him.”

  “About Tabitha Walker, right? I already did.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s a freaking mess. The worst-case scenario. I submitted a photo of Tabitha to the system through my contact. He got multiple hits.”

  Jacob rubbed his hand over his chin. “Where’d you get a picture of her? I’ve been looking, and I’ve come up with nothing for Tabitha Walker, not even a driver’s license photo from when she lived in Illinois.”

  “Maybe she never had one. Or maybe the feds pulled her records from the database at some point. I tracked down a picture of her from the student newspaper at DePaul University. They ran a story about some service organization, and she was the treasurer. Look.”

  She brought up the screen shot on her phone—the same screen shot she’d given Seth to use. It showed a smiling young Tabitha standing in front of the student center collecting cans for a holiday food drive.

  “Damn, she looks young,” Jacob muttered.

  “She is. That was taken her junior year, so she was probably twenty.” Bailey looked at the picture, and anger swelled in her chest. “I’m sure she never thought her charity work might someday put her in a killer’s crosshairs.”

  “You think McKinney’s people found this?” Jacob asked.

  “I don’t know. I did. It took a lot of looking, but it’s out there.”

  “And your source ran this through the program?”

  “Yes. He used it as a probe photo and got several hits, not just one. All within the last two months, and all in the same city.”

  “You’re saying—”

  “I know where Tabitha is, Jacob.”

  “Let me guess. New Orleans.”

  She drew back, startled. “How did you know?”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JACOB DIDN’T ANSWER. He just watched her.


  “Oh my God. Is she—”

  “As far as I know, she’s alive,” he said.

  Bailey waited, as though she wanted him to reveal more. But he wasn’t going to talk about the cell phone he’d recovered near the murder scene or the call they’d traced to a cell tower in New Orleans.

  She tapped at her phone and brought up another photo. “Here’s one of the images.”

  “This is in the database you’re talking about?” He took the phone from her.

  “Yes. They’ve got more than a billion images.”

  He blinked at her. “A billion?”

  “Yes, and they’re gaining more every day.”

  “Where are they getting them?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. From what I know so far, there’s some hacking involved.”

  “And this company is local?”

  “Headquartered right on Lake Austin.”

  He was starting to understand the scope of this story and why she’d been so motivated to pursue it. A billion faceprint images from across the country. A privately controlled database just waiting to be queried. He tried to imagine the national security implications if a database like that were to fall into the wrong hands.

  He looked at the photo on her phone again.

  “There are two images of Tabitha similar to that one. Keep swiping. See?” She eased closer, and he tried not to get distracted by the scent of her hair. “Each of these images was taken from a police camera in the French Quarter.”

  Jacob studied the pictures, then swiped back through and studied them again. Each image showed a woman with short hair and glasses crossing a busy street with lots of people around her. “You’re sure this is her?”

  “The computer is sure. At least, sure enough to identify her. The haircut and the glasses are probably part of her new look.”

  “This is Jackson Square. I recognize the cathedral in the background.”

  “That’s right. And each of these images is time stamped between three forty and three forty-eight. So, wherever she’s going, she goes there at the same time of day. If I had to bet, she’s going to a job near the square.”