Beck started his Honda Pilot and pulled onto Bryant Street behind them. Tailing the unmarked was a trickier proposition than normal. Now that they were into the small hours of the morning, traffic was scarce, giving him little in the way of vehicles to hide behind. All he could do was hang back and hope for the best. He liked to think his cause was helped by driving the ultraordinary Honda. It was practically urban camouflage. He wondered if cops looked for a tail as a matter of course. He imagined they scanned for illegal activities, but he doubted they figured they were being surveilled. He put that down to the arrogance of their position. Police saw themselves as untouchable, even bulletproof. He guessed he’d soon know if his tail had been spotted or not. The cop driving Zo? wouldn’t do the dirty work himself, not with a person of interest in the car. No, it would be called in, and a separate unit would try to pull him over.
The unmarked cut across the city. He mentally crossed off neighborhoods as they passed through them. He was starting to wonder if this was a wild-goose chase when the unmarked slowed and turned into an apartment complex. The security gate eased back as the cop car approached. It was a small complex, maybe less than thirty units, and Beck chose not to follow them inside. Instead, he pulled over, jogged across the street, and stopped in front of the gate just as it closed. He watched the uniformed cop walk Zo? to her door on the second floor of the unit. It was too dark to make out the number, but he memorized the location. He’d come back during the day to establish her full address. As Zo? let herself in, he turned around, smiling. He knew where Zo? Sutton lived. He had his first data point. Now he could begin planning her recapture.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following morning, Greening was deskbound while Ogawa attended the Jane Doe autopsy. He developed his background check on Zo? Sutton. The databases told an interesting story about her, throwing up a number of red flags he wasn’t expecting to find, namely a number of misdemeanor charges. In the past fifteen months, she’d picked up two disturbing-the-peace charges in San Francisco and a misdemeanor battery charge in Oakland. Reading the police reports, the incidents shared a common thread—Zo?’s temper. She’d gotten into an altercation with someone at a bar or club, which had led to words before turning physical. She pled guilty in all three cases and served her sentence with community service.
The convictions had all happened in a seven-month period. Seemingly, she’d kept her nose clean for the last six months, at least as far as the courts were concerned. However, her name appeared on a number of field interview cards, which had resulted in warnings instead of arrests. There were four during those months, and judging by the addresses, they’d all occurred in and around her neighborhood. The interesting feature to these call outs was the responding officer. Officer Javier Martinez had answered three of the four calls, and he was the arresting officer in one of the disturbing-the-peace cases. He’d also tagged Zo?’s name, asking to be contacted if she was picked up on a charge. It looked as if Zo? had a guardian angel. Greening picked up the phone and left a message for Martinez to contact him.
Greening ran Zo?’s name through the national crime databases, and her name came back clean, other than her and Holli’s abduction. Databases were limited in their reach. They gave him the official account of a person—what they’d done, how much they were worth—but they didn’t tell him about a person. Social media was the place to get a window into someone’s personality. While some saw social media as a twenty-first-century scourge, it was a godsend to law enforcement. People forgot how public they made their lives—even criminals. You were what you retweeted, for better or worse.
He plugged Zo?’s name into Facebook, Pinterest, Tumblr, Google+, Twitter, and all the other usual social media suspects. Zo? had Facebook and Twitter accounts, but both were dormant. The two had been pretty lively until fifteen months ago. Zo?’s last post on Facebook simply said: Vegas, baby! In the string of replies was a comment from Holli that said: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
And it had, he thought sadly.
Zo? hadn’t posted since. Others had. There were comments from friends, asking where she was and what had happened, but no responses from Zo?. Michaela Shannon looked to be a persistent friend. Every few weeks for the past year, up until three months ago, she’d dropped a note on Zo?’s status page. Messages included: “How are you doing?” “Hope you’re OK.” “Call me.” “Where are you?” Her last message had been: “I’m worried about you. Please call.” All her pleas had gone unanswered.
Greening shot Michaela Shannon a private message from his account, introducing himself and asking her to get in contact with him about Zo?.
Greening saw a shadow descend over him. He turned to find a uniform containing a barrel-chested man in his fifties with thick salt-and-pepper hair.
He smiled. “You know, I can cite you for social networking on police time.”
Greening smiled back. “It’s work stuff. Honest.”
“Javier Martinez. You called?”
Greening stood and shook Martinez’s hand. He gestured to his one and only visitor’s chair, and Martinez sat.
Greening didn’t know Martinez but instantly liked him. His friendly manner put Greening immediately at ease. It was such a great asset for a beat cop. Invariably, people encountered the police at the worst moments in their life. It made all the difference if the officer was viewed as someone who was there to help.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Zo? Sutton.”