Nicole had been monitoring Allison Fitch’s mother’s residence for months now. She’d gotten into it within days of Allison’s disappearance, while Doris Fitch was out meeting with Dayton police to discuss what progress was being made in New York to find her daughter. Nicole had used that time to plant a listening device on Doris Fitch’s phone, and another within the apartment itself, and to install a program on the women’s computer that would allow Nicole to monitor it from her own laptop. She’d spoken to Lewis when she ran into a couple of technical hitches and he guided her through it. Nicole was able to read Doris Fitch’s e-mails, anything she wrote on her Word program, even look at all the entries she made on her computer banking program, should Doris make some large, out-of-the-ordinary cash withdrawals. Nicole figured it was only a matter of time before the daughter got in touch.
Not that this system was foolproof. Allison could conceivably approach a third party to relay a message to her mother. But, if and when such a message was delivered, there’d likely be a change in Doris’s routine. She’d book an airline ticket, for example.
Nicole remained hopeful Allison would, at some point, make contact. The former bar employee was probably afraid to do so, with good reason. She’d figure they’d be watching her mother. But Allison might also be hoping these same people would let down their guard after all this time, maybe even think she was dead.
Which was why Nicole had to wait her out. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer. She hadn’t made a dime in months. She was dipping into her reserves.
Maybe it was time for a career change. Get out of this line of work before her luck ran out, if it hadn’t already. She had a bad feeling about Lewis—that maybe, when this was over, he was going to settle up with her for her mistake.
She’d have to be ready.
Waiting for Allison, Nicole had plenty of time to contemplate her situation.
Doris Fitch lived in a low-rise apartment complex in the Northridge area of Dayton, close to 75. Nicole had found a vacant apartment across the street that allowed her a view not only of the Fitch apartment, but the lot where she parked her car, a black Nissan Versa.
It wasn’t possible to sit here by the window and watch the woman’s place twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nicole needed provisions. She needed sleep. But she’d covered herself in this area. The surveillance equipment was voice activated. The moment it was engaged, the recording equipment began. If the Versa moved, a tiny beacon would alert Nicole.
Still, it was prudent to stay close. She worried that the second she took her eyes off the apartment a cab with Allison Fitch in it would stop out front.
Nicole’s cell rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey,” Lewis said.
“Yeah,” Nicole said.
“Something’s come up,” he said.
“I’m occupied.”
“You have to go to Chicago.”
The way this son of a bitch was talking to her lately. She didn’t like it.
“Can’t,” she said.
“Not up for debate. It’s as important as what you’re waiting on now.”
“What’s in Chicago?”
“You got your laptop in front of you?”
“Hang on. Okay, go ahead.”
“Go to the Whirl360 site. You know it?”
“Yeah.”
“Go to New York. Orchard Street. I’m guessing you know the address.”
Nicole thought, Huh? She opened a browser, went to the site, entered the relevant address. It took a few seconds for the images of the street to load.
“Okay, so I’m on the street,” she said. “What’s the deal?”
“Pan up.”
Nicole clicked and dragged her finger down across the laptop’s track pad, altering the perspective on the image as the focal point moved from street level to the building’s third floor. To the apartment she had been in one time.
She saw the window.
She clicked to blow up the image.
“Tell me I’m not seeing this,” she said.
SHE never even thought about flying. She could drive to Chicago in four hours. Take I-70 West, skirt the north side of Indianapolis, grab I-65 all the way to Gary, then follow I-90 the rest of the way.
She hoped that if Allison Fitch decided to visit her mother over the next day, she’d make it an extended visit.
Lewis had given Nicole a name: Kyle Billings. Thirty-two years old. Had worked for Whirl360, at their Chicago head office, for three years. According to the information Nicole had, Kyle was responsible for, among other things, overseeing the program that deleted selected portions of the streetscapes when they were posted online. Vehicle license plates, people’s faces. It was supposed to happen automatically, and Kyle Billings was the lead person entrusted to make sure it did. He’d devised the program.
Nicole needed Kyle to go back into that program and delete an image on Orchard Street before anyone else found it. How the hell had Lewis been tipped to this, she wanted to know. Some guy had shown up at the door, a Whirl360 printout in hand. Lewis was on it, trying to figure out who the guy was.
What a clusterfuck.
First, killing the wrong person.
Then Allison Fitch getting away.
Now this.
Focus.
Wasn’t that what she’d done in Sydney? Focused? Concentrated on the task at hand. Put everything else out of her head. No crowd. No television cameras. No commentators.
Just her and the bars.
That was what she had to do now. Think about what must be accomplished today. Not what she had to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
Today.
What she had to do today was find Kyle Billings, and use all her powers of persuasion to get him to go into the Whirl360 database of streetscapes, erase that image in that third-floor window, and purge it from the database forever.
She knew Kyle Billings would do exactly what she wanted.
Kyle Billings had a wife.
THIRTY-FIVE