Olin moved out of the doorway.
Connor followed him in and closed the door. “All right,” he said as soon as he turned around. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Remember how I told you I found Dylan’s house using her IP address? I used it again to get on to her computer.” Connor had explicitly avoided the phrases “break in to her computer” and “hack into her computer” because they both had a ring of criminality that wouldn’t sit well with Olin.
Apparently, though, his word choice didn’t make any difference. “What?” Olin threw his hands up in the air. As they came down, he grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled his head forward with frustration. “If they find out what you did—”
“They won’t.”
“—and they figure out you’re the one who did it . . .” He let go of his hair, looked back up. “It’s not going to be hard to link that to the break-in, and then . . .”
He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. Connor got the idea. “They’re not going to figure it out. I know what I’m doing.”
“Really? Dylan already traced your last hack back to you.”
Connor ignored the commentary. “I did some searching online and found Dylan’s cellphone number. Then I traced that back to AT&T, and from there to a device. A Samsung Galaxy, to be precise, which was exactly what I was hoping I would find. There’s a lot of stuff out there about hacking Androids. I normally stay away from all that. But this—it seemed like it might be worth making an exception for. Anyway, to make a long story short . . .” He pulled out his iPhone, browsed to a website, entered some information, and turned the phone around so Olin could see the screen.
On it, there was a map. Pale yellow background. White lines for streets and gray boxes for buildings. And a single blue dot.
“You see that dot? That’s Dylan’s cellphone. As long as we know where her phone is, we know where she is.”
“What if she leaves it at home?”
“She won’t. That thing is probably glued to her hand.”
“She might.”
“Would you leave your phone at home?”
Olin shrugged, but it was halfhearted. Then he asked, “Where is she now?”
Connor already knew the answer to that question. The dot hadn’t moved since he had first started tracking it. But, to illustrate for Olin how the app worked, he pinched the screen to zoom out. When he did, street names appeared on the map. “She’s at home,” he said, once again turning the phone around so Olin could see.
Olin bit down on his lip like he had in the laundry room of Dylan’s house. It seemed to be his go-to move when he wanted to think. “How does that thing work?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—if you somehow managed to get an app installed on her phone, don’t you think she might notice that?”
“Maybe. But she probably has tons of apps on that thing. I doubt she’ll notice one more right away.”
Olin considered this as well, then added, “So we just wait for her to leave and then what? Follow her?”
“Not literally, of course. We don’t have to. But we should stay close. That way, when she ends up in a public location, somewhere she won’t feel threatened, we can talk to her.”
“Like we did Roland?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Connor put his phone back in his pocket. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he snapped. He waited ten or fifteen seconds for Olin to say something, then turned to leave.
“No, no. I’ll come.”
“Are you sure?”
“At this point, what is there to lose?”
CHAPTER 35
It had been a long time since Oldrich Kozar had thought about the Heather Callahan murder case, and a lot longer than that since he had worked it. The case had stuck with him for a while. At the time, he had only been a detective for eleven months, and while it wasn’t his first murder investigation, it was the first one he had been told to lead.
It was a sink-or-swim moment.
Back in those days, Oldrich was lean and strong. He had an ease of movement and a charm that made people think he was more confident than he was. Inside, he was a ball of nerves. Not just about the case—everything put him on edge, but the case only made it worse. He had been determined to solve it. He’d believed by doing so he might feel like the man everyone already seemed to think he was.
In retrospect, it hadn’t taken long to make an arrest.
At first, perhaps just as a matter of course, he had suspected her husband, Frank Callahan. But staff working the Intercontinental Hotel’s front desk had reported seeing him leave the building some ten minutes earlier, and right about the same time he had learned that, a love note had pointed him to a new suspect. A busboy for the hotel had said that same suspect had been in Heather’s room when he’d brought fresh towels up. Guests in a neighboring room had heard screams not minutes later. And, as if all that weren’t enough, her husband admitted during questioning that Heather had been having an affair. It was the reason he had left the hotel alone. He was angry and needed some time to himself.
They had fought, he said. She had promised to end it. Presumably, that was exactly what she was doing—or trying to—when she’d been killed.
Oldrich remembered these facts well. But these were what he thought of as top-level facts. They were not the kinds of things that would help Olivia now. If there was anything to be found in this long-closed case, it would be in the details.
Oldrich sat at his desk
