Detective Ortega introduced them to his technician and stood back while he explained what they had discovered in the documents found with Leana Winslow.
"It's a GPS chip. Our forger must be a forward thinker or a scam artist. He can track the papers anywhere they go, all you need are the proper frequencies and bingo, you've got your satellites looking all over the place. GPS determines location by computing the difference between the time that a signal is sent and the time it is received. Time information is placed in the codes broadcast by the satellite so that a receiver can continuously determine the time the signal was broadcast; that allows the receiver to compute locations."
"So how does this help us? We've got Winslow, we don't need no GPS."
"We can trace the code used by this chip then go back and plot the original signal. Our friend is likely using sequential codes for ease of recording. We should be able to find any or all the chips he has out there."
"So you think we can use this to find Jean Travis?" Bettmeir held a thumb up to Ortega.
"Not by name but the location might help us narrow it down."
Jerry shook his head and backed away, leaving the techies to their toys. This wasn't the police work he was trained in. Ortega checked his watch and said if they wanted to grab a coffee his team should have something to show them in about half an hour. Bettmeir was ecstatic; the captain would soon be singing a different tune about he and Jerry.
They all went to the squad room and grabbed the last of the morning pot, flooded it with cream and sugar to cover the burning bitterness and kicked back in an empty interview room sharing war stories.
Jean had an uneasy feeling about the driver shortly after accepting the ride. He seemed to be always smiling secretly with every question or answer and he had an uncanny knack of guessing personal things about her. She clutched the carry-on tighter and looked for a good place to be let off.
"How come you were thumbing a ride on this road? Car break down somewhere?"
"Something like that."
"You look like you had a nasty fight."
"It was a car accident, okay?"
"Hmmm. So where are you headed?"
"How far are you going?"
"Depends."
Jean looked at him. There was the smile again and she suddenly felt she knew what he was hinting at. She thought back to Cresta's method of controlling Vin and she wondered if she had the skill to try that with this guy.
"On what?"
He looked over at her and the smile faded. "On whether we can do business or not."
"I'm not in that business." She laughed and looked out the window.
"No? What do you call screwing your friends then?"
Jean's head snapped back and she stared at his profile. "What are you talking about?"
The car left the road and turned into a small strip mall and up the service lane to the rear, pulling up next to a large dumpster before stopping. The man cut the engine and Jean felt her armpits grow damp.
"What are you doing? What the hell is this? If you think you're going to—"
"Shut up, Rita."
The use of her name did exactly that and she simply gaped, growing paler by the minute.
"Surprised?" He shifted sideways in the seat and smiled dangerously. "You should choose your business friends a little more carefully. Vinnie sold you out."
Jean sagged in the seat wondering who this was and why he was chasing her. The air seemed to get sucked out of the car and the temperature rose causing her to become clammy all over.
"Who are you?"
"Right now? John Cowley but you wouldn't know him. You probably don't even know me by my real name but you do know of me."
"Look I don't know what you're talking about. Just let me go and thanks for the ride." Jean reached for the door but the hand that clamped her arm nearly caused her to faint.
"Too late, Rita. First of all, you have something I want and second... I'm going to give you something you'll like... a lot."
"I- what do you want?" She tried to pull her arm free.
"The video disc you took at the club."
Suddenly Jean realized who the man was. It had only been a glimpse but the face was the same one she'd seen handing the drugs to Hargrave—this was the owner of Bootheel... Greenbaum. She shrank back, shaking her head.
"I don't have a disc. Elora Gates took it. She threatened to go to the police. She said it wouldn't be any skin off her nose since she wasn't involved. I- I think she would have too. She was only using Hargrave for an advantage."
"Something like yourself." Greenbaum snatched the carry-on away from her and opened it up to reveal the bundles of cash and clothing. "My, my, aren't we flush." He dug around, frowning and then tossed the bag in the back. "Where is it?"
"I told you, I don't have it." He'd missed it and she felt maybe she had a chance of getting out of this.
"Where did you get the money then, and don't tell me I paid the people at the club that well."
"It's- I- I saved—"
Greenbaum slapped her hard, a ringing crack on the side of the face that shocked her earlier bruises and instantly raised a new welt.
"Forget the crap, Rita."
She sobbed, holding her cheek and cowering in the corner.
"The only one I have is in the bag. It's just a session with C-Cropmaster and Chester Hargrave."
Greenbaum reached across to the glove compartment and she flinched, closing her eyes. When she opened them she saw he was filling a syringe with a clear liquid.
"Wha- what are you going to do?"
"I'm a decent guy, Rita. I told you I had something you'd really like... even if you didn't give me what I wanted."
"I told you what I have! It's the truth!"
"And now I'll give you what I have."
"What is that? No!" She tried to pull away but with a deft precision, he jabbed the needle right through her skirt into her thigh, emptying the contents and then yanking the needle back out. She cried out and grabbed her leg then suddenly felt her head totter on her shoulders and she braced one hand against the door.
"Feels good, doesn't it, Rita?"
She felt a lift in her chest and she closed her eyes as a rush plowed through her system activating her nerve ends and enhancing her senses. She sensed rather than felt the car start and the movement as it swung in a large radius and then stopped again. Exploding lights filled the darkness behind her eyes. The driver's door slammed and her head flopped toward the noise. A moment later her door opened and she felt arms under hers, dragging her from the car; it didn't matter, she was floating anyway.
"Give me a hand, please."
"Nice piece, bro. Face is a little spoiled." The man had exited the building as the car pulled up.
"Your clients should appreciate her anyway."
"For sure." He helped lift her from the car.
She felt herself moving awkwardly between to sets of arms and felt the occasional bumps, as she seemed to be tilted and going higher. There was a murmur of voices as the movement stopped and she felt the soft texture of material as she lay down.
"Here's what I promised," Greenbaum said, handing the man a small package. "She is not to leave."
"No fear of that, bro." The man pried open one end of the package and stuck his finger in then licked it. "Oh wow, great stuff, man. Bin a pleasure, boss, a real pleasure." He tossed the package to one of the other men and then clapped his hands looking at the woman lying on the bed, humming to herself. "How long she gonna be away?"
"Depends on her but usually it should last until tonight... it was a big dose."
"So she won't really know what's happenin' then?"
"Not for an hour or so anyway." Greenbaum sneered at Rita's form, writhing gently on the bed as she hummed tunelessly.
"Great, we can party a little before business hours."
Greenbaum looked at the group of men and grinned with malice. "Enjoy."
In the car, he opened the carry-on again, rifled around and pulled out the disc he'd missed earlier and slipped it into the player attached to his laptop. There was only one file and it showed Cresta and a member doing the usual business. The member was Chester. In itself, not really incriminating and he puzzled over the lack of content, Rita had told the truth, nevertheless, with a lot of prying the drug stuff would have come out.
He shut it down and nodded; justification enough, he thought. The money surprised him; there was nearly forty-two thousand dollars and Greenbaum laughed as he slipped the car into gear and sped off toward the freeway.
***************
The technician leaned in the door and with a big grin announced that his brilliant knowledge of the technology had a hit on the GPS chip and to whom it was registered.
"Vincent Langella, photographer, small time scammer and occasional drug user. He's got a sheet but it's mostly petty crap. He's from your territory." He nodded at the two detectives "Maybe we've just uncovered the real criminal activity."
"You said you had a hit. Where?" Bettmeir looked at the computer screen in bewilderment.
"See that blip? That's the chip and it's moving so the papers are in a car or some mode of transport moving South-East on the freeway."
Ortega grabbed a phone and blurted procedure orders in Spanish then hit a button, waited and repeated them in English.
"What was that?" Jerry asked.
"Border patrol first in case we can't run him down in time and an order to pick up this Vincent character."
"Her."
"Huh?"
"Run her down." Bettmeir was scribbling in his book.
"Whatever. You wanna grab a car and join in?"
"Great!" Both detectives scurried after the three-five detective, eyes beaming like little kids.