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“It looks like it.”
“Name?” A pause. “Saul, just a name. I can do the rest.” Then she paused and said, “Actually...an address would be useful too.”
“Good night, Cora,” Saul said. “It’s been a pleasure hearing you.”
“Wait, hang on!” she protested. “Saul, don’t.”
“Good night,” he repeated, more firmly. And then he hung up.
Cora cursed, resisting the urge to fling her phone across the road. She stomped a foot, feeling very much like a petulant child.
“God dammit!” she yelled, her voice echoing in the tunnel.
But then...a second passed, and her phone vibrated.
She glanced down, feeling a flicker of excitement. A driver’s license photo. She stared at it. Then glanced at the address below the face. Her mood shifted in an instant, doing a one-eighty. She grinned. “Atta boy,” she murmured.
Then, committing the face and the address to memory, she deleted the photo, and ran an app designed to wipe any fragments of storage remaining behind.
Brady was taking a risk by sending her the info. She wasn’t willing to let him take heat if she was captured. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if he suffered because of her choices.
But once the evidence was committed to memory and cleared, she picked up the pace again, emerging from the tunnel along the highway.
The night was silent now. The sirens wailing having faded. No dancing lights of red and blue against the clouds. No helicopters.
But the silence of the night was a feint. Danger still lurked in the Miami night.
Anton Mitchell.
The name of the suspect arrested three months ago for the triple murder. Drowning his victims. The evidence solid according to Saul. But he got off on a technicality. She frowned, moving quickly. It was dark, it was night, but she didn’t risk calling a taxi. A few hours of jogging would do wonders to clear her head anyway.
She recollected the address briefly, placing it in her picture of the cityscape, nodded once and broke into a jog, moving up the concrete, feet pounding the pavement.
Sleep was for the weary, and Cora was only just getting started.
A known serial killer lived within a fifteen-minute drive of Mayor Castillo. The same MO of drowning his victims. Was this the man who had Castillo scared? Was he working for someone?
Cora would have to find out the hard way.
CHAPTER NINE
Morning came slow, the sun glinting across the horizon, but touching at her already warm, sweat-slicked face. The four-hour late night to morning run had been a good way to clear her head. Now, puffing, inhaling the ocean, and moving along a bike trail that cut through the beach, her feet scattered grains of sand with every footfall.
Her eyes, though, despite the lack of sleep the night before, were trained on the buildings off to her left, seeking out the address she’d committed to memory.
Pale numbers blended into the sandstone walls, moving sequentially from one to the next, to the—
She frowned and paused.
Her foot scraped against the scattered grains of sand, and the breeze from over the ocean swept across her warmed features, witnessed by the blinking sunlight.
But there, one of the houses facing the ocean was missing the number. The address had either been intentionally obscured or painted over. She could just about make out the outline of the digits, but otherwise found it difficult to discern. She continued up the path a few more paces. Off in the distance, she spotted an old man and woman doing calisthenics on the beach. Otherwise, it was still too early in the morning for anyone to be out and about.
The houses flanking the one with the missing address told the tale.
She stared at the house with the missing numbers.
This one belonged to Anton Mitchell—the man who’d gotten away with triple homicide three months ago.
