Before I confronted her, I started the scanner on my phone. It used to be that analog systems used CDMA technology to transmit a phone’s ESN and MIN when a call was made. Now, with digital systems in place, a phone’s IMEI—or equipment identity—is required. Capturing this data was once fairly simple, then all one would need to do was flash a blank phone to create a clone. IMEI is a little trickier. Once you capture the data, you need a SIM reader/writer to clone the SIM.

All that tech jargon simply means is that my mystery woman gave up her IMEI data, and now I’m using it to clone her phone with my hardware.

After a few minutes, I insert the SIM and I have a duplicate of her phone in my hand. She has her GSP tracker turned off, but lucky me, she uses apps that record GPS location covertly. It’s not much, but there’s enough data to work with.

Her phone’s last pinged location was pinpointed at an apartment building in Tribeca. She’s in this location a lot, which leads me to deduce it’s most likely her home.

Pricey. Trendy. Tribeca is not the type of neighborhood where the typical escort would live…I don’t think. To be fair, I haven’t done much research into the profession, and I don’t think Pretty Woman is an ideal basis for a theory.

I recline back in my desk chair. Stare at the large whiteboard along the wall. At the top, circled twice in black, is the word unnoticed.

I don’t keep much at my apartment, only the basic necessities of my project. Reminders, half-hatched theories and notes. Nothing that could tie me to my main working space—and that is exactly what unnoticed reminds me.

Just how important is my mystery woman?

How unnoticed is she, if at all?

For the next hour, I scour her phone, digging through emails, combing through texts, appointments, web searches. She’s gone to some length to hide her identity. I wonder if she keeps a second phone with more personal information, but I find enough metadata to build a general person.

Her name: Lauraleigh Blakely Vaughn.

I say it out loud, taste the syllables. It tastes expensive.

A Google search brings up a family connection to Michael and Vanessa Vaughn. Old New York money, at least on her father’s side. He deals in real estate development. With a family this high-profile, Ms. Vaughn is not an ideal subject.

“Dammit.” I grip the phone in my fist. My chest tightens, pressure builds in my head, and I’m about to slam the proverbial door closed on this avenue when a thought breaks through the whirring in my ears.

Lauraleigh doesn’t want to be known. This is a fact. She maneuvers under fake names, she carries weapons, she courts shady businessmen types…

Why?