“Lots of pricey real estate out there,” Raeburn said, turning to the second stack of photos. “His wife and kids, too? How did you find these?”

“His wife’s Facebook page,” Tom said. “Her name is Angelina. Their six-year-old son is Anthony Junior. They call him Tony. They have another son who’s about two.”

Raeburn’s brows went up. “The wife didn’t have her Facebook account locked?”

Tom shrugged.

Raeburn chuckled. “Right. No locks can keep you out.”

“I never said that.” But her password had been criminally easy to break. Her son’s birthday, easy to find from his birth certificate once he had the father’s name. Amateurs.

Raeburn waved a hand as if his denial was of no consequence. “Never mind. Bring the bastard in.”

“We’ll start at his business,” Croft said. “We’re more likely to be allowed in.”

Raeburn nodded. “Take Hall and Summerfield with you. I doubt he’ll come in easily.”

Tom felt a rush of adrenaline at that. He hadn’t been in a takedown situation since Ephraim’s last stand at Dunsmuir. He really wanted to take someone down today.

“Will do,” Croft said. “Anything else?”

Raeburn nodded. “I had your tattoo artist, Dixie Serratt, put in protective custody. She can’t ID Kowalski if she’s been harmed in the general population. When you bring Kowalski in, we’ll put him in a lineup. Any chance that your source would agree to do a visual?”

“Yes. He’s already agreed to that.”

“Good.” Raeburn pushed away from the conference table and returned to the chair behind his desk. “You have your orders. Keep me informed.”

When they were in the hall, Croft lifted a brow. “Who’s your source, Hunter? That sixteen-year-old who brought us Cameron Cook?”

“No.” Tom was saved further reply by the buzzing of his work phone. It was a San Francisco area code. “This is Agent Hunter.”

“This is Cameron Cook.”

Speaking of. Tom stopped midstep and leaned his back against the hallway wall, letting others pass. Croft stood beside him, looking concerned. “Cameron,” Tom said, and Croft tilted her head, hopeful excitement in her eyes. “How are you?”

“Not good,” Cameron confessed. “Have you heard anything? I’m so worried. Hayley’s due any day now. She must be so scared. And I can’t even think of my Jellybean in that place.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged. He fully understood Cameron’s fear. “I have some leads, but nothing that tells me where she is. I was hoping you’d gotten another e-mail.”

“No. Sometimes I stare at my screen for hours at a time, hitting refresh over and over.”

“I get that,” Tom said. And he did. It had been like that for him when Tory was murdered. He’d stalked her killer through Internet forums that no decent person should ever see, clicking refresh in the hope that the vile monster would show his virtual face. “I don’t have anything I can tell you, though. I’m sorry, Cameron.”

A choked sob met his ears. “Thank you anyway. I’m . . . I’m sorry I bothered you.”