“Can you also let Raeburn know that we only found a few sticks here? And that he could have the box with him?” Tom had done a cursory search and saw no sign of the box DJ had stolen from Kowalski’s garage. “If the box was full when he stole it, he could be carrying a fuckton of explosives.”

They continued searching the house, Rodriguez checking the master bedroom and Tom heading to the side of the house that faced the street. He checked every room, in the closets and under the beds. Just in case.

He came to a halt when he saw the pink camera on the windowsill in a spare bedroom. “This window has a view of the Sokolovs’ street,” Tom called out. “He’s got a camera set up. He’s been sleeping in here. Printers are here, too, including a 3D printer.”

Rodriguez joined him. “I found a lot of hair in the trash can. I think he shaved his hair off.”

“We’ll have to update the BOLO.”

“Already done.” Rodriguez grimaced at the view of the street. “He can’t see the Sokolovs’ front door from here, but he could see all the vehicular traffic.”

“And the foot traffic.” An unpleasant shiver ran down Tom’s spine. “That spot, right there?” He pointed out to the street. “I was standing there yesterday with another agent. We were in tactical gear, but . . . damn. We were just standing there.”

Rodriguez grunted. “You’re charmed, kid. Either he didn’t see you or he didn’t want to risk shooting, knowing we were all there. Come on. Let’s keep going.”

They continued searching, ending up in the garage. Tom pointed to the hair dryer sitting atop a chest freezer. “What do you think?”

Rodriguez made a face. “That we need to open the freezer.” He picked up the hair dryer and lifted the freezer’s lid. “Fucking hell.”

Tom stared down into the face of the homeowner. “Nelson Smythe.” The body was covered in a blanket of ice—except for the face.

“What the hell?” Rodriguez asked. “His face is, like, thawed.”

“The wife got a few texts from her husband’s phone this weekend,” Tom said. “I think he was using the man’s face to unlock his phone.”

“I thought you needed open eyes. Open and alive eyes.”

“Not with all phones.” Tom sighed. “I’ll call the body in.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, MAY 29, 12:05 P.M.

“Fuck.” DJ gripped the Civic’s wheel, yanking back into his lane after nearly veering into oncoming traffic. The loud blaring sound coming from his cell had scared him to death. It was one of those Amber Alert tones that made everyone race to silence their phones.

But a glance at the screen showed it was not an Amber Alert. It was an alert from the pink camera he’d set up in Smythe’s spare bedroom.

Fucking hell. The camera had picked up audio nearby.

He hit the alert flag on his locked screen and held the phone to his face to unlock it. What he heard when he tapped the app icon made his blood run cold.