“Electrotelepathy doesn’t keep texts or emails. That isn’t unusual. Some of the big companies don’t, either. And before you ask—because I’m a mind reader, too, and I know you’re going to ask me—these phones are not GPS-enabled. Electrotelepathy is a low-end company, so they sell a low-end product.”

“How recent are the histories?”

“Through this morning. That’s when I spoke with him. For the third time.”

“Okay, pal, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“A Giants game, right?”

“The Giants.”

Bree was a Dodgers fan, but her life partner, Estelle, was a Giants fan from San Francisco. Theirs was a mixed marriage.

“You’re my hero, Elvis. Estelle will love it.”

“Tell her she’s the luckiest woman alive.”

“I do. Every night.”

“Go Blue.”

“Go Blue.”

Cole laughed as they hung up.

When Bree’s email appeared, Cole opened it and found three attached documents, one for each of the three phone numbers. The two cell histories were short, just as Bree warned. Cole didn’t know which was Dru’s and which was Wilson’s until he skimmed them and found Pike’s cell number on the 3502 log. 3502 would be Dru’s phone. Her last call was made to Pike’s number almost three days earlier at 11:32 P.M. Cole decided this was the missed call Pike had told him about. She had made no calls on the phone since that time. Cole checked 3563, and found no entries since earlier that same day, which meant Wilson had made no calls in the past three days, either. This coincided with the abduction, but Cole knew Wilson phoned Detective Button after seeing the carnage at his shop. No such call was listed on the call list. Cole checked to see if the call had been made from Wilson’s shop phone, but found that no calls had been made from the shop that morning, either. This left Cole puzzled and suspicious. If the call to Button did not show on any of the three records, how many phones did Wilson Smith have?

Cole printed all three documents, then found himself staring at the two pictures again. It was as if the pictures were trying to tell him something that he couldn’t quite hear.

Frustrated, he put them aside, poured himself another cup of coffee, then went through the call histories looking for recurring numbers. He was making a list of the most frequently called numbers when his phone rang.

John Chen said, “Can you talk?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“On my way to Los Feliz. Some idiot lost a game of Russian roulette. This is the only time I get any privacy, man, driving to a crime scene. I’ve been waiting all morning to call.”

“You get some prints?”