46: “Why the hell are they still here?”
Nash slowed to a crawl and parked his Chevy about two blocks from the Davieses’ house. Two news vans were parked across the street from the home. One had its large antenna extended into the sky. There was no sign of the reporters or cameramen. Most likely they were inside the vehicles, sheltered from the cold.
“We need to get closer,” Kloz said beside him, his face buried in his laptop. “I can’t see their Wi-Fi from here.”
Nash wasn’t sure it mattered. When Klozowski logged in to the Wi-Fi at the Reynoldses’ house, they discovered that the logs on the router had been wiped clean. The unsub had cleared all records after sending the obituaries.
“Fuck it.” Nash pulled back out into the street, passed the vans, and parked in front of the first one.
Kloz chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“They named their Wi-Fi network ‘FBI Surveillance Van.’ Anyone trolling the local Wi-Fi signals would think the FBI is camped out somewhere nearby.”
“That doesn’t seem to be scaring away the media.”
“Most people just use their last name or their street address, which is a bit silly. Why tell the bad guys which house the Wi-Fi belongs to? That’s like putting your address on your house key,” Kloz said.
Nash eyed the news van behind them. The back door had opened the moment they parked. “We’ve got about thirty seconds before the sharks ascend.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got the make and model on their router, but it looks like they changed the default password when they changed the name of the Wi-Fi. I’m running a brute-force attack on the password,” Kloz explained.
“How long?”
“Minute, maybe two.”
The cameraman was out of the van, pulling the hood of his coat up over his head to shield himself from the snow. He reached inside for his camera and rested it on his shoulder.
Nash glanced toward the house.
All the blinds were closed. If anyone was inside, he couldn’t see them. A woman climbed out of the van wearing a thin trench coat that highlighted her figure but couldn’t have done much to protect her from the cold.
Lizeth Loudon from Channel 7.
She said something to the cameraman and looked toward Nash’s car, one hand holding a microphone, the other fixing her hair.
Someone stepped out of the second van, a man in a suit. Nash didn’t recognize him. He started for their car too. A cameraman jumped out and followed behind him. “Shit.”
Kloz’s eyes remained fixed on the screen.
A knock at the window.
Lizeth Loudon.
She made the universal sign for roll down your window. Nash waved at her. “Now would be a good time to finish up.”
“Almost got it.”
The second reporter walked past her, barked out an order to his cameraman, and pointed at the space in front of Nash’s car, directly in their path. The cameraman unfolded a tripod and started walking there.
“Oh, hell no,” Nash said. He dropped the Chevy into gear and pulled forward with a lurch. The cameraman jumped back, the bumper nearly clipping the tripod.
“I’m in,” Kloz said. “Careful, don’t pull out of range.”
Nash reversed and came within an inch of the van. When the cameraman again started for the front of the car, he dropped the Chevy back into first and pulled forward. This time he did hit the tripod, and the cameraman slipped on the ice and dropped into the snow, his camera beside him.
Another knock at the window.
Loudon was shouting at them.
Nash smiled, waved back at her. The red light on the camera behind her came on. “Now would be a great time to finish up,” he said, grinning through clenched teeth.
“Got it,” Kloz said. “Go!”
Nash floored the accelerator. The Chevy skidded and fishtailed as the back wheels spun, attempting to gain traction. Snow flew up in all directions, covering the reporters and their equipment. The car shot forward, a cloud of white smoke behind them.