FIRST THING THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS BACK ON THE TRAIL OF ZOE Coyle’s cell phone. The number I got from her friends traced to a prepaid Firefly flip model. It was the kind of thing you could pick up at any convenience store—no calling plan, no subscriber information required. Zoe had obviously gone to some trouble to keep this thing a secret.
Fireflies were especially popular with schoolkids, since they were so small and easy to hide. Even their advertising campaign played it up—Where’s Your Firefly?
I hated to think about where Zoe’s might be right now. Buried underground somewhere? In pieces at the side of the highway? Sitting in some maniac’s glove compartment? None of the images that flooded my mind were good ones.
As soon as I had the signatures I needed, I faxed off an administrative subpoena for records to the phone company down in Jacksonville, Florida. I gave them exactly one hour to respond.
When I didn’t hear back, I called and left a message for their director of security: another subpoena was on the way. He could bring those records up and present them to the grand jury himself, if that’s how they wanted to play it.
Five minutes later, my phone rang.
“Detective Cross, it’s Bill Shattuck with Essential Electronics. How can I help you?”
“What don’t you already know?” I asked, cutting through the bullshit.
“Well, I’ve got the records for the number you requested right here in front of me. Should I e-mail you a copy?”
“Please and thank you,” I said.
Shattuck cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing. I can send you the transaction logs for text messages and voice calls, no problem, but we just don’t have the kind of data storage you get with an AT&T or a Verizon. The actual content of any texts drops off our system after seven or eight days, and the last transaction on this phone was… let’s see. Twelve days ago. An incoming text on September ninth.”
No surprise there. Just a little punch to the stomach. That was the day of the kidnapping.
“Just send me what you’ve got. Thanks again,” I told him, and hung up.
The report came through a minute later. As soon as I got it, I scrolled down to the bottom and looked at September 9. The text in question was the only entry for that day.
It had come into Zoe’s phone at 8:05 a.m., right in the middle of Branaff’s homeroom period. That was also about fifteen minutes before Ethan and Zoe disappeared.
It took me only a few keystrokes to run a reverse lookup on the incoming phone number. It was registered to a Cathy Allison, with an address in Foggy Bottom. And in fact, I knew the exact house. I’d been there on Saturday to interview Ms. Allison’s daughter Emma, one of Zoe’s inner circle of girlfriends.
I looked up at the clock. It was 10:15 a.m. Emma would be in class right now—third period.
If I left right away, I could be there by fourth.