Jane Hawk can’t have shot out traffic cams at every significant intersection across the county. If Jason Drucklow has to do it the hard way, he can check video archives for major area intersections like Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards, as well as those for the nearer freeway entrance ramps, looking for Randall Larkin’s S600 Mercedes, though this is a time-consuming process.
Better yet, with the back door into their system that certain people at the National Security Agency have provided him, he is able to access license-plate-recognition data that is collected by police cars and other government vehicles equipped with 360-degree plate-reading systems; the automated readings are transmitted 24/7 to a central archive. All he has to do is enter the plate number from Larkin’s S600 and specify a time block—say, from 7:00 A.M. to 8:00 A.M. If the Mercedes happens to have passed a plate reader—and most likely it will have passed more than one—he will be told the precise location and time at which the recognition occurred, whether the car was stopped or in motion, and in which direction it was headed, although its ultimate destination will remain a puzzle to be solved.
Best of all, with the license-plate number, which he already possesses, Jason is able to pull from the DMV a vehicle registration number. With that, he obtains from a cross-referenced registry the unique transponder code that allows the Mercedes to be identified from orbit by the network of satellites that serves its GPS.
Just then, Cammy Newton returns, having stopped at Jason’s favorite bakery after completing her assignment in the alleyway behind the lawyer’s office. “Carb insanity!” she declares, flipping open the lid of the bakery box and displaying both sugary morning rolls and beignets, his favorites.
“I’m about to find the Mercedes,” Jason says, as focused on the computer as any gloss-eyed granny riveted to a Vegas slot machine.
Cammy puts a morning roll on one of the napkins provided by the bakery and quietly places it on the desk, within reach of Jason’s right hand. She doesn’t at once take a pastry for herself, but sits in the other office chair and watches him with childlike adoration.
Sometimes Jason is embarrassed by the veneration with which Cammy regards him, and most of the time he is conscious of the fact that he does not deserve to be so revered, but at all times he is delighted to be the object of her hero worship.
“Long Beach,” he announces. “The car is in Long Beach, near the harbor.”
“Cool,” Cammy says.
“In a minute, I’ll have a precise location.”
“Bitchin’,” Cammy says. “You are the bomb.”
“Not really.”
“No, you are. You are the bomb.”
“Well, maybe a little bomb.”
“You are the bomb!” Cammy insists.
“Boom,” he says, and she laughs, as he knew she would.