Bert, Johnny, Sebastian, and I sat in the back of the limo as Armin drove.

Eve’s texts continued to flash onscreen as we talked to the phone.

The limo driver’s is the only cell that’s still active. That’s why I was able to pull GPS coordinates off it.

“That’s great!” I said.

He’s somewhere on the Jersey coast. There have been a few incoming calls that went straight to voicemail, but no calls out. He’s been there the last week, not moving – probably holed up.

“Or dead,” Johnny said.

Or dead, the text message screen agreed.

I felt a little nauseated, but I ignored it. “Anything on Mr. Templeton’s phone?”

I’m sorry, but I can’t find it. Can’t find the bodyguards, either. They seem to have gone underground, too.

“That’s an ironic choice of words,” Johnny said.

Sorry – no pun intended.

“How do you know they went – ‘underground’?” I asked.

I tried searching their bank accounts for credit card or ATM activity, but there was nothing. Nothing on their phones, either.

“Please tell me I’m not involved in this conversation,” Bert muttered.

I wasn’t bothered at all by what Eve was doing. If she could free Connor, I didn’t care how. “If we can find the limo driver, that’s a start.”

I did find something really weird, though.

“What’s that?”

Somebody hacked Mr. Templeton’s phone account. The account still exists, but every single record has been deleted. Every incoming or outgoing call for the last however many years is gone.

“Oh my God,” Bert muttered, and pulled off his glasses.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sebastian said.

No. Mr. Templeton knew something, and somebody’s going to a lot of trouble to cover it up.

“Miranda – it has to be Miranda,” I said.

Well, fortunately she hired somebody who’s only VERY good instead of somebody phenomenal.

“What do you mean?”

Whoever did it deleted all the phone calls Mr. Templeton made. But they didn’t delete all the records on OTHER people’s accounts, the people he called or who called him. So I searched and collated every single call where Mr. Templeton was a participant. I basically rebuilt a record of all his phone calls over the last six months.

“But – you must have had to search millions of phone accounts,” Sebastian said in shock.

Actually, closer to a billion, just to be sure. Impressed now?

“…yes,” Sebastian said grudgingly.

“You didn’t just hack his cell phone company, you hacked every cell phone company?” I asked.

And landline phone company.

“Oh God, I’m not hearing this conversation,” Bert murmured. “Can I get in the front seat?”

“Stop being a pansy, Bert, you defend murderers,” Sebastian snapped.

So now I have a full list of every call he made or received. Most were internal calls to various Templeton Group corporations, plus calls to law firms and other companies. And to his wife and son. But… there was one number that was an aberration. In fact, he called it minutes after he left your apartment.

“What was it?”

The personal mobile number of an estate planning lawyer – but he never called the main business.

“Oligivy Hasten and Schmidt,” Sebastian said.

No.

“Uh, yes. They read the will before his funeral,” Sebastian insisted. “I handled all the arrangements for Connor.”

No. A guy named John Koffitz. He’s headquartered in Manhattan at Koffitz Crane Berkley and Jones. But get this – according to his GPS coordinates, his cell phone has been in upstate New York since Mr. Templeton’s death.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

I don’t know.

“Maybe they were just friends,” Johnny suggested.

“Why wouldn’t he give his business to a friend, then?” I pointed out.

“Maybe Koffitz didn’t have enough expertise in handling estate planning as large as what the Templetons required,” Sebastian said.

Maybe. But considering that his will was handled by another firm, it’s a weird coincidence, by which I mean I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all.

“I’ll call him,” I promised.

“Did you get anything else?” Sebastian asked.

Not yet.

“But you had the file on Miranda you stole from my hard drive,” Sebastian said, his voice accusatory.

I was a liiiiiiiittle busy.

“Getting the limo driver’s location and finding an estate planning lawyer – that’s it?” he scoffed.

I know I’m awesome, but it DOES take a little while to scan and sort 900 million phone accounts.

Armin’s voice came over the speaker as the limo slowed to a crawl. “Um… Ms. Ross… are you sure about those GPS coordinates?”

“Are you sure about the coordinates?” I asked Eve.

Absolutely. They may be off by a tiny amount – phone GPS is a little wonky – but they should be accurate to within 100 yards.

“She’s sure,” I told Armin.

“Then… I guess we’re here,” Armin said.

The limo stopped, and all of us got out.

We were standing in an industrial neighborhood in New Jersey on the shore of the Hudson river.

The limo was pointed directly at a demolished pier – basically just a concrete ramp that jutted out over the water.

I looked around. There were a bunch of shady warehouses behind us, dotting the waterfront. “Where’s the GPS coordinates?”

Armin pointed. “Out there.”

He was pointing at the river.

We all stood speechless, staring out at the ugly brown water. Across the Hudson, the skyscrapers of Manhattan glinted brightly in the morning sun.

“I think I better call somebody,” Sebastian said. “Somebody with a diving suit.”