“I don’t know, maybe ten or twelve?”
“Do you know these guys?”
“In the passports? Sure. Everyone comes into the café at some point.”
He glanced up. “How long have they been in town?”
She heaved a breath and looked out the windshield, thinking. “About a year, I guess.”
Ian nodded and tapped on the share function.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Forwarding them to myself. I might be able to do some research. These may be more valuable against Hank than you thought.”
“I don’t see how they can help either one of us, but, whatever. I’ve gotta go. I have to pick up my car and get Jamison at a playdate.”
Ian handed her phone back. When she took it, he used his free hand to cover her own. “Savannah, please don’t do this again. If you have suspicions, need information, or want to track Hank, come to me. I have experience in this kind of thing, and it would be better for me to get caught. You have Jamison to think about.”
She didn’t know what to think of that offer. She certainly didn’t know him well enough to trust him in that way, but she nodded, ready to get her son and get home. “Thank you.”
7
Ian was knuckles deep in the engine of a sheriff’s cruiser when his cell rang. He put the ratchet down, wiped his hands on a rag, and glanced around for Mo. His temporary new boss was in the office, so Ian picked up the call from Everly.
“Hey.” He wandered toward the heater near the partially open bay door. “What’s up?”
“I’m in at the mine. Start tomorrow. I just talked to Sam. Reiz and Sarak are Bosnian. Clark’s Canadian,” she confirmed the team’s suspicions. “None of them have ever possessed a US passport, nor do any of them qualify for one. But none are on any terrorist watch list.”
Still, excitement tingled through his gut. One step closer.
“No irregularities have popped up on Hank’s financials yet,” Everly told him, “but Lyle has been sending a monthly stipend to an anonymous bank account—through Bitcoin.”
“Fucking Bitcoin.” The virtual-cash payment system was a favorite among privacy-seeking individuals. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that they’re using a mixing service.”
“Ding-ding-ding, you win.”
Ian swore and leaned his shoulder against the wall. Bitcoin’s anonymity was hard enough to hack, but add a company that served as an escrow account, mixing all incoming funds before distributing them again, and you had a virtual money-laundering service. One that was beyond difficult to track.
The image of the little black box sitting near Savannah’s computer popped into his head. Ian’s brain made quick, automatic connections, but the idea of Savannah paying Lyle Bishop for anything made him balk.
He still found himself saying, “Not the same company—”
“That Savannah uses for internet privacy?” Everly said. “No.”
He exhaled with relief. A second later, a sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the driveway at Mo’s.
“I gotta go,” he told Everly before disconnecting and returning to his work.
Mo came out of the office. He was in his midfifties, but like so many others in this part of the country, the man looked older. His crown of salt-and-pepper hair showed beneath the rim of his knit cap, and his jaw hadn’t seen a razor in days.
He took one look at the customer and told Ian, “Good time to take lunch, son.”
Ian lowered his head to peer through the gap created by the open hood. Hank Bishop sauntered toward the garage bay in uniform, rocking his black felt cowboy hat into place.
Fuck that. “I’ve got a lot of work here, Mo—”
“Lunch is a better use of your time. This won’t take long.” He held Ian’s gaze an extra moment before turning to Hank. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”