The Rogue
Chapter 20

Myles was going to f*****g kill someone. The protective order he’d been served with yesterday morning sat on the edge of his desk, tucked into the same manila envelope in which it had been handed over. He’d been wary when the server had pushed the buzzer, simply saying that he had documents to deliver.

But Myles’s job was part of his identity, and he had to play the part. The company he worked for couriered enough data to his apartment that he’d known better than to ignore a delivery. He’d been confident that the police had nothing to connect him to Chloe or the texts he’d sent. The night before had proven it. Detectives Maxwell and Hale had had no choice but to let him walk right off the scene, leaving Chloe exactly where he wanted her—at home, where he could watch her every move. He’d thought everything was going according to his meticulously laid plan.

But somehow, those f*****g cops had managed to replace some bleeding heart judge to sign off on a goddamned order of protection against him, as if he were the person Chloe needed protection from.

Myles had seen the concern on Detective Hale’s face when she’d showed up, even though she’d covered it quickly. The conversation Ryan had shared with Chloe afterward had only confirmed that he and the detective were in bed together, both literally and figuratively. Now, they were teaming up to tell Chloe lies, convincing her that he was a threat, turning him into the enemy and keeping them apart. Making Chloe scared of him when all he wanted was to be with her.

And now, the police were putting their noses where they didn’t belong. Carrying out protective orders. Digging deeper. Putting Myles at risk. For f**k’s sake, they’d even discovered his surveillance equipment in her apartment, snatching the only way he had to see her and forcing her to leave.

Myles’s stomach churned, a bitter taste filling his mouth as he reviewed the facts again. Reason warned—not for the first time—that he should protect himself, cut bait and disappear.

No. No, no, no, NO, whispered a voice, dark and insistent, making his b***d rush faster through his veins. He couldn’t leave Chloe, not when they’d been so close to being together. It was bad enough that he couldn’t see her. They’d taken that from him. From them. That whore Detective Hale might have bribed a judge to sign off on a protective order, but the police would never trace those texts back to him, just as they’d never be able to connect him to the surveillance equipment in Chloe’s apartment. Myles’s connection to Jimmy was untraceable. They dealt in Bitcoin only, using carefully crafted aliases, making Myles’s activity on the dark web more heavily safeguarded than a national f*****g secret. The monetary transactions were impossible to track back to them. No identities, no trail, no proof.

The cash? That was f*****g real, though. Myles siphoned it from one of a dozen places using one of a dozen false identities, bouncing it off countless points of contact before it was clean enough to dine on. Even if the cops got horseshoe-up-the-a*ss lucky and did manage to somehow replace Jimmy, there was no evidence to connect the two of them. Anyway, they’d be looking for Myles Bishop, who was about to become a ghost.

Then, he could take his time with Chloe, and no one would be able to stop him.

Powerless to resist the pull to his closet, Myles opened the door, his heart galloping at the neatly stacked boxes there. Julia, Morgan, Aliyah, Bryn…and sweet, sweet Shelby, who had been his first. He loved Chloe just as he’d loved them, and he would have her, just as he’d had them.

And just like all the others, no one would know until it was far too late.

Myles ran his fingers over the box with Chloe’s treasures inside, the proximity of his skin so close to things she’d touched making his body tighten in anticipation. Yes, there were a few roadblocks, and he’d need to maneuver around them accordingly. He’d done it before, though—a little Rohypnol went a long way—and he would do whatever he had to in order to show her how much he loved her, once and for all.

First thing’s first, though. He needed to know where Chloe was, and he needed a plan to go get her. Then, they’d disappear together, far away from her brother and Detective Hale and everyone else who didn’t understand. Until then, he’d have to do some disappearing of his own. They couldn’t watch him if he wasn’t here to be watched.

He reached for the suitcase tucked in the back of the closet and began to pack.

Addison sat backat her desk, her mind spinning. The details of the case were enough to make her brain do overtime on their own—untraceable texts, surveillance equipment, the veiled threat Bishop had issued as he’d walked away from her last night. Add to that the mind-blowing s*x and the insanely personal tell-all she’d shared with Ryan, where she’d broken nearly every single one of the all-casual, all-the-time rules she’d ever set for herself, and felt freakishly at ease doing so?

Yeah. She was going to need a minute to get her shit together.

Taking a deep breath, Addison scanned the still-empty office. Her unit-mates would surely arrive any minute now, when they would tackle Chloe’s case in detail. It didn’t give her a lot of time to think about Ryan—not that she’d been able to stop thinking about him since…okay, fine. Since he’d walked out of Master Ah-lam’s building with all of his emotions stapled to his sleeve. But somewhere between Ryan telling her she was his safe place and her drifting off to sleep beside him full of bliss instead of panic, Addison realized something she hadn’t thought possible. She needed a safe place, too, and when she’d woken up in Ryan’s arms?

She’d been there.

“Hey,” Maxwell said from the doorway, the single, gruff syllable tugging her back to the moment. “Sorry I’m a little late. I wanted to have a quick breakfast with Isla and Frankie since we ended up working late last night, but Isla wanted to turn it into a tea party. We had to rein her in at the third course.”

“Party pooper. Everyone knows a proper tea party needs at least six courses,” Addison said, smiling despite herself at the idea of her big, broody partner sitting down to tea.

“It’s all good. Annette and Mr. Prickles took over for us. I swear, that woman should be sainted.”

He wasn’t wrong. His full-time sitter had saved his—and by default, the Intelligence Unit’s—as*s more times than Addison could count.

“Anyway, you okay?” Maxwell asked, giving her a closer once-over. “I know the drop off last night had to be tough.”

Addison shifted gears, grateful for the focus. “Logistically, it went fine. Master Ah-lam will keep Chloe safe. Chloe was pretty fried by the time we got there, but she’s tough. She just needs some time to get her head around all of this, I think.”

“It is a lot,” Maxwell agreed. “How did Dempsey take it?”

“He’s okay,” Addison said, treading with extreme care.

Maxwell did not. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, there? Because there’s no way I’m buying that you two were a one-and-done. Not with the way your face looked the other night when you thought he might be hurt. So, really—”

“I like him.”

She jammed her teeth over her bottom l*p, too late. See, this was why she never talked about her feelings! One little confession-session where she let those suckers out was all it took to destroy the rest of her perfectly good reason.

Maxwell’s mouth fell open. “You don’t do that.”

“You didn’t do it, either. Until you did,” Addison pointed out.

“Okay. Fair. But that was just once, with Frankie.” His eyes went wide at the same time Addison realized her error, and seriously, who was in charge of her mouth? “Wait…you like him that much?”

“No! We’re not…no.” Addison’s ponytail shushed over the shoulders of her sweater as she shook her head, adamant. She liked Ryan, yes, and she trusted him. But there weren’t going to be any I love yous or shared living spaces. “You and Frankie had a really complicated past that involved a crapload of feelings from the jump, and now you’re all k!ssy-in-love and getting married. I don’t have any of that. Well, other than the k!ssing and maybe a few other related feelings,” she qualified, “but you and Frankie are getting married, for God’s sake. That’s not where I am with Ryan.”

“But it is a thing, and not…not a thing?” Maxwell asked, and here, she couldn’t lie. She’d told Ryan things nobody knew, and she’d done so because he made her feel safe in a way that no one else had. She did like him. Maybe more than she should, but denying the truth would be stupid. Not to mention, useless.

It was still going to be the truth, even if she denied it.

“Yes. It’s a thing.”

Thankfully, she was saved from having to elaborate further by Garza and Isabella making their way into the office. Hollister and Capelli weren’t far behind, and Sinclair had been in his office when Addison had arrived (she swore the man either never slept or was some kind of vampire. Possibly both). They wasted no time grabbing their various forms of caffeine and gathering around the case board, which Capelli had updated last night before they’d briefed Chloe and Ryan. Addison snuck a quick text to Master Ah-lam to check in on Chloe (still sleeping, came the reply), then focused on her sergeant.

“Okay, people,” he said, his steely stare landing on each of them in turn before swinging back to the board. “We’ve got a woman in danger and a whole lot of puzzle pieces that don’t fit. We need to replace some connections between Bishop and this equipment, fast. We know the video from Chloe’s apartment building is a bust, and no one we interviewed remembers him there on the day he broke in. Hale, where are we with the crime scene unit?”

“They’re still processing Chloe’s apartment, but so far, there’s no proof that Bishop was inside,” Addison said. She’d gotten that craptastic little update upon arrival at the precinct. “The surveillance equipment was wiped clean, and they haven’t found any prints in the apartment that aren’t hers or Ryan’s yet. They also took prints from the apartment manager’s keys and office, as well as Chloe’s doorknob, and forensics is still working on hair and fibers, but so far, nada.”

Sinclair’s frown said he felt the same way about that as Addison did. “Capelli,” he said, turning to look at the case board, then the man himself. “Talk to me about Bishop’s digital trail.”

“I dumped everything. Phone, online activity, bank records. The cell phone and laptop that are actually registered to him are clean. Just work-related activity and pizza carryout orders. Nothing suspicious.”

“Not shocking,” Isabella said. “We know those texts Chloe got were sent from a burner phone, and he’s not exactly going to hook surveillance equipment up to a laptop we can trace.”

Capelli nodded. “Speaking of the texts. The convenience store manager was able to locate the bill of sale for the burner phone. It was a cash transaction, so that’s a dead end.”

Frustration pulsed in Addison’s chest, making her heart pump faster. “Please tell me there’s video.”

“Believe me, I’d have led with that if there was,” Capelli said apologetically. “The phone was purchased a month ago, so there’s no video of the transaction. All we can do is hope that he turns it back on, but at this point…”

Ugh. “Doubtful. Right.”

“What about his bank accounts?” Sinclair asked. “This surveillance equipment couldn’t have been cheap.”

Capelli nodded. “Bishop’s bank account is on the level. Paychecks go in, bills go out. No purchases made that would lead us to the surveillance equipment or to anything suspicious. But here’s where it gets interesting. He also makes a decent amount of transactions via Bitcoin.”

“Okay,” Addison said slowly. “I’m not quite sure what that means.”

“Bitcoin transactions work a bit differently than those done via financial institutions like banks. In order to buy, sell, or trade it, you have to set up an account in a coinbase.” Capelli tapped a few keys, bringing up a screen full of numbers. “The coinbase links your Bitcoin account—called your wallet—to a bank account.”

“So, they’re like a third party,” Sinclair said, and Capelli nodded.

“Very much. They verify and regulate accounts, and any time a person buys, sells, or trades their Bitcoin, they keep a record of it that’s publicly available.”

“Which makes it traceable,” Isabella said, and here, Capelli paused.

“Yes and no. We can see that Bishop has a coinbase account because we have access to his banking information—remember, they’re linked. This means we can see the record of every transfer, sale, or purchase he’s ever made with Bitcoin, along with his wallet address. What we can’t see are the identities of the people he’s making the transactions with, or what he’s actually buying with his Bitcoin.”

Hollister frowned. “I thought you said the record was publicly available.”

“It is, but it’s only the record of the transaction itself. For example”—a few more keystrokes, and an image popped up on the monitor—“here, we can see that ten days ago, Bishop transferred just under ten thousand dollars’ worth of Bitcoin to this wallet right here.” He placed a red circle around a string of seemingly random numbers and letters about as long as Addison’s arm. “But all we can see is the account number. The entity who owns this wallet is entirely untraceable without his, her, or their name or banking information to tie them together.”

Addison blew out a breath. “So, we have no idea who he’s making transactions with, or for what purpose. Which means we can’t prove that any of these transactions were for the surveillance equipment.”

“Okay, but we do have the wallet addresses and the record of transactions,” Isabella said. “Is there any sort of pattern, there?”

Capelli nodded, and oh, at least that was something. “Bishop does make regular, moderately sizeable transactions with one wallet in particular.”

“The one from ten days ago,” Addison said, her pulse skipping faster, and Capelli nodded.

“Yes, but all we have is the wallet address, which is useless unless we can connect it to a name.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Then, let’s do that. I know we can’t trace it back to its owner,” he said, likely to ward off an argument from Capelli. “But chances are, if the person who owns this wallet is supplying Bishop with illegal surveillance equipment, he’s doing it for other bad actors, too. Call Remington’s Fraud Unit and see if they’ve got anything on the wallet address, and start some searches on this mystery wallet address to see if anything pops.”

“There are millions of places to search, and I do mean that literally,” Capelli said. “I can do it, of course, but searches like that will take time and analysis by someone who knows what they’re looking for.”

Garza’s dark brows lifted as he swung a look at Sinclair. “Enough that we’d need to bring in an independent expert?”

Oh. Oh. Garza’s fiancée, Delia, was a forensic accountant, and one of the best ones in her field, at that. She’d more than proven her chops when they’d worked together on a massive money laundering case last year.

“Do it,” Sinclair said. Turning back to Capelli, he asked, “Where are we with the surveillance equipment itself?”

“It’s fairly advanced. Definitely not the sort of equipment the average person has easy access to.”

“If it’s not common, we might be able to figure out where it came from and trace it back to Bishop that way,” Maxwell tried, but damn it, Capelli shook his head.

“It’s not that unique. And just because I can trace where it came from doesn’t mean I can figure out who ended up with it. Equipment like this is all bought and sold online, and let’s just say most of it isn’t used for anything good. The people who buy it—and sell it—usually do so one-on-one in dark web forums, and they cover their tracks.”

“Gross,” Isabella muttered. “Does anyone else want to nail this guy extra, now?”

Hollister nodded, rubbing a hand over the auburn stubble that seemed to have a permanent home on his chin. “If the equipment is that advanced, would Bishop be able to set it up himself? I mean, sure, he knows how to use Bitcoin and burner phones to cover his tracks. But for something this advanced, wouldn’t he need some kind of an assist?”

Capelli scrolled through a few of the photos of the equipment, and Addison would bet her lunch money he was calculating actual odds in his head. “Not many people have a deep technical knowledge of how surveillance systems like these work, and even fewer know how to cover up the path of the live feed this well. Could Bishop do it? Yes. Is it far more likely that he had someone walk him through it, step by step? Also yes.”

“Okay,” Addison said, her hope returning. This was good. An accomplice could always be motivated to flip on the person committing the crime. They just had to replace the right pressure points to make it happen. But first… “How do we figure out who might’ve helped him?”

“Follow the money,” Garza said, and Capelli nodded.

“If Bishop bought the equipment with Bitcoin, chances are pretty high that he outsourced the technical support the same way, very likely from the same person.”

Addison thought of Bishop’s smug expression last night, her rib cage tightening with realization. “And anyone who’d provide that kind of surveillance equipment and a plan to install it undetected in some unsuspecting woman’s apartment isn’t exactly going to advertise their skillset on LinkedIn.”

Capelli tilted his head in agreement. “No, but I can work some connections to see if I can source the same equipment on the dark web, along with contact information for anyone who might offer their expertise for a fee. It’s a longshot, but…”

“It’s better than no shot,” Addison said. They had to replace something to connect Bishop to that surveillance equipment and put him behind bars.

Sinclair nodded, looking at the case board, then the team. “Capelli, get started on that wallet address. Garza, reach out to Delia. I want to get her in here as soon as possible. The rest of you, I want a complete identity autopsy on Myles Bishop. If we can’t replace anything to use in the right-now, we work backward. This guy is too slick to be doing this for the first time. There’s got to be something we’re missing. A complaint. A neighbor who noticed something. Let’s do a deeper dive. Work history, past residences, education, all of it. I want something we can use.”

“Copy that,” Addison murmured, her reply twining around Maxwell’s, Isabella’s, and Hollister’s. They all sprang into motion, dividing up tasks and getting their starting points from the case board. Addison took one last look at Bishop’s photo, the chill running down her spine turning to determination.

She knew the exact brand of fear Chloe felt. How debilitating it was to feel small. Helpless. Hunted. She was going to do anything necessary to catch Bishop and keep Chloe safe.

Even if her life depended on it.