The Rogue
Chapter 25

Three days later, Addison was frustrated, exhausted, and absolutely starving, though not necessarily in that order. The entire unit—plus Delia, who was currently sitting at the desk adjacent to Addison and Maxwell’s and crunching numbers like carrot sticks—had been working damn near non-stop to track Bishop down.

They’d uncovered a gigantic sinkhole of falsified information, from Bishop’s education and work history to the birth certificate he’d used to obtain his driver’s license. Everything about him had been carefully fabricated, then curated to make it look like he was just a regular guy living a regular life. Bishop—or whoever he really was—had resigned from his job without notice via email on the same day he’d moved out, leaving yet another dead end on the trail. All of Capelli’s searches on the mystery account and the fixer attached to it had also been in vain, much to Addison’s disappointment.

At Sinclair’s direction, she and Maxwell had changed tack yesterday, digging through unresolved stalking cases to try and make a connection with any potential aliases Bishop might have used, but so far, they’d come up empty. The only solid evidence the team had to work with were the Bitcoin transactions, and slogging through those took time and patience, both of which were quickly dwindling. The only bright spot was that Chloe had remained safe at Master Ah-lam’s, with no hint at all of Bishop anywhere near her. It should’ve been a comfort, Addison knew. But the deeper she dug into those stalking cases, the more she realized the truth.

Stalkers were consumed with their victims, often to the point of delusion. They didn’t just stop obsessing over their victims and fade away when faced with obstacles. If anything, they became even more unhinged when they couldn’t be near the person with whom they were obsessed.

They did whatever it took, no matter how risky or dangerous, and they didn’t stop until they got what they wanted.

“Okay,” Addison said, lowering the case file she’d been reading and stretching her aching back. “These cases are really intense. I’m crying uncle, at least temporarily.” She couldn’t let the weight of this drag her under. “I need a five-minute break.”

“Me, too,” Maxwell said.

Delia tilted her head thoughtfully, a strand of platinum-blond hair falling out of the knot at the back of her head that was held together with chopsticks. “Studies do show that both focus and high-level thinking can be improved with short periods of rest in between brain activity.”

“Do you know what also improves focus and high-level thinking?” Addison asked, quickly typing in a website address and hitting enter before sending it to the display screen above Capelli’s desk. “Cute puppy videos.”

“Are you serious?” Hollister asked, laughing.

“Oh, yeah.” Addison waggled her brows in an attempt to shed at least a fraction of the day’s tension. “It’s a scientific fact that cute puppy videos are the perfect palate cleanser for all of”—she gestured to the stacks of files and open laptops strewn all over the room—“this.”

Delia frowned. “Actually, I don’t think there’s scientific data to prove—oh! That puppy is wearing a tuxedo sweater! That is really cute. Plus, it made me laugh, which probably did cause my brain to release dopamine, so maybe you are onto something.”

Addison lifted her hands and smiled. “And there you have it.”

The exhaustion/frustration factor must have been getting to all of them, because neither Maxwell nor Garza issued a single syllable of complaint at watching the adorable little furballs on the screen. They did, however, start a heated discussion over whether or not miniature Dachshund puppies were cuter than beagle puppies. Capelli and Delia both tried to use facts to back up their argument for the beagle—something about the large eyes and button noses triggering compassion and empathy at a neural level because human babies have similar characteristics. Isabella wholeheartedly agreed (about the puppy, but not the baby thing). In the end, though, Hollister found a photo of a Dachshund puppy in a hot dog roll Halloween costume that sealed the deal for Team Weiner Dog, four votes to three.

“Alrighty,” Addison said as the five-minute timer she’d set on her cell phone began to chime. “I’m going to put in an order for dinner, then get back to work. Please tell me I’m not the only one whose b***d sugar is threatening to pull the plug over here.”

“I could eat,” Garza said, and everyone else in the room followed suit. Addison reached for her cell phone to pull up the website for the pizza place around the corner, but was interrupted by Sergeant Riordan clearing his throat from the doorway.

“You have a visitor.” He nodded at Ryan, whose smile sent more dopamine through Addison than all the puppy videos they’d just watched, combined.

“Hey,” he said. “I know you guys are all working, and I don’t want to interrupt, but”—he lifted the two huge bags Addison just now realized he was holding in either hand—“I figured everyone eats, so…”

“Ah, God, interrupt, man,” Garza said, standing to help offload one of the bags.

“Yes, please,” Isabella added. “Because whatever you brought smells delicious.”

“I didn’t know what everyone would want, so I asked Kennedy and Sawyer to put together a bunch of appetizers and sampler stuff from the Crooked Angel.” He moved over to Addison’s desk, making her heart do all sorts of stupid, back-flippy things that felt so, so good. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, her own smile taking off like a freight train.

“Ohhhh,” Delia murmured, her eyes darting back and forth between Addison and Ryan as she grinned. “That’s a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” both Garza and Isabella confirmed at the same time, and Addison rolled her eyes.

“Eat your dinner,” she told them. “And don’t even think of hogging that Cuban sandwich.”

Everyone stood from their desks, although they were all giving up various levels of knowing smirks. Maxwell and Capelli unpacked the takeout containers on the far end of Capelli’s desk, which was the only surface not covered in files, account printouts, or computer equipment showing files or account printouts. Addison lingered at her desk as her unit-mates descended on the food like a plague of locusts, and Ryan stood beside her, just out of everyone’s earshot.

“So, how’s it going, here?” Ryan asked, impervious to everyone’s gentle teasing.

Addison switched gears, looking at her desktop monitor with a sigh. “Slow. How’s Chloe?”

“She’s okay, I guess. We did a family video chat, earlier, which cheered her up a little. She seems to be enjoying her time with Ah-lam—at least, as much as she can under the circumstances. She’s been able to help out in the dojang and do most of her classwork on the secure laptop Capelli sent over.”

“But?” Addison asked, because it was clearly dangling, unsaid.

“We do a lot together as a family, and I think it’s just hard on her not to see us face-to-face. The video is great, don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly, but Addison shook her head to counter.

“But it’s not the same, I know. I talked to her about it this morning.”

Ryan’s brows lifted in surprise. “You did?”

Here, Addison had to smile. “I talk to her every day, same as you. At least today I got to give her good news about the protective order.”

Given the investigation into Chloe’s repeated claims that Bishop had been stalking her, along with the surveillance equipment they’d found and the new proof that he’d faked his identity, the judge hadn’t thought twice about granting Chloe’s request for a preliminary protective order. It had been a much-needed victory, considering that Bishop was still a f*****g ghost.

“That did boost her confidence,” Ryan said. “I told her how hard you guys are all working. I know she trusts you.”

“I’m glad,” Addison said.

“Come on,” Ryan said, lifting his chin at the makeshift buffet. “You need to eat, too.”

She arched a brow at him, but God, her smile refused to budge. “You just want half of my Cuban sandwich.”

“Duh. It’s the best thing on the menu.”

They moved across the room, both grabbing a few offerings from the takeout containers and starting to eat. Capelli, who had claimed the lone portion of grilled salmon and steamed veggies that Addison would bet was purchased with the health-conscious tech master in mind, sat in front of his keyboard, eating with one hand and typing with the other. Addison was about to make a joke about him taking a “working dinner” to the extreme, but then he sat bolt upright, his plastic fork clattering to the floor.

“Holy shit! I’ve got him. I’ve got the fixer!”

Addison’s sandwich hit the container with a thunk. “What?”

Capelli began to type at lightning speed, his dinner forgotten. “When I couldn’t replace anything on that wallet address linked to any of the Fraud Unit’s cases here in Remington, I widened the scope to the state level. When that didn’t work, I decided to take a flyer on something bigger.”

Addison’s thoughts spun for a minute, grasping at all the logical paths, until… “Oh, my God. Capelli, did you call—”

“Special Agent Kai Roman,” came a very familiar voice attached to a very serious face on Capelli’s monitor. His dark eyes, medium-brown skin, and GQ-model cheekbones made him wildly handsome by default. His perma-scowl? That was an acquired taste.

“Damn it,” Garza muttered. He and Roman had had a love/hate relationship ever since the Intelligence Unit had shared jurisdiction with the FBI—specifically the Fraud Division, where Roman worked—on the money laundering case that had put Delia’s life in jeopardy. They’d caught the criminal in the end, but not before thinking Roman was the criminal trying to hurt Delia.

Not that any of that seemed to bother her. “Oh! Special Agent Roman, hi,” she said, waving from her seat in the office.

Roman cracked the tiniest smile. “Well, the band certainly is back together. Who’s the new guy?” he asked, nodding at Ryan.

“Oh, that’s Ryan. He and Hale are a thing,” Delia said brightly.

“He’s also the stalking victim’s brother,” Addison reminded her.

At the mention, Ryan said, “Right. Do you need me to go?”

“Sorry, but we do.” The response came from Sinclair, who had just walked into the office from the back corridor. “I know you’d never put the investigation at risk, but we need to have this conversation behind closed doors.”

Ryan nodded, although he looked horribly unhappy at the news. “Understood. Is it okay if I wait downstairs until you’re done? I know you won’t be able to tell me anything specific, but—”

“I’ll ask Sergeant Riordan to clear a room downstairs so you can wait. But absolutely nothing about any of this. To anyone,” Sinclair said.

“Copy that, Sergeant. Thank you.”

Addison tried to channel all the reassurance she could into the look she gave him as he headed out the door, pulling it shut behind him. Turning back to the monitor, she couldn’t wait another second for answers. “Roman, you have information on this account we’ve been trying to track?”

“I do. We’ve been investigating a string of Internet scams revolving around cryptocurrency fraud. The scammer targets people who are looking to break into cryptocurrency investments, but don’t have a lot of know-how. He claims to have expertise, backs up his alleged ‘success’ with testimonials. All fake, of course.”

Maxwell fired off a frown. “Why do I get the feeling there’s no happy ending, here?”

“Because there isn’t,” Roman agreed. “Not for the victim, anyway. The scammer promises to make sure-thing investments on behalf of the victim, but he needs the money sent to him in Bitcoin.”

“Of course,” Addison said, rolling her eyes.

“You see where I’m headed,” Roman said.

Hollister nodded, filling in the blanks. “The scammer convinces the victim to transfer the funds to a Bitcoin wallet, then disappears into thin air?”

“Bingo. We’ve got hundreds of calls pouring in every day from local jurisdictions, and just as many players operating the scams. Trying to track all of it has been a f*****g nightmare. But this wallet address you’re digging into is definitely linked. It belongs to a guy named Peter Webb.”

“Wait.” Addison’s thoughts log-jammed in her head. “I thought you couldn’t link a person’s identity to their Bitcoin wallet.”

Roman tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Normally, you can’t. But a couple days ago, this genius cashed in a large amount of Bitcoin, and the transaction was recorded in the coinbase.”

“Wait.” Capelli paused, clearly confused. “Why would he do something so stupid? Anyone who knows anything about Bitcoin knows there’s a paper trail in the coinbase once you cash your cryptocurrency out.”

“Because Peter Webb is an alias,” Roman said.

Shock popped Addison directly in the chest. This could not be happening. “Are you kidding me?”

Roman arched one black brow. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“How do you know?” Sinclair asked, and Roman got right back on track.

“It took some digging—this guy is good. But the real Peter Webb linked to the social security number he used to open the bank account linked to his coinbase died last year in Chicago.”

Addison couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you know his real identity?”

Roman’s pause said it all, and oh, God, they were right on the edge of breaking this whole case wide open.

“Remind me again what you want him for,” Roman said. Of course, the special agent was far too good at his job to not remember, which meant they were going to have to bargain for jurisdiction.

Luckily, Sinclair was ready to fight for it. “He’s the only connection we have to a stalker named Myles Bishop, who we believe is a serial. Multiple aliases, likely provided by Webb, and in possession of illegal surveillance equipment, which we believe is also Webb’s handiwork. We need Webb to lead us to him before Bishop hurts the woman we’re trying to protect, and so we can get the names of those aliases to investigate any crimes he may have done under other names.”

“So, you’re going to try to get Webb to flip.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Addison said. “Our stalker is in the wind. The only way we’re going to get to him is through Webb.”

Roman remained unmoved, and ugh, the man was a robot. “We know who Webb is, and we’ve got him on this internet scam. If I give him to you, and you try to get him to flip on Bishop, you’re going to have to offer him one hell of a deal. To be honest, I’m not really sure he should slide.”

“No one’s arguing that he should get away with anything he’s done,” Sinclair said. “And we understand that you have him dead to rights on the internet scam. But a woman’s life is in danger, and we believe Bishop has hurt others. I think we can work something out so both the FBI and our unit can come out of this with what they want.”

“And I assume you have a plan for that?” Roman asked.

“I do,” Sinclair said. “But if it’s going to work, we’re going to have to put it into action tonight. Now.”