Chapter 21
Bobby ‘Bit’ Nowacki
Bit kicked his boots against the rough wood of the cabin door, dislodging the stubborn clumps of snow that had accumulated during his time outside.
It had taken him less than eight minutes to adjust one of the security cameras that had been inadvertently bumped into by some wildlife searching for food.
Eight minutes was way too long outside in the cold.
Bit pushed the cabin door open, attempting to stop his teeth from chattering.
He was unsuccessful as he began to remove his gloves and scarf.
When he finally had everything set on a chair off to the side, he didn’t make an immediate beeline for his desk.
He needed a few seconds by the fire to chase the chill away.
“Why is it that serial killers prefer hunting in colder states instead of warmer ones?” Bit complained as he almost groaned in relief when the heat of the fire hit his hands and face. “Why not the Bahamas? We’ve never once taken a case there.”
“Harsh weather creates a sense of isolation,” Brook replied from her position on his bed.
Steam rose from the bowl of chili in her hand, though eating lunch didn’t stop her from working.
Her laptop was open, and she had been reading something on the screen when he’d entered the cabin.
“Fewer people are out and about, making it easier for the unsubs to operate without being seen.
Plus, snow can cover tracks and evidence, giving them more time before anyone discovers what they've done.”
Brook studied him while she took another bite of her chili.
“You were gone for less than ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes too long,” Bit complained as he bent down to tackle his boot laces. “These things are like concrete. I didn’t get the chance to tell you what knocked it askew. A twelve-point buck. Massive. Like, straight-out-of-a-hunting-magazine massive.”
“See? There’s something to be said for the beauty of nature.”
Bit finally managed to pry off one boot, but his sock was disappointingly damp. He hadn’t counted on changing his socks multiple times a day on this trip. At this rate, he was going to have to hit up a laundromat in the next few days.
“Beauty?” Bit managed to remove his second boot before walking over to his open suitcase in the corner.
“That beast stared into the camera like it wanted to suck my soul through the lens.
Then it just sauntered off, all casual-like, as if to say, ‘I could impale you with these antlers, but you're not worth the effort’.”
Brook took another spoonful of her chili, but he’d caught sight of her smirk.
She turned her attention back to her laptop screen, reading over what almost certainly was Loretta Whitlow's background report. At least, what he’d been able to put together in the time it had taken Brook to leave the tattoo parlor and arrive at the cabins.
Bit retrieved a pair of clean socks and made his way around the long table.
Once he was settled in his chair, he quickly donned his feet.
Sitting in front of him was his lunch, and he didn’t waste time lifting the lid.
His mouth watered at the massive double bacon cheeseburger nestled beside a double order of fries that threatened to spill over the edges.
The aroma filled the small space immediately, causing his stomach to growl in anticipation.
“Your legs must be hollow to fit that much food.”
“Hollow legs, hollow arms, hollow wherever I can manage,” Bit replied, rubbing his hands together vigorously, both for warmth and in anticipation. “When you're this cold, calories aren't just food, they're survival.”
Brook had set his lunch away from his keyboard, so he didn’t hesitate to pick up the burger and sink his teeth into it, letting out an involuntary hum of appreciation as the flavors hit his palate.
The combination of the juicy meat, melted cheese, and crispy bacon momentarily banished all thoughts of the freezing tundra outside.
He chewed with deliberate slowness, savoring each bite as if it might be his last.
He waited until after his second mouthful to wipe his fingers on some napkins from the stack Brook had placed off to the side.
Once he was confident his fingertips were free of grease, Bit rolled his chair toward his monitors, navigating the cramped space with practiced precision.
He made a point of avoiding the edge of the bed, where he'd caught his hip earlier that morning—a bruise he wasn't eager to expand.
The small cabin hadn't been designed for his elaborate technical setup, let alone comfortable living.
"Security system's back to full operational status. Signal's strong since we’re between two stormfronts.” He glanced at the nearest monitor, which displayed a grid of camera feeds, each showing a different angle of the perimeter. “No sign of our mystery visitor returning.”
Bit rolled back to his lunch. He took a fry, still surprisingly warm despite the time that had passed since Brook had picked up their meals from the diner.
The town might be dying, but someone in that kitchen knew exactly how long to leave potatoes in hot oil.
In Bit's professional opinion, that kind of accuracy deserved recognition.
An alert from Bit's primary system drew his attention away from his food.
He rolled the chair in that direction, mindful to wipe his fingers again.
The background check on Grady Brisker had been completed sooner than expected, with the system finding multiple hits across various law enforcement databases.
“Well, hello there, Grady Brisker,” Bit murmured, scanning the extensive rap sheet with growing interest. “Aren't you just full of surprises?
Boss, Figg Whitlow wasn't exaggerating about his buddy's talent for boosting cars.
Grady Brisker was first arrested at seventeen for joyriding in a stolen Camaro.
By twenty-five, he'd graduated to running a chop shop out of an abandoned warehouse in Columbus.”
“All non-violent crimes?”
“Afraid not,” Bit replied before reading the rest of the information on his screen.
“Sentenced to eight years for grand theft auto, receiving stolen property, operating a criminal enterprise, and—this is where it gets interesting—aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.
Seems Brisker wasn't too happy when the owner of a Lexus caught him in the act. Ran the poor bastard over with his own car.”
“The victim?”
“Survived, but with a shattered pelvis and permanent nerve damage.” Bit continued scrolling. “Brisker served six years of his eight-year sentence before being released on good behavior.”
“We'll need to interview Brisker eventually,” Brook said before taking another bite of her chili. She grimaced, as if the taste wasn’t to her liking.
“But I think we should first speak with Principal Watkins at Crescent Ridge Elementary. He worked with Loretta Whitlow years ago when he was a high school teacher. Before his administration days. If Figg's mother is at the center of the unsub’s need to kill, Watkins might have some insight into her life.”
“Are you going to have Deputy Benz meet you there?”
“No. You've been cooped up all day.” Brook’s gaze settled on the window as she released her spoon, letting it rest against the rim of the bowl. “The deputy from this morning is still stationed outside, and your security system is active. We won't be gone long.”
Bit was already mentally calculating how much time they'd need to swing by the convenience store, as well. His supply of Skittles was dangerously low, he didn’t have the stomach to finish the remaining Twizzlers, and he'd completely run out of energy drinks.
“Mind if we stop at the convenience store on the way back? I need to restock while we're out.”
“We'll make time for a store run,” Brook confirmed as she gestured toward his computer. “Once you’ve sent that information to Theo and Sylvie, I’ll touch base with them. If they're still with Lindsay Sharpe, they can pivot their questions based on what we've learned.”
Bit gathered all the data, uploaded the information to the firm’s software program, and returned to his remaining burger and fries. By the time there were only a few bites left to polish off, a sharp chime from his second computer system prevented him from finishing.
The peal wasn’t the standard notification tone of his primary setup.
It was a distinctive alert he'd programmed for a very specific kind of monitoring.
The separate system occupied the far corner of his workspace, deliberately positioned away from his main configuration.
He'd built it with a singular purpose. The computer ran data feeds, pattern-recognition algorithms, and facial-recognition matches tied to every surveillance system he could legally—and sometimes less legally—access.
He glanced in Brook’s direction, noting that she had set aside her chili and was still reading from her laptop screen.
He suddenly found his mouth uncomfortably dry, despite the greasy food.
He slowly rolled his chair toward the second system, hoping his gradual movements appeared casual rather than urgent.
The wheels caught momentarily on a cable, causing him to jerk forward more abruptly than intended.
When he reached the lone screen off to the side, an alert still flashed on the monitor.
The pulsing red notification was above a grainy image captured from what appeared to be a street camera.
Bit leaned closer, studying the photograph as best he could, given the lack of clarity.
The timestamp indicated it had been captured less than an hour ago in Dupont Circle.
Washington D.C.
The facial recognition algorithm had flagged the individual with a seventy-one percent match probability. He clicked through to the detailed analysis. The pixelated image displayed a man in profile, his collar turned up against the cold.
“Is it him?”
Bit flinched when he realized he hadn’t gotten away with anything. He glanced Brook’s way to find her gaze steady, not an ounce of fear. He swore she could read every thought that crossed his mind without him uttering a word.
“Um.” Bit cleared his throat as he formed a response in his mind.
“Well, I don’t think so. See, I loosened the parameters last week.
I expanded the recognition tolerance and added more transit hub cameras.
It's probably nothing—the match is only seventy-one percent, which is barely above the threshold I set. It could be anyone with similar features caught at the right angle, or someone wearing a hat that cast shadows that fooled the system, or—”
“Forward me the photo.” Brook's voice betrayed nothing of what she might be thinking or feeling. Her ability to maintain such composure had always impressed and slightly unnerved him. No matter the crisis, her external demeanor rarely cracked. “Please.”
“Okay. I'll route it through the secure channels.”
He began the complex process he'd established to share sensitive information about Jacob Walsh with her.
It was a procedure far more elaborate than their standard communication protocols.
First, he encrypted the image file with a 256-bit algorithm, then routed it through a series of offshore servers, bouncing it from Iceland to Singapore to Brazil.
Each hop added another layer of anonymization, stripping away metadata and replacing it with false information that would lead any potential tracker down rabbit holes of dead ends.
Basically, Bit needed to avoid every—and all—alphabet agencies.
The file passed through encrypted VPNs, temporary cloud storage that would automatically wipe itself after twenty minutes, until it finally landed in a secure email account that Brook could access through a series of proxies.
The entire network was designed to be untraceable, making it impossible to connect back to either of them or to S&E Investigations.
“Sent,” Bit confirmed, observing the final confirmation appear on his screen. “It should be accessible through the usual channels.”
“Are you ready to head out?”
Bit stared at her for a moment, searching for any hint of what might be happening behind that carefully composed expression.
Was she concerned?
Alarmed?
Did she believe the match was legitimate?
The possibility of Jacob being in D.C., where they all lived and worked, sent an involuntary shiver of fear down his spine.
He reminded himself that a seventy-one percent match meant the system was almost as confident it wasn't Jacob as it was that it could be him.
False positives happened regularly—men with similar builds, comparable facial structures, the same mannerisms of moving through a crowd.
The recognition software was sophisticated but far from infallible.
Seventy-one percent.
Barely better than a coin flip.