“Nola, when I spoke to Zig, he said you were at Colonel Mint’s funeral. I take it this is about him?” Waggs asked. “Was Mint a friend?”
Nola stayed silent.
“You found a Black House account for Mint, didn’t you?” Waggs added.
Still silent.
Waggs sighed. It was like dealing with her son—Nola was about the same age. Midtwenties, utterly frustrating and completely self-absorbed. But still . . . just a kid.
Lord, why am I such a sucker? Waggs thought to herself.
“Nola, if you need help, I can—”
“Someone’s using Mint’s account. I saw them online,” Nola blurted.
“Online where? On Black House?”
“If you sign in and someone’s already logged into that account, it assigns you a new avatar. I saw them. Two men. One in Mint’s account, plus someone else. They logged out and took off the moment they saw me.” The words tumbled from Nola’s lips, like even she was surprised she was saying them.
“Maybe it was one of our forensic guys checking his account?”
Considering that, Nola looked away. She was done making eye contact.
“Nola, I know working alone is emotionally safer, but we have people here who can—”
“I need my phone,” Nola said, her hand snapping out like a cobra, snatching her phone from Waggs’s hand. She kicked open the car door.
“Nola, wait—！”
“You don’t have to worry, Ms. Waggs. I’ll stay away from Mr. Zigarowski.”
“Nola—！”
The door slammed with a boom.
For a split second, Waggs thought about giving chase, but there was no need. Reaching for her purse, Waggs pulled out a portable phone charger with five different cords running down from it. The Octopus, the Bureau called it, though Waggs had started seeing them in airports and even in the back of Ubers. People think they’re plugging in for a charge—which they get—though what they also receive is some homemade computer code courtesy, in this case, of the FBI.
That’s why you don’t hand your phone to strangers, Waggs thought, replaying the moment a few minutes ago when she pretended to rummage through her purse while she plugged Nola’s phone into the Octopus.
With a few clicks on her own phone, Waggs opened a map. At the center was a small orange square: Nola’s phone. But to Waggs’s surprise, the orange square wasn’t moving.
It should be moving.
Waggs glanced outside the car, first left, then right. The lot was dark. Nola was gone.
It made no sense. Unless . . .
Waggs turned toward the back seat. Sure enough, Nola’s phone was sitting there, discarded, tucked into the little groove by the seat belt.
“Okay, girl—bump, set, spike. Round one to you,” Waggs whispered, her fingers again clicking at her phone, opening a new screen, this one labeled History.
By dumping her phone, Nola ensured that no one could see where she was going. But thanks to the passive location settings on every cell phone—ones that even Nola couldn’t shut off—Waggs could at least see where Nola had been.
“Bump, set, even better spike,” Waggs whispered, scrolling through Nola’s history. “Round two to me.”
She considered calling Zig, though quickly thought better of it. Don’t rile him up. Not until you know what’s really going—
Her phone rang in her hand. Oh jeez, she thought as caller ID kicked in. Her boyfriend, Mikel. “Hey, honey . . .”