Page 110 of The Last Close Call

She ducked under his arm and walked out.

TWENTY-THREE

Jack climbed into the van.

“Did you talk to Heidi? We had a sighting.” Bryan’s voice sounded like he was jacked up on caffeine or adrenaline or both. “Just fifty-five minutes ago.”

Jack sank into the seat beside him. “She told me.”

“Telephoto lens, man. This is freaking huge.”

“Who took the pictures?” Jack grabbed the binoculars off the floor and peered through the lenses at the house.

“Some guy on Heidi’s team. He dressed up as a utility worker and climbed up a telephone poll with a camera and got the shots.”

Jack adjusted the focus and stared at the duplex.

“Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you’d be psyched.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

All the windows in the front of the house were dark, with the exception of a faint glow in the small, high window at the end of the house—likely the bathroom.

“Here, look at the pictures.” Bryan picked up the laptop computer sitting on the cooler and handed it to Jack. Jack stared down at the surveillance photograph on the screen showing a woman standing at the kitchen sink—the kitchen across the street, presumably. The woman looked to be filling a coffee pitcher with water.

“Scroll through. Look.” Bryan reached across him and tapped the arrow.

Jack’s blood ran cold at the next image. A man stood at the sink.

William John Anderson.

In the bright overhead light, there was no mistaking him. Jack knew it was him.

“Here. See?” Bryan handed Jack his cell phone, and on the screen was Anderson’s old driver’s license photo. The photo was a decade old, but it didn’t even matter. The two pictures were clearly the same guy.

“It’s him,” Bryan said. “Fucking finally. We found him.”

Jack glanced up at Bryan. His hair was sticking out in different directions, and he badly needed a shave. He looked a little unhinged, actually—a direct result of spending the night in a surveillance van.

“Jack. Dude, you’re killing me. What’s with the nonreaction?”

Jack looked at the photograph again.

It was definitely Anderson.

He tapped the back arrow to review the previous shot on the computer screen. The woman at the sink was Sheryl Mason of Bozeman, Montana. And the car in the driveway was a black Honda Civic. All of those facts piled on top of each other meant Bryan was right.

They had located him at last.

“It’s him.” Jack looked up.

“No shit, man. That’s what I’m saying.”

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