Page 42 of Crossing the Line
Gee, X, so glad we got these trust issues worked out.
Her message included a picture of Louie waving a knife in her direction from across the island, a stack of scripts in the foreground. Xavier smiled with what he told himself was relief.
Good girl.
“Glad we’ve solved all your problems, Boy Scout,” Micah said. “Now listen, I’ve got some money riding in the office pool that Angel is going to leave you tied naked to a flagpole by the end of the month. Help me out, okay?”
“This is why I don’t come into the office.”
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The Angel briefing was a lesson in efficiency. Invictus Security didn’t sit back and wait for a threat to require neutralizing. They went on the offensive. Xavier and Micah sat at the glossy, round conference table while four team members from research—affectionately known around the office as stalkers—walked through the details of Les Travis Ganim’s life.
Ganim was thirty-seven years old, and until ten days ago, had spent the last fifteen years working as a systems analyst for a health insurance conglomerate in El Plano, Texas. His father had gone out for cigarettes when he was seven and never returned. His mother, a fundamentalist Christian, had raised him alone, leaning heavily on a church that she tithed ten percent of her income to. He’d been homeschooled, judging from the lack of public school records. He had a Facebook profile that counted twenty-two friends. On the surface, he was a lonely computer tech from a broken home.
The deep background check painted a darker picture. His criminal history showed a disturbing pattern of escalation. Three years ago, Ganim had been charged with two counts of criminal trespass and harassment in connection with a woman in his hometown, a diner waitress. The terrified waitress had moved out of town immediately after filing the complaint and refused to pursue charges. He’d also skated a year later on criminal stalking and attempted abduction charges involving a dancer who had her own rap sheet full of possession and DUI charges.
The charges were dropped when the dancer disappeared, sending the investigating officer an email claiming she’d made up the whole thing and was moving back to Oklahoma to take care of her mother.
Speaking of mothers, Ganim’s had died of breast cancer five months ago. The day of Mrs. Ganim’s funeral was the day the wedding dress had arrived at Waverly’s house.
Ganim had been the sole heir to his mother’s modest fortune, which included a small IRA, $15,000 in savings, and the two-bedroom cottage that he’d grown up in. On his tablet, Xavier flipped through the street view images of the property from a private investigator they’d hired. The PI’s write-up of her interviews with Ganim’s supervisor and cube mate were also covered.
Every social media interaction had been combed through and examined by his team. And a three-generation family tree had been established.
“I want to talk to the waitress and the dancer,” Xavier told Cayman, the hyper-fashionable thirty-four-year-old head of research.
“On it,” Cayman promised, stretching his arms and revealing cufflinks shaped like magnifying glasses.
Xavier turned to members of the advance team. “What do we have on Ganim since he came to town?”
These results were scant at best. He’d checked in on social media at a pizza shop in Brentwood and a convenience store in Los Feliz. But those were the only traceable activities. There were also no pops on his credit report to suggest he was renting a place in town.
“He’s probably paying cash for a motel. See if you can get me the plates and description of the car he was driving when he went to the convenience store. We don’t know if he has the one registered to him in Texas or if he’s using a different one.” Xavier said. “Hopefully their security feed wasn’t wiped yet.” The advance team tapped notes into their tablets.
He made a mental note to check with Waverly on her whereabouts both days to see how close Ganim had gotten to her. The Brentwood pizza shop was only a block away from her gym.
Song, a woman they’d tempted away from the CIA when she graduated from NYU with a dual major in cyber security and computer engineering, swiveled her chair toward him. “I had a hit on a sealed juvie record, but I couldn’t get around it in any legal way.”
The way she emphasized “legal” made it sound like she was hoping to be given the go-ahead to use any means necessary. Song’s hacking skills were terrifyingly brilliant and came in handy.
“Let’s keep this by the book for now,” Xavier said, hiding a smile.
“I’ll see if I can get a buddy down in the Texas court system to help us out on that,” Micah offered. Micah’s “buddies” were a revolving list of people in various law enforcement organizations who owed him favors that never seemed to expire.
Xavier helped himself to a bottle of water from the tray in the center of the table.
Roz, in her ice blue Chanel suit, passed him a flash drive and two printouts. She tapped them with her burgundy nails. “Copies of the report and findings that you can take to the police. I included a summary with the pertinent points and the applicable laws Ganim is in violation of in case the detective isn’t particularly interested in reading.” She had a voice that always reminded Xavier of a glass of brandy.
He’d fallen in love with Roz from their first meeting when she’d swept into the interview. She’d ditched her calf-length cashmere coat on an empty seat, announced she was tired of retirement, and demanded he give her the job. She’d spent thirty-five years with the FBI doing admin work, the last fifteen as office manager of a field office. She’d taught Xavier and Micah more about efficiently running the business side of operations than anyone else. He’d hired her on the spot and never regretted it.
“Thank you, Roz, everyone,” Xavier nodded at his team. “This is a good start. Let’s keep it pushing and get this guy contained.”
Micah pushed back from the table. “We’ll meet tomorrow with Advance to talk about the logistics for Angel’s premiere next week and start laying the groundwork for the international side of the publicity tour.”
He glanced at his watch and dismissed them. He had to get to a meeting with a Detective Hansen, another of Micah’s buddies, to open the lines of communication about a stalking complaint. It was the first day in a week he hadn’t spent with Waverly. He missed her. And that annoyed him.
He pulled out his phone, started a text, and then changed his mind. There was no professional reason why he should be checking in with Waverly right now. Unless she changed her mind about going out? Or she needed him for something and didn’t want to ask?
