Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(71)

“I should be ready to go by tomorrow, so I think we’re in good shape,” he said.

“I saw Jimmy Temple drinking at the bar in the Toproll.”

“So?”

“Jimmy never comes in. Never. No one went anywhere near him, like he was contagious. Looked like he’d stopped eating. Suit didn’t fit. Lost ten, maybe twenty pounds,” Lea said. “I asked him, was he okay. He said they just keep checking in. He didn’t sound happy about it either. He knows something bad is coming down. The whole town does.”

“And they’re right.”

“I think someone got to the sheriff. Margo said he’s been in and out of the hotel the last few days. It’s getting tense out there.”

“I know, Lea. I know. What’s your point?”

“Last night can’t happen again,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of deal you have with Swonger, but don’t play hero with my life again. You want me to back you again, don’t leave me in the dark like that. Does my hundred thousand buy me at least that much?”

“Is that why you did it?”

“Does it?”

“It won’t happen again.”

She studied his face, a picture of sincerity. “All right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

After Lea left, he realized it hadn’t even occurred to him to tell her about the fisherman.

The third knock didn’t come for another few hours—this time it really was Swonger. Gibson opened the door for him and went back to work. Neither man spoke. Swonger dragged a Thule roof box into the garage and laid it out on the floor. He worked diligently on his solution to the antennae problem, cutting four slots into the roof box that the antennae would fit inside. Gibson helped secure it to the roof, and then the two men stood back and admired it. The only question it might raise was why a van would need rooftop storage; otherwise it worked well. Gibson was impressed.

“Nice work.” He held out the .45 to Swonger.

“Thanks.”

Gibson put a hand in his back pocket and touched the firing pin and stop. “I have another job for you.”

“Yeah?” Swonger sounded surprised, maybe even a little hopeful. His default cockiness hadn’t returned since Truck Noble had almost used him as a croquet ball. Gibson didn’t mind that at all.

“You seen the fisherman staying at the hotel?” Gibson asked.

“Asian dude? Yeah, once or twice.”

“I need to know how he’s spending his days.”

“You mean besides fishing?”

“Yeah,” Gibson snapped back. “Besides fishing.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


While a Stingray could mimic a cell tower, it wasn’t one. So once a phone connected, it would take only a few seconds for the phone to realize it couldn’t make contact with its service provider, disconnect, and move on to the next strongest signal. But that was all the time it took for the Stingray to capture a phone number. It was an outstanding if highly controversial law-enforcement tool for tracking down a suspect’s phone. In earlier generations, that was as far as it went. Police hadn’t been able to listen in on conversations, because cell-phone data was encrypted at the source and could be decrypted only by the intended recipient.

That was no longer an issue.

With FishHawk and Porpoise, the latest generations of Stingray software, during the brief connection, the Stingray would record a phone’s unique encryption key. Later, when that phone connected to a real cell tower and placed a call, the Stingray could listen in to calls or read outgoing texts. After the complications at the junkyard, Gibson hoped that capturing Merrick’s cell-phone number would be exactly that simple. Or at the very least, that no one would point a gun at them. That would be nice. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep for more of that.

The cell tower nearest the prison sat on a hillside at the northern edge of town. The prison lay at the outer edge of its effective range, accounting for the generally piss-poor reception. The clearing that Gibson and Lea had scoped out on their hike was only a quarter mile from the prison, ensuring that the Stingray’s signal would be by far the more powerful. Cell phones always hunted for the strongest signal as a way to conserve battery life, so every phone at the prison would jump at the Stingray as soon as it came online.

Gibson managed to get them set up in the clearing in plenty of time for the fisherman’s window of opportunity in the afternoon. That allowed him to practice using the Stingray’s software to capture calls. Really, it was a one-person job, but trust was at a premium since the junkyard, and Lea had insisted on spectating. Since he still had not told Lea about the visit from the fisherman, Gibson went through the charade of Parker shadowing Merrick to alert them if Merrick went anywhere near the library to make a call.

“Where’s Swonger anyway?” Lea asked.

Swonger had made himself scarce since Gibson had tasked him with keeping tabs on the fisherman.

“Running errands.”

“Is he all right? Hasn’t seemed himself.”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Lea shook her head. “What’s your deal? You two friends?”

Gibson realized that Lea had no idea of the nature of his relationship with Swonger.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”