Sinful Longing (Sinful Nights, #3)(61)

“Who was it from?”

“I can’t remember. I was loopy on pain meds. But it wasn’t a real name. It was like some weirdly menacing roller derby name, but for a guy.”

He nodded and listened intently, her phone in his hand. He’d shifted into all-business Colin, and she sensed this was the newest challenge he was about to take on. He opened a browser window on his computer, and tapped the number into a reverse phone search. It showed up as unavailable. “Pretty sure this text came from a burner phone. If I looked up your number, it would show the wireless carrier it’s registered to. A burner phone isn’t registered, so it’s hard to trace. Let me see what I can do, though.” He set down the phone, cupped her cheeks, and met her gaze once more. “I promise, Elle. I’ll fix this for you.”

She didn’t know how he could, but she loved that he wanted to. Loved, too, that he pulled her close and brushed his lips on her forehead. Loved that he wanted to take care of her. No one had taken care of her in years. She wrapped her arms around him and breathed him in—his clean, freshly showered, morning scent. She stayed like that for several minutes, there at his office, curled up with him. This was where she wanted to be when times were good, and this was where she wanted to be when times were tough.

The next day, he stopped by the center to tell her he’d tried to apply an IP tracer, then a prototype for a new phone security app, then even a silly app that let users spoof friends with anonymous text messages. None revealed the sender’s info.

“Do you think it’s about us?” she asked him, worry in her tone. That was all she could figure. That someone was trying to stop her from seeing him. “Do you think it’s from your ex? That woman you said sent you angry messages?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard from her in a year. That’s so over it’s beyond over.”

“Who do you think is sending these to me?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop until I find out.”

*

All the f*cking technology in the world at his fingertips and no one could trace a goddamn burner phone?

“Tell me, Larsen. Tell me when you get a pitch for a company that has that tech, and we’re getting in on the seed funding round,” he said, frustration thick in his voice as he sifted through app stores, past pitches from scrappy startups and app makers, and all the presentations he’d ever heard on new technology, with Larsen by his side, hunting, too. The two of them were parked on the couch by his coffee table, furiously searching for any startup, any technology they’d ever been pitched that could help their cause.

Were the drug dealers who used them really so far ahead that they’d found the one fail-safe method of covering their tracks?

“I’m on it,” Larsen said with a crisp nod. “My ears are peeled. Or is that eyes?”

“Eyes are peeled. Ears are open,” Colin said, tapping his temple, then his ears. “But none of it’s working. My brothers don’t even have tools to do this, and that’s the business they’re in. Security.”

“Isn’t that the point though? Not to go all Internet privacy on you, but isn’t that why burner phones exist? Because people feel like they have no privacy. Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines.”

He sat up straight. “What did you just say?” The cogs whirred in Colin’s head.

“Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines?” Larsen repeated tentatively, furrowing his brow.

An idea hit him—it was out of left field, but sometimes the best ideas were born there. He latched onto something Detective John Winston had said.

The gang culture, oddly enough, loves social media. They post pictures of themselves online, on Instagram and Facebook, holding wads of bills from their drugs, or showing off phones they stole.

“You’re brilliant,” Colin said to Larsen, then flipped open his laptop, logged into Facebook, and started hunting. There were many ways to solve a problem. You could tackle it point by point, or you could go wide and surround the problem.

He’d had no success tracing the number, so rather than go from number to name, he’d have to amass a list of possible names and see what matched. He rolled up the cuffs on his white shirt—nothing ventured, nothing gained—and spent the next few hours digging into Facebook and Instagram for images of the Royal Sinners.

Don’t mess with the Royal Sinners.

That was what they said about themselves.

Those were the words used in Elle’s messages.

Don’t you be messing around…

Whoever WJ was, he had effectively identified himself as a gang member in the text. Gang members had nicknames—weirdly menacing ones. WJ wanted to own his intimidation, and Colin was determined to find him.

Colin had something these gang guys didn’t have.

Ingenuity. Resourcefulness. And one hell of a brain. He knew how to use his head to solve a problem. As he hunted, he unearthed a braggart’s den. He found a treasure trove of images, just as John had said he would. Young guys holding wads of cash. Guys aiming guns at the camera. Others pointing to the ink on their arms. Protect Our Own.

He captured screenshots. He saved images. He took notes. He checked geotags on Instagram. He studied the pins on the back of images.