“Which tells me what I need to know,” Joe said.
“I’ve got to get going, Joe. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
Joe said, “So the key is for the target to keep their cell phone on, even if they’re not making calls all the time. If the phone is on, it’s making these pings out there.”
Coon sighed, “Right.”
“What if the phone is only turned on to call or text, and then is turned off again?”
“That makes things real hard,” Coon said. “It means we’ve got to be on top of it when that cell phone is turned on to track it immediately, as it’s being used. Once it gets turned off, we lose any ability to know where it’s going.”
“What about the GPS feature?”
“Same thing. If the phone is off, the GPS is off.”
“Hmmm,” Joe said, rubbing his chin. He had a feeling April didn’t keep her phone on because of how she’d warned Sheridan not to call. If April didn’t want anyone to know she was in contact, she wouldn’t risk an errant ring or even a wrong number that would tip them off. So it made sense she’d power it up only when she wanted to communicate.
“Who are you trying to find?” Coon asked.
Joe evaded the question. “How long does it take to get a subpoena if you’ve got probable cause?”
“Minutes, in some cases. As I mentioned, Judge Johnson is right down the hall.”
“Wow-it’s never that quick out in the real world.”
“Who are you trying to find?” Coon asked again.
Before Joe could think of another way to avoid the question, his cell phone burred. He fumbled, found it in his breast pocket. Sheridan.
“Excuse me,” Joe said to Coon, “It’s my daughter.”
“I’m out of here,” Coon said, reaching for his jacket.
Joe held up his hand for Coon to wait, but Coon shook him off.
Sheridan said, “April texted me again.”
Joe grabbed Coon’s wrist. “Please, just a minute.”
Coon conceded with a sigh.
To Sheridan, Joe said: “How long did you text back and forth?”
“Not long. Not more than a minute. She was in a big hurry. I think she’s scared, Dad.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much. She asked how I was.”
“Did you get a chance to ask her any of the questions I left you?”
“Only one.”
“Did she answer?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
“Okay. When I asked her ‘Who is Robert?’ she said, ‘Stenko’s son.’ ”
Joe grabbed the notebook sheet with April’s number on it and uncapped his pen. “How is that spelled?”
“S-T-E-N-K-O.”
Joe wrote it down. “Nothing else? No first name or anything?”
“That’s all. Then she texted, ‘Gotta go, later,’ and that was all. I sent her a couple more messages but she didn’t reply. I think she turned her phone off.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “Good job. Keep your phone on and call me if she gets back in contact.”
“I will, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you.”
Joe snapped his phone shut. Coon hadn’t left. In fact, Coon stood transfixed, staring at Joe.
“You’re shitting me, right?” Coon said.
“What?”
“Stenko. You wrote down Stenko. Is that a joke?”
“No joke,” Joe said.
“Stenko called your daughter?”
Joe could see in Coon’s eyes that the name made bells ring. He didn’t know which ones, of course, but it gave him the excuse to do an end-around, to keep April’s name out of it.
“He didn’t call,” Joe said. “He sent a text.”
“Is this Stenko from Chicago?”
Joe nodded.
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Nope.”
“We do,” Coon said, sitting back down.
JOE’S HEAD WAS STILL SPINNING when he went to see the governor. He bounded up the capitol steps and opened the heavy door just as the guard on the other side prepared to lock it.
“We close at five,” the guard said.
“I’m here to see the governor,” Joe said.
“Is he expecting you?”
“He told me to drop by any time I was in Cheyenne.”
The guard laughed. “He tells everyone that.”
“Really,” Joe said. “It’s urgent. If you don’t believe me, go into his office and tell his receptionist Joe Pickett is here to see the governor. If he turns me away, I promise to go quietly.”
The guard looked Joe over, noted the Game and Fish shirt, the J. PICKETT badge.
“You’re really him, aren’t you?” the guard said. “Wait here, Mr. Pickett.”
For the first time in his life, Joe felt mildly famous. It was similar to a headache.
GOVERNOR SPENCER RULON was on the telephone. He cringed a greeting and waved Joe into a deep red leather chair. Joe removed his hat, put it crown-down in his lap, and waited.
Rulon was a big man in every way, with a round face like a hubcap, an untamed shock of silver-flecked brown hair, and eyes like brown laser pointers when he fixed them on a person or an object. He had the liquid grace big men had, and his movements were impatient, swift, and energetic. If the recent scandal allegations had affected him physically, Joe couldn’t see it.
The last time Joe had been in the governor’s office, Stella Ennis, Rulon’s chief of staff, had been there along with the head of the state DCI. Tony Portenson of the FBI had also been present, and Rulon had successfully browbeaten him into releasing Nate Romanowski on Joe’s request. That had not gone well.
Rulon was in the last year of his first term and he was running again. What should have been a walkover had turned into a race, primarily due to the Stella Ennis and Nate Romanowski scandals. His natural enemies were flush with newfound excitement and confidence, like journeymen boxers who had been beaten round after round but somehow landed a lucky punch that sent the champ reeling.
His opponent was Forrest Niffin, a Central Wyoming rancher with a handlebar mustache, who was mounted on a white horse in all of his campaign posters. Despite his rustic image, the challenger was a multimillionaire who had recently moved to Wyoming from upstate New York, where he’d founded a fashion empire. Oddly, Rulon had a framed photo of the challenger on his bookshelf behind his head.