A second later the screen blinked and a picture appeared.
Taken at night, it was a selfie of a big, muscular woman gone goth, heavy on the black on black right down to the lipstick. She was grinning raunchily and sitting in the lap of a man with wispy red hair. His hands held her across her deep, leather-clad cleavage, and he had buried three quarters of his face into the side of her neck.
The other quarter, however, including his right eye, was clearly visible.
He was staring right into the camera with an amused and lecherous expression that seemed designed to taunt the lens and me. He knew I’d see the picture someday and be infuriated.
I was sure of that. It was the kind of thing Soneji would do.
“That him?” Batra asked. “Gary Soneji?”
“Close enough. Can you track down Gary’s Girl?”
The FBI cyber agent thought about that, and then said, “Give me twenty minutes, maybe less.”
Chapter 17
At five o’clock that afternoon, Bree and I drove through the tiny rural community of Flintstone, Maryland, past the Flintstone Post Office, the Stone Age Café, and Carl’s Gas and Grub.
We found a side street off Route 144, and drove down a wooded lane to a freshly painted green ranch house set off all by itself in a meticulously tended yard. A shiny new Audi Q5 sat in the driveway.
“I thought you said she’s on welfare,” Bree said.
“Food stamps, too,” I said.
We parked behind the Audi and got out. AC/DC was blasting from inside the house. We went to the front door and found it ajar.
I tried the bell. It was broken.
Bree knocked and called out, “Delilah Pinder?”
We heard nothing in response but the howling of an electric guitar against a thundering baseline.
“Door’s open,” I said. “We’re checking on her well-being.”
“Be my guest,” Bree said.
I pushed open the door and found myself in a room decorated with brand-new leather furniture and a big curved HD television. The music throbbed on from somewhere deeper inside the house.
We checked the kitchen, saw boxes of appliances that hadn’t even been opened, and then headed down the hallway toward the source of the music. The first door on the left was a home gym with Olympic weight-lifting equipment. The music came from the room at the end of the hall.
There was a lull in the song, just enough that I heard a woman’s voice cry, “That’s it!” before the throbbing, wailing song drowned her out.
The door to that room at the end of the hall was cracked open two inches. A brilliant light shone through.
“Delilah Pinder?” I called out.
No answer.
I stepped forward and pushed the door open enough to get a comprehensive view of a very muscular and artificially busty woman up on all fours on a four-poster bed. Gyrating her hips in time with the beat, she was naked, and looking over her shoulder at a GoPro camera mounted on a tripod.
I just stood there, stunned for a moment, long enough for Bree to nudge me, and long enough for Delilah Pinder to look around and spot me.
“Christ!” she screamed and flung herself forward on the bed.
I thought she was diving for modesty, but she hit some kind of panic button and the door slammed shut in my face and locked.
“What the hell just happened?” Bree demanded.