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you don't care for the limelight."
    Luckily, the tech doing the recording backed up his work with a detailed listing of the license plates with the makes and models of all vehicles—GQ's license plate among them. She ran his tag through the Department of Motor Vehicles. According to DMV, the car was registered to Global Enterprises, a corporation she knew nothing about. She ran a check of the name against local businesses. Still nothing.
    "Not what I expected," she muttered as she sat back in her desk chair.
    But before she redirected her attention, Becca returned her focus to the ownership history of the Imperial Theatre.
    "Let's see what's floating out in cyberspace." Moving to the edge of her seat, she popped her knuckles like a concert pianist.
    Nearly oblivious to the ringing phones, conversations, and people traffic through the bullpen of the homicide division, she sat at her metal desk, fingers tapping her keyboard. She knew her first step would be the property ownership records. If she found the owner of the Imperial, she could zero in on her mystery man—killing two buzzards with one stone. In most cases, she would have hit pay dirt searching the county tax assessor's records, but nothing doing. Her research only produced the name of a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and restoration of historic buildings for cultural use. She had to dig deeper, back to the original owner.
    On a lark, she keyed the Imperial Theatre and San Antonio into an Internet search engine.
    "Thank God and Al Gore for the Internet." She smiled, bathed in the pale light off her computer monitor. She scored 360,000 records.
    Becca tried a couple of other queries and a more advanced search to fine-tune the hits. Eventually, her persistence paid off.
    "Bingo."
    An old newspaper archive contained an article announcing the dedication of the Imperial as a historic building, complete with photographs taken at the front of the structure. A bright sunny day. With a twinge of deja vu, Becca remembered reading the article when it was first published. Less than a year ago, the mayor and the elite of San Antonio had gathered for the occasion. Even though the photo held many smiling faces in the foreground, one set of dark eyes lurked in the shadows of the theater entrance, behind the key players. And he looked anything but happy.
    No name for her mystery man in the caption, but she was one step closer to identifying him. Becca searched the article for any name construed as a benefactor "affiliated" with the property.
    "Gotcha. I'd say ownership constitutes an affiliation, wouldn't you, Mr. Crypto?" Her success produced a smile that faded when she read the name of the theater owner aloud. "Hunter Cavanaugh. Thanks for the warning, Slick. When you said he was powerful and nasty, you weren't kidding."
    Cavanaugh had a reputation. Good and bad. On the surface, he appeared to be a high-powered member of the community with far-reaching political ties. She had no idea the extent of those connections. Somehow, Cavanaugh had parlayed old family money into an international conglomerate focused on the travel industry. A sudden turn of good fortune? Becca stared at the archived photo displayed on the computer monitor, looking at the eyes of Hunter Cavanaugh.
    "I'm not a big fan of coincidence."
    Since Cavanaugh donated the theater to a nonprofit charity, shifting title to another organization, her insurance fraud angle bit the dust. Of course, she had to confirm the details, but the man wasn't exactly hurting for cash either.
    This time, Becca did a search on Global Enterprises and the name Cavanaugh. She scored numerous hits, printing out press releases, financial documents, and newspaper articles on a merger between Cavanaugh's travel company and Global Enterprises, almost three years ago.
    "What do we have here?"
    She knitted her brow and lowered her chin, staring at her computer screen. Once again, a familiar face skulked in the background of