Cellini shook her head slowly as she switched off her cell phone. Walsh, standing in C.J. Osborn’s kitchen, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “The stuff in the garage,” she explained, sounding weary. “I thought for sure it would be a breakthrough. But this is one clever son of a bitch we’re up against.” “The computer couldn’t be traced?” “He filed off the serial number.” “How about the cell phone? Couldn’t you track down the account?” “Oh, I tracked it down, all right.” She gave a bitter laugh. “It’s registered to Pacific Bell. They’re paying the bills.” Walsh looked at her blankly. “Don’t you get it, Morrie? It’s a hacker’s joke. He tapped into the PacBell system and put the account in their name. He’s got the phone company paying his phone bill for him.” “So,” Walsh said, “we’re no closer to ID’ing him than we were before.” “That’s what ‘dead end’ means,” Cellini snapped, then apologized. “I’m sort of wrung out. I really thought we had him.”
