Chapter 4 - The Digital Footprint
Back at Calloway Tower, the private conference room looked less like a corporate office and more like a tactical command center.
Three IT specialists sat hunched over glowing laptops while Martin Ellery stood nervously behind them, holding a steaming cup of black coffee he hadn't touched. At the head of the mahogany table sat Grant Calloway, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, and his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line.
“We got it, Mr. Calloway,” said the lead technician, a young man named Toby whose fingers flew across his keyboard with blurring speed. “The phone was discarded in the alley behind the east loading dock at approximately 6:12 p.m. Exactly twelve minutes later, it registered an outgoing call to your direct extension.”
“Trace the tower routing,” Grant ordered, leaning forward, resting his palms flat on the table.
“Already did. The call was initiated from a cellular relay tower near West Garfield Park. Specifically, the 2800 block of Wilcox Avenue. A heavily depressed residential and industrial zone.”
Grant’s mind calculated the geography instantly. West Garfield Park. Six miles west of downtown. An area known for abandoned warehouses, poverty, and high crime. Not a place where a wealthy socialite or a scam artist would be operating.
“Who owns the phone registration?” Grant asked.
Toby hesitated, clicking through a secure database. “Well... that’s the interesting part, sir. The phone is technically logged under an enterprise security profile assigned to Calloway Global’s executive tier. It’s... well, it’s your backup burner device. The one you registered two years ago and supposedly lost during a trip to New York.”
Grant frowned. He remembered that phone now. He had left it in a hotel drawer in Manhattan and never bothered to recover it, assuming it had been discarded by housekeeping. Somehow, it had found its way into a Chicago dumpster tonight.
“What about the caller?” Grant pressed. “Did we capture any audio logs from the carrier switch?”
“No audio recording stored on the network, Mr. Calloway,” Toby replied nervously. “Just metadata. Duration of call: one minute and forty-two seconds. Terminated due to zero battery charge. But...” Toby paused, typing another command. “We pulled cell tower triangulation data for any registered minors or emergency dispatches in that exact sector during the call window.”
A digital map flashed onto the large 4K monitor on the wall, showing a pulsing red dot over a dilapidated brick building labeled St. Jude’s Parish / Community Outreach Center.
Martin Ellery swallowed hard, looking sideways at his boss. “Grant... what is going on? Why are we tracking a call from an abandoned church in the slums? Is this about the Singapore audit?”
Grant stood up slowly. He buttoned his suit jacket, picked up his wool overcoat from the back of his chair, and slid his car keys into his pocket.
“No, Martin,” Grant said softly, his voice cutting through the hum of the computers. “This isn’t about Singapore.”
“Where are you going? The board meeting is at nine o'clock tomorrow morning! If you walk out now—”
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“Tell the board to wait,” Grant interrupted, walking toward the private elevator. “Or tell them to find another CEO. I have business to attend to.”
The elevator doors slid open. Grant stepped inside, pressing the button for the underground parking garage where his black armored Mercedes Maybach waited.
