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“Yes, sir.”
“Wrap it up, Carmichael. Warrant should be through or coming for searching the towing place, any and all vehicles on it. Get it done.”
“You bet. Let’s go, Jimbo.”
Carmichael took Jimbo’s arm, sent Eve a quick grin. And winked out.
“Copy record, my units,” Eve ordered. “And program end. Let’s move, Banner.”
“We can trace that truck.”
“We will trace that truck. Fucking morons stripped it down and crushed it out. We might’ve had prints, DNA, something.” She took a breath as they rode back to her office. “But we’ll trace it, get a name. Even if they stole it, we’re a step closer.”
Eve swung by the computer lab on the way, dumped the data on Feeney for a search while Banner goggled a little.
“Cutting it back to Oklahoma registration,” Feeney said and, as Roarke did, worked the screen and keyboard manually. “Search in for American Bobcat, 2052, quarter-ton pickup.”
“Gray. A gray truck.”
“Paint’s easy to change, so we’ll start without it.” He grunted as the computer spit out the results. “Got over six hundred in the first sweep.”
“If they stole it, there’d be —”
“I know how to run a search, kid.” He continued to play the comp. “Got three stolen in our time frame, two recovered, one wrecked. Running a separate including the color.”
“Got it.” Roarke swiveled around from his station. “The decal, back window, van in the loading dock. OBX.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Eve demanded.
“Outer Banks – North Carolina. A property owner’s decal. We’ve narrowed the license plate. Odds on New Jersey. Highest probability on the van is a ’58 or ’59 RoadStar, black or navy. Give us a minute.”
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At another station McNab jiggled and bopped. “Nothing popped on facial rec, yet. I’m still trying to boost the image.”
“Initial cross-match results,” Roarke said. “Eight-six OBX property owners with vans within our parameters.”
“Gotta do better.”
“So I will.”
“On the gray,” Feeney put in. “We’ve got five matches.”
“That’s workable. Names, images, locations.”
“Coming on screen. Map on screen two. We can work the route, determine the most probable.”
Eve turned her attention to the screen, watched the locations light up, backtracked from Jansen’s location. “We’ll run these five. Shelley Lynn Waynes – she’s right on the route if you backtrack it.”
“Bringing her up,” Feeney said.
“Age thirty-one. Married – six years – two kids. Schoolteacher. Her truck gets boosted, she’s going to report it. Maybe lent it to a friend, a relative, but…”
“Low probability,” Feeney said. “I’ll tag her, suss it out, but she’s whistle clean. This Bowie Nettleton’s the next favorite by route. Age seventy-four, retired military. Master Sergeant, currently mayor of Three Springs, Oklahoma. Two sons, both still serving, a grandson, granddaughter, also serving. And a granddaughter in college – political science major.”
“I’m not getting a buzz, but we’ll check.”
“Barlow Lee Hanks,” Eve read, eyes narrowing on the next image. “Too old for our unsub at fifty-eight. Offspring?”
