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Obey the posted Speed Limits.
All the Henderson Jobbing trucks, it seemed, were equipped with sat nav, not only to give the drivers directions but also to tell the boss exactly where the drivers were and how fast they'd been going. (Henderson explained that this was to protect them in the case of hijacking or theft; Dance suspected he was also tired of paying speeding tickets or shelling out more than he needed to for diesel fuel.)
Dance got permission from Bob Holly and the county deputies to extract the GPS device from Billy's truck and take it into the Henderson office. Once it was hooked up via a USB cord, Dance and the deputies looked over the data.
At 8:10 last night, an hour after Billy had parked and gone home, the GPS unit came to life when the diesel was turned on. It registered movement northward--toward the roadhouse--of about one hundred feet, then it stopped and shut off.
"So," Kit Sanchez said, "somebody drove it into position intentionally."
"Yep," Dance said. "Somebody broke into the drop-box. Got the key. Drove the truck to block the club doors, shut the engine off and returned the key."
"I was home then!" Billy said. "When it happened, eight o'clock, I was home. I've got witnesses!"
Henderson and his perhaps nephew diligently avoided looking at either Dance or Billy Culp, now knowing that the man they had wanted to throw under the...well, truck, was innocent.
"Security cameras?" Dance asked.
"In the warehouse. Nothing outside."
Too bad, that.
"And the key to the truck?" she asked.
"I've got it." Henderson reached for a drawer.
"No, don't touch it," Dance said.
Fingerprints. Forensics didn't much interest Kathryn Dance but you had to treat physical evidence with consummate reverence.
"Shit. I've already picked it up."
John Lanners, the MCSO deputy: "There'll be plenty of prints on it, I'd imagine, but we'll sort it out. Take yours for samples. Find the ones that don't match Billy's or the other drivers'."
In gloved hands, Kit Sanchez collected the key fob from the offending truck and put it in an evidence bag. Dance knew in her heart, however, there was no way Crime Scene would find any prints from the perp. He or she would be a person who took precautions.
Ironically, just after Dance had been shifted from criminal mode to civil, the administrative matter she'd come here about, taxation and insurance certificates, had just turned into a crime. A felony. Murder. Perhaps even a terrorist attack.
She said to Sanchez and Lanners, "Can you declare this a homicide? I can't." A wry smile. "That's the long story part. And secure the scene. The drop-box, the truck, the oil drum, the club. Better go for the parking lot too."
"Sure," Lanners said. "I'll call Crime Scene. Lock down everything."
With a warble of a siren, a county ambulance pulled up and parked in front of the office. Two techs, large white men, appeared in the doorway and nodded. They spotted Billy and walked to him, to assess damage and mobility.
"Is it broke, my jaw?" Billy asked.
One tech lifted off the icy and bloody towel. "Got to take X-rays first and then only a doctor can tell you after he looks over the film. But yeah, it's broke. Totally fucking broke. You can walk?"
"I'll walk. Is anybody out there?"
"How do you mean?"
Dance glanced out the window. "It's clear."
She and the others stepped outside and helped the scrawny driver into the ambulance. He reached out and took Dance's hand in both of his. His eyes were moist and not, Dance believed, from the pain. "You saved my li
fe, Officer Dance. More ways than just one. God bless you." Then he frowned. "But you watch yourself now. Those people, those animals, they wanted to kill you just as much as me. And you didn't do a lick wrong."
"Feel better, Billy."
