Authors: J. D. Robb
“I’m not talking to your pa.” Voice, eyes, went frigid, and sharp with it. “You are now talking to me. I run the Homicide division for the NYPSD. You know what homicide is, Jimbo?”
“Um, yeah, sort of.”
“It’s murder.”
His eyes wheeled. And, yeah, Eve thought, even holographically, she could smell the guilt pumping off of him.
“I never killed nobody. Pa neither. My uncle Buck said how we didn’t have to say nothing.”
“Your uncle Buck isn’t looking at being charged with accessory to murder, after the fact, obstruction of justice, and a whole fucking slew of other charges I can come up with if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“I never killed nobody. And ladies don’t use bad words like that.”
“Do I look like a lady?”
“You’re a girl.”
“I’m a cop. I’m a murder cop, and I eat assholes like you for breakfast. I’ve got a prosecuting attorney chomping at the bit to have you extradited to New York and tossed in a cage.”
“I didn’t do nothing!”
“Jimbo.” Banner’s voice was cool water from a country stream against Eve’s urban flash. “Now, I expect you didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Didn’t really know you did.”
“I don’t hurt people. You can ask anybody. You from Arkansas, sir?”
“Sure am. Silby’s Pond.”
“I never been there, but I heard it’s right nice.”
“It sure is.”
“Maybe we can arrange for you to spend some time in a cage there.” Eve slapped her hand on the file, making all two hundred and sixty pounds of Jimbo jump in his chair. “Since this man was killed there.”
She slammed the photos of Robert Jansen, broken and battered, faceup.
Jimbo went white. “Holy crow! Holy crow! Is he dead?”
“What do you think?”
“Holy crow. I never did that! I never hurt nobody.”
“What kind of vehicle was it,” Banner asked conversationally, “you and your pa towed in from down along Highway 12 last August?”
“It was… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Jimbo twisted his big hands together, and stared at the photograph. “Did he get himself murdered?”
“They beat him,” Eve said, voice hard. “They burned him. They tortured him, then, when they were done, they tossed him off a ridge and left him for your goddamn holy crows. And before that, they did this.”
She shoved the dead pictures of Jansen across the table. “Bashed his head in, dragged him into the brush to rot until somebody found him.”
“I know about that. I know about that, ’cause it was Petie West and his mama who found him. But we didn’t do nothing.”
Eve dumped the rest of the photos out. “They killed all these people. Tortured them. Somebody’s son, daughter, sister, father. You took the vehicle they left on the side of the road. How much did you get for it?”
“We… I ain’t saying we did any such thing. But if we did, it didn’t hurt anybody.”
“We could trace the damn vehicle, Jimbo. We don’t know who they are.”
“You don’t know who they are,” he said slowly.
“Do the right thing, Jimbo.” Banner spoke gently. “If you don’t you are hurting people. You’re hurting the people they have right now.”
“They have people?”
Eve pushed Campbell’s picture, Mulligan’s picture over. “They have these two people. They’re torturing them. They may have already killed the woman. The longer you cover yourself, the less chance they have of getting out of this alive.”
“I gotta look after my ma.”
“They’ve got mothers, Jimbo,” Banner reminded him. “How would your ma feel if somebody had you, and there was somebody who could maybe help, but he didn’t?”
“My pa said if we told they’d put us in jail.”
“If you don’t tell, I swear to God I’ll see you both in cages, as long as I can manage it,” Eve promised. “If you help us out, give us something that helps us find these people, save this woman, this man, I’ll keep you clear of jail. And the charges currently against your father for assaulting my detective go away, too.”
“You can do that?”
“I will do that. But you come clean, and now. No more bullshit, or the deal’s off. You’ve got ten seconds.”
“I wanna think —”
“Nine. Eight. Seven.”
“Okay, all right.” He waved his big hands in the air. “It was just sitting on the side of the road. It didn’t have no registration in it or nothing. Had fuel right enough, and the battery was charged good and proper. But the engine was finished. Somebody’d worked on it, but it wasn’t going anywhere. So we towed it in. Somebody’d come around looking, we’d’ve given it back. Nobody did. We didn’t know about the dead man till later on, and then Pa said we had to be quiet or maybe they’d think we done it. We didn’t hurt nobody.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“Quarter-ton pickup. A ’52, so it was showing its age. A ’52 American Bobcat, steel-gray exterior, black interior. You could see how it’d been wrecked once, and had good bodywork.”
“License plates?”
“Yes’m, Oklahoma plates as I recall. Nothing inside it. No registration, like I said, nothing in the cab or the bed, in the glove compartment or nothing. Some trash here and there, that’s all.”
“Where is it?”
“Where is it?”
“Where’s the truck?”
“Well, after we heard about the dead man, we stripped her down, sold off the parts, and took the rest in by the piece to the recycle place. Pa said we didn’t want any part of that truck, and not to say boo to a goose about it. We didn’t know nothing about any of these murdered people till those New York City detectives come around, and Pa said we couldn’t believe them because people were always looking for trouble and telling lies in New York City.”
He looked over at Banner. “You hear that?”
“Well, I can say I’ve been here for a day or so now, and haven’t found that to be true. And the people we’re after, Jimbo, they’re not from New York City. They’re from round about where we’re from.”
“I don’t know how that can be. I’ve never known anybody could do something like this. Honest, ma’am, we never hurt anybody. We didn’t know about all this. And I couldn’t shut my eyes most all night thinking about it. Pa was just looking out for me and Ma, that’s all. You gotta look after your own.”
The dead were hers, Eve thought. And she’d look after them.
“We may need to talk to you again,” Eve began.
“Can I talk to my ma first? She says you gotta tell the truth. She’s going to be a little upset with my pa about this. She’s already pretty upset he hit that detective like he did. But, well, that detective, he did get Pa riled up.”
“I bet.” Eve rose. “I’ll bring Detective Carmichael in. She’ll escort you back. I’ll be speaking to the sheriff.”
“So they don’t put Pa in jail for hitting the detective?”
“For that, and about what we just talked about.” Again, she used Carmichael’s ’link to bring her in. “We have Mr. Dorran’s statement. I’ll copy the record to the sheriff, and to you and Detective Santiago. I’d request that Santiago agree to drop the charges against Jimbo’s father. I would also go on record as requesting no charges be filed against either Mr. Dorran considering Mr. James Dorran’s cooperation in this matter, and the information we hope will lead to the identification and apprehension of the unsubs.”
“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.”
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?”
“None on record.”
“Owns his own business, mechanic, bodywork – much like the idiot Dorrans, in Lonesome, Oklahoma. Bumbo said the truck had been worked on – good work. Mechanic.”
“ ‘Bumbo’?” Roarke repeated.
“Jimbo.” Banner shrugged. “I guess it amounts to the same.”
Even as he spoke, Eve went with her gut. She pulled out her ’link, tagged Santiago. “How’s the face?” she asked, studying the black and swollen right eye.
“It’s had worse.”
“Get it seen to, then you and Carmichael are heading to Oklahoma. Lonesome, Oklahoma. Barlow Lee Hanks. I’d like to know who he lent his ’52 American Bobcat to. Get started as soon as you can. I’ll feed you details when you’re en route.”
“We’ll get along like little doggies.”
“Why?”
“You know, little – it’s a cowboy thing. Never mind. We’re wrapping this part up. The asshole keeps good records. We can track the various parts of the truck, and most are local.”
“Turn that over to the locals for now. Oklahoma takes priority. I’ll get back to you.”
She pushed the ’link into her pocket. “Thanks,” she said to the room at large.
“Data’s already on your comps,” Roarke told her. “I’ll have the van narrowed down shortly.”
“Good. Let’s move.”
Banner followed her out the door. “Right in your house. You got all those juicy toys right in your house.”
“We work here, too.”
“You’re telling me? Never seen such fast e-work. Might be we got something solid with this.”
“Feeney will tag the other four, but let’s do a run on Barlow Lee Hanks and see what we get.”
She strode back into her office, gestured to Peabody. “Barlow’s Garage, Lonesome, Oklahoma. Basic data and financials. Make it fast. Banner, tag them up over there, see if you can get this guy on the ’link. If he’s there, he’s sure as hell not here. That’s one. And just get a sense of him. Don’t play cop. Ask him some truck question.”
“A truck question?”
“Five hundred says you’ve got one.”
“I’m not taking that bet.” Banner pulled out his own ’link. “I’ll take this out there.”
With a nod, Eve sat at her desk, started her run on Barlow Hanks.
One marriage, she read – with no offspring. Divorced for a dozen years. One brother, but older than he was, and the unsubs skewed younger. A nephew about the right age, she considered, so she’d do a secondary run there.
“Financials look solid, Dallas,” Peabody said, “on the surface anyway. He’s not rolling in it, but he does okay. Bought the property the place sits on about eight years ago, and he’s making the payments regularly. Four full-time employees, one part-time.”
Eve nodded as she continued her own run. “A couple minor league criminal bumps. A DUI, a bar fight, a pushy-shovy at some rodeo.”
“This isn’t our guy.”
“No, but he may be connected. Better than one-in-five chance it was his truck the Dumbass Dorrans hauled off.”
She started on the nephew. Small-time rancher, sometime bronc rider. What the hell was a “bronc”? She discovered it was some sort of horse, kept going. About the right age, she thought, with a cohab, which tipped him down the scale as she appeared to be clean and shiny on record, with solid employment.
“Could’ve ditched her,” Eve added. “Taken off in his uncle’s truck with his murderous partner.”
She rose to pace and think. The uncle doesn’t report the truck stolen – blood’s thick. Or he sold it to the nephew under the table.
But it didn’t play well, not when there was nothing to indicate the nephew suddenly developed murderous tendencies.
Still.
Banner came back in. “Hanks is definitely in Oklahoma. I just had a conversation with him about my truck – which I told him was a ’52 Bobcat.”
“Good thinking.”
“Mine’s running mighty rough, and I’ve taken it in twice to my regular, but it only smooths out for a hundred miles or so. Told him I’d heard he knew a thing or two. He agreed that he did, and had a ’52 himself once upon a time, done some work on it.”