I glanced at Richie, who nodded.
“Then Travis drives drunk to Matt’s place a few miles away and crashes,” Shooter said. “Next morning, he makes the trek back to Macon.”
“We’re gonna tip a local cop,” Richie said. “Get Travis pulled over for driving drunk.”
I nodded, but something was wrong. “Guys,” I said. “A DUI isn’t considered a third strike.”
Shooter pointed with her longneck. “Now that depends on where you live, boss.”
Cassie sat down across from me and took a sip of the cappuccino she’d just made. Slid it back in my direction. Around her eyes, hermakeup was done in a way that Camila once called “smoky cat eye.” She told me it was for when women have a hot date.
“There’s a DA in Farner County, Gardner,” Cassie said. “He’s making a name for himself by prosecuting DUIs as third strikes. He’s got two that have stuck.”
I sat back, understanding their plan now.
“You want to take advantage of a particular jurisdiction where this district attorney is handing out life sentences,” I said.
“Now we’re tracking,” Cassie said, pointing at me.
“And when the DA pushes for life, we swoop in and take Travis Wells off his hands? Make him our C.I.?”
They all nodded.
“What’s the DA get?” I asked.
Shooter flipped over her cell and took a bank card from a flap at the back of her phone case. Held it up. “A million-dollar fraud case.” She smiled. “Poulton won’t care if we trade it away, right? As long as we close the gun investigation?”
I thought of Poulton’s tone in D.C. and the threat of guns showing up at some school.
“You have a sting worked out?” I asked.
“We’ve got some beige to iron out still,” Cassie said. “Then we’ll get the paperwork to Justice.”
Beigewas Cassie’s expression for “details.” Boring stuff.
“So whadaya think,” she said, “are we green-lit?”
I stared at the team, landing on Cassie Pardo. By trade, she is a mathematician. More specifically, she is an expert at what are called imaginary and unknowable numbers. But this specialty has an odd extension within PAR. She is often tasked with finding creative solutions to impossible situations. Like finding a second C.I. in forty-eight hours, three months into a case.
“How do we know Travis Wells is still in town?” I asked.
“That part’s a little ironical,” Shooter said, purposely messing up her grammar. “We started researching him. Pulled his credit and noticed something. Travis spent the night in the local ER. He had burns on his hand. Temporary loss of hearing.”
I turned to Jo, surprised. “Hewas one of the guys who got blown backwards from the trailer?”
“It’s the universe.” Shooter smiled. “Giving us a sign.”
I looked at the team. The calculus on this seemed simple.
No C.I.… no information on Sandoval’s operation.
No information on the operation… no leads on the missing guns.
“Consider yourselves green-lit,” I said.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Tuesday at 2:38 p.m., we checked out a Chevy Express van from Tech. It came with an operator named Vincent, a New Yorker who had transferred to the Miami office ten months earlier.
