“It’s… flat-out amazing.”
“I’ll get there soon. And I’ll get out of your way now. Eat your brownie,” Nadine added as she walked out. “You look like you could use it.”
She eyed the little pink box. Maybe she could use it, but not now. Instead, she added Janette Whithers/Chablis to her board.
She updated board and book and, still ignoring the brownie, got more coffee. Sitting, she wrote and sent out the memo.
Maybe, she thought, just maybe it would do some good.
She brought up Harvo’s list of vehicles.
More makes and models than she’d hoped for, but she could eliminate sedans, two-seaters, compacts, sports cars. He probably had a sports car,Eve decided. Might even use that for the pickup. But for the body dump, he’d need a van or an all-terrain with enough cargo area.
So she rubbed her eyes, rolled her shoulders, and began.
For a city with solid public transportation, New Yorkers sure as hell liked their luxury vehicles, she discovered.
As someone who drove one—despite its dead-ordinary looks, her DLE had all the chimes—she couldn’t bitch.
At least not out loud.
Add to that, she’d married a man who had a garage full of them. And as she skimmed the long, long list of Harvo’s ultras, cross-checked with ownership, she deliberately refused to count the number registered to Roarke personally or any of his businesses.
Then again, she doubted she knew the names of all of his businesses.
She eliminated what she did know, filtered out all but vans, minivans, all-terrains. And noted she still had her work cut out for her.
Roarke wasn’t the only one, by far, who had vehicles registered to businesses. The killer might have the same. He had money, she considered. Someone, at some point, had to have earned it.
For individuals, she fined it down to registrations with addresses in the areas she’d deemed most likely. But for businesses, organizations, corporations, she accepted she had to spread it out. All boroughs, and into New Jersey and Connecticut.
“Hell,” she muttered. “They could have their HQ any-fucking-where. Start here,” she told herself.
She got up, got more coffee. Studied the board, walked to the window.
Roarke had a garage full, she thought again.
“Computer, with current data, run a search on individuals or businesses with multiple vehicles registered in New York State, New Jersey, and Connecticut.
Acknowledged. Working…
He wants to impress, she thought. He doesn’t make an impression, but he wants to. Fancy cars. Something big enough to cart bodies around, sure, but doesn’t he want some shiny toy?
Search complete.
As she walked back to her desk, her ’link signaled.
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Natalie Hornesby. Carter—my husband’s flight’s delayed. He booked an earlier one as soon as I told him what happened, and he wanted to speak with you, see if he could help. But there’s a delay, and I told him I’d let you know. Storms in Chicago, so he might be stuck there another hour or two.”
“Thanks for letting me know. If he could contact me as soon as he arrives. Is there anyone else I could talk to about rejected art?”
“Carter really is the one, and his assistant’s with him. I understand as much about Carter’s work as he does mine, which is not a lot. The gallery’s open—or will be at eleven—and the staff on duty would absolutely cooperate. But they’d refer any artist who came in to Carter or his assistant.”
She could try tugging at his memory over the ’link. But Yancy would be tugging on a verified witness’s memory.
“Understood. Please have him contact me as soon as possible. If his flight’s delayed again, I’d like to arrange to interview him via ’link.”
