“So they’re running and we’ve got at least three fake IDs,” Rae said. “Let’s see if Poole has a driver’s license under any of those names, and if he does, see if we can link it up to some license tags.”
Lucas nodded and took out his phone: “Gotta get Forte on the computer shit. And, Rae, grab one of those Rangers and see what they can get out of the Texas DMV.”
Forte was pleased: “Man, you got them on the run. Get me those prints!”
—
ONE OF THE RANGERSran down the property ownership—it wasn’t Poole—and got in touch with the owner, who showed up two hours after they broke through the front door. He was a heavyset man, red-faced, with a belly that bulged over his turquoise-and-silver belt buckle. He parked his Lincoln on the street, then wandered over to a Ranger, who brought him to Lucas. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked. And, “You busted down my door?”
The Ranger said to Lucas, “This is Mr. Carlton, Davis Carlton—he’s the homeowner.”
“We’re looking for a fugitive named Garvin Poole,” Lucas said.
“This ain’t no Garvin Poole,” Carlton said. “This here is a man name of Will Robb...”
Lucas showed him the mug shot and he scratched his head and said, “Damn. That sure looks like Will.”
He’d rented the house to a man he knew as William Robb, he said, and he didn’t know why the phone would be in the name of a Marvin Toone. “I didn’t pay for a phone, or have anything to do with it,” he said.
He collected two thousand dollars a month from the man he called Robb, and said that Robb had told him that he was a disabled veteran who’d fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, and was living on a government disability pension from having breathed in poisonous gas.
“Pretty nice house for two thousand,” Rae remarked.
Carlton flushed and said, “He was a war hero, I gave him a break on the rent.”
“That’s real patriotic of you,” Rae said.
Carlton had no idea what kind of vehicles Robb and his wife owned, except that one was a white pickup. “He’d drop the rent off at my office, that’s the only time I ever saw the man. I came by every six months or so to check on the property and there was never a problem. They seemed like a real nice couple. The kind of renters you hope for.”
—
WHEN CARLTON LEFT,everything slowed down: there was no record of a Marvin Toone or a Chuck/Charles Wiggin with the DMV, although there were several William Robbs. Lucas called Forte toget him working on Dallas-area William Robbs, but told the others, “Won’t be one of them. I can feel it.”
“Fake names are cheap, like burner phones,” Bob said. “They got a different one for everything. Phones and names.”
“Goddamnit,” Lucas said. “We need to get on these guys. In twelve hours of driving, Texas speeds, they could be a thousand miles from here. By tomorrow night, they could be in California or Florida and we’ll be starting all over.”
“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Rae said.
Lucas scratched his cheek, looked blankly at the back fence, then said, “Well, first, go change into some marshal clothes. Then, we all knock on doors. Talk to neighbors. We can at least find out what kind of vehicles they’re driving, and what color they are.”
“I got the old guy across the street,” Rae said. “He seems like a curtain-peeker.”
—
THERE WEREfive properties that touched Poole’s: one on each side, one directly behind, and two at the back corners; three more houses across the street had a straight look at the driveway going back to the garage. Nobody in any of the houses had useful information, including the old guy across the street.
Robb, they said, had a gray car—or maybe dark blue—his wife had a black convertible, and they also had a white pickup, a Ford. Then a teenager who’d heard the cops were looking for information about Robb’s car came down and told them that it was a metallic gray five-liter Mustang, less than a year old. A beautiful car, he said, and Robb’s pride and joy; and Robb was a cool guy, played a mean guitar.
All of which added up to slightly more than nothing.
Forte called: “You got him. The prints are a direct hit—Garvin Poole and Dora Box.”
“We knew that, but good to know for sure,” Lucas said. “Trouble is, by now they could be two hundred miles from here.”
—
THE CRIMESCENE PEOPLEwere still working the house, and Lucas, Bob, and Rae were standing in the driveway, comparing notes, when the old guy from across the street came ambling over. He had a furry white mustache and clear blue eyes. Rae said, “Mr. Case. How’re you doing?”
