“We’re maybe fifty-fifty to get a hit,” Lucas said. “How many white Ford trucks in Texas?”
“About a billion, give or take.”
On their way back to the house, a crime scene cop called from the town houses where Soto had been shot. “We picked up a lot of brass from the.223 used to kill Soto. Most of it had been polished clean, but we found two almost identical thumbprints on two cartridges. We got back a solid hit for a Charlene Marie Kort. The feds have no other record of her, other than a couple of speeding tickets given to a woman with that name in Florida.”
“If there was no other record, where did her prints come from?” Lucas asked.
“The feds had them, but they were submitted as part of abackground check by a security guard company in Tallahassee, eight years ago. That’s all we know.”
“And we don’t know whether this Kort actually was the shooter, or whether she just handled the ammo at some point,” Lucas said.
“No, we don’t. But the ammo with the prints is identical to the ammo that had been polished, and the prints look to us to be fresh. They’re very clear, they’re not interrupted by scratches or rubs that you’d expect if the shells had been handled a lot. If the shells are polished, we figure there can only be a bad reason for that—it’s what you expect from a really careful holdup guy, or a professional shooter. Like this Soto guy. Somebody else might not be so careful, pressing a cartridge down into a magazine.”
“Okay, I get that,” Lucas said. “And since the other person is a woman, and Charlene Marie Kort certainly sounds like a woman...”
“Yes. We think you should look up Charlene Marie Kort.”
Lucas called Forte and gave him the name.
—
“NOW WE WAIT,”Lucas said. “Hope there’s a lot of football on TV.”
“Could be some intense hoops back at the hotel,” Rae said.
“Could be,” Lucas said.
Bob was shaking his head. “Something’s going to happen,” he said. “We got momentum. Either this Kort is going to turn up or we’ll get a hit on the plates.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Rae said.
20
DORA BOXwoke up at four o’clock in the morning, listened to Poole breathing beside her. They’d gone to bed early—Sturgill Darling always went to bed early, being a farmer—and now she was wide awake, alert, ready to go. She lay as still as she could for five minutes, then crept out of bed in the dark, got dressed, went to the door, and peeked out. Nobody in the hall.
She scurried down to her own room, where her suitcases were, pulled the bedcovers around, tossed the pillow to the foot of the bed, so that it looked like the room’s occupant had had a restless night, then headed for the bathroom to begin her morning rituals.
A lot of free-floating stress, she thought, as she washed her face.This would be a tough day and potentially a dangerous one. They didn’t know anything about what the federal marshals or the drug killers were doing, so they’d be flying blind.
On the other hand, Poole was confident in their maze of phony IDs. “They might eventually break them down, but by that time, we’ll have new ones in a new place.”
Box believed him; or believedinhim. He hadn’t been wrong about much, in the time she’d been with him. Not until the Biloxi robbery, anyway. She thought,If only he hadn’t done Biloxi...
The night before, they’d agreed to stop at the storage unit in Dallas, pull out the truck for Box, and help her load a few pieces of furniture in the back.
She’d finished her shower, got dressed, and headed back to Poole’s room. As she opened the door, the alarm clock went off. Poole shut it down and a moment later was up and looking at her.
“Been up long?”
She shook her head: “Half an hour. I’m all packed. You hit the bathroom, I’ll start putting your bag together.”
“Don’t forget to search the room,” he said jokingly.
“Never.” Wherever they went, whatever they were doing, Box always searched the motel rooms before they left. Once, years before, she’d discovered a partially read paperback that Poole would have left behind. On two other occasions, she’d found pornographic magazines under mattresses, and while interesting, they belonged to somebody else.
“Call Sturgill, make sure he’s up,” Poole said. He yawned, stretched, and touched his toes.
“Yes.”
