Devoted in Death (In Death #41)(75)

“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.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so. His opinion while not a piece of cowshit, it ain’t much after it hits ninety thousand miles or thereabouts. But he’d be happy to take a look at her if I want to bring her by.”

“Okay.” She turned to her board, nodded. “Okay. We’ll see what Carmichael and Santiago get out of him. It feels right. Meanwhile.”

Her desk ’link signaled. She walked over. “What?”

“Say thank you,” Roarke requested.

“What for?”

“For Elsie and Maddox Hornesby of Bloomingdale who own a ’58 Country Scout van, color Indigo, with an OBX sticker in the left rear window.”

“Why them and not the eighty-two others?”

“I culled that down to thirty-nine, then hit the Hornesbys who, from my subtle invasion of their privacy, I determined have spent eight weeks – January and February – the last three winters in the Bahamas where they own a beach house.”

“Can’t report the vehicle stolen if they don’t know it’s stolen.”

“That would be my thought. A… brief glance at their financials indicate they drive themselves to the Newark transpo center, use long-term parking. I’ve heard boosting a vehicle from long-term parking is a very handy way to acquire one.”

“I bet you have.”

He smiled at her, in just that way. “Their contact information is on your comp.”

“You earned a thank-you. I have to move on this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Peabody,” Eve began as she cut Roarke off.

“Ahead of you. Contacting transpo security at Newark.”

Since the data was there, as promised, Eve used her desk ’link. She didn’t try to figure what time it might be in the Bahamas, and didn’t care.

“Maddox Hornesby.”

Eve looked at the tanned, relaxed face, the short stream of sun-streaked hair. “Mr. Hornesby, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the New York City Police and Security Department.”

“So I see. What can I do for you?”

“You own a Country Scout van, ’58 model year.”

“That’s right.” The relaxed smile faded as his eyebrows drew together. She heard a woman’s voice – “Mad! You promised no business!”

“It’s not. Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“Can you give me the location of your vehicle?”

“Long-term parking, Deck A, slot 45, Newark Transportation. What is this about?”

Eve turned to Peabody, who nodded.

“What is your current location?”

“I’m sitting on my deck in the Bahamas with my wife who just handed me a mimosa and thinks I’m talking to our broker. What’s going on?”

“We had an incident with a vehicle that matches yours. Do you have an OBX sticker on the —”

“Left rear window, bottom corner. What kind of incident?”

“We’re checking on that, Mr. Hornesby, and contacting security at the transportation center. Either they or I will contact you if necessary.” She couldn’t help it. “Could you tell me what time it is there?”

“Time? It’s… it’s eight-forty-five.”

“In the morning?”

“Of course in the morning.”

Eve said, “Huh,” fascinated and a little irritated there was no time difference.

“Did someone steal our old van?”

“We’re looking into that, Mr. Hornesby.”