Devoted in Death (In Death 41)

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!”