“You’re right about that,” Stone said, flicking small shards of glass out of the driver’s seat.
They drove back to the house and walked to the yacht.
“A message for you, Stone,” Callie said, handing him Bob Berman’s number.
Dino glanced at the piece of paper. “What have you got Berman on?”
Stone led him into the saloon and picked up a phone. “One William Charles Danforth of Washington, D.C.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s the passport Paul Manning is using these days.”
“Oh.”
Stone called Berman. “It’s me. You got something?”
“I got a lot,” Berman said. “You want me to FedEx it to you, or you want to hear it now?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Okay. Mr. Danforth is all over the Internet, just like you’d expect a substantial person to be. He’s got a credit history going back only four years. It’s little stuff, credit cards, couple of department stores—Saks, Macy’s. There’s apparently no Mrs. Danforth, and there are no mortgages on the reports. He rents an apartment in the P Street house in Georgetown, has for four years.”
“So Mr. Danforth is only four years old.”
“Right.”
“What does he do?”
“He lists his occupation as business consultant.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Yeah. His credit card spending is consistent with a man making less than a hundred thousand dollars a year. I got one of the credit card statements for the past year, and he’s traveled to Europe and Florida.”
“Where in Florida?”
“Miami, twice; last time ten days ago. He rented a car there, too.”
“Okay, what else?”
“He seems pretty ordinary. His phone number is listed. Nothing jumps out at you.”
“Did you find a photograph?”
“Nope, wasn’t available from any of my sources.”
“What about a driver’s license photo?”
“I checked D.C., Virginia and Maryland. Nothing there.”
“If he rented a car, he must have a license; if he has a license, there should be a photograph on file somewhere.”
“You want me to check all the states?”
“The contiguous forty-eight will do.”
“Okay, but it’s going to take a few days. There’s no federal registry of driver’s licenses; it’s purely a state thing.”