Stone had a thought. “How about a pilot’s license? He knows something about airplanes.”
“There’s no photograph on pilots’ licenses; you ought to know that.”
“Oh, right,” Stone said, thinking of the license in his own pocket.
“You suspect this guy of being wonky in any way?” Berman asked. “There’s no criminal record.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if he’s wonky, he wouldn’t have any trouble picking up a driver’s license that would get him a rental car.”
“Good point, but do the search anyway.”
“Whatever you say, Stone.”
“Does he own a car?”
“Yes, a six-year-old BMW 320i, registered at the P Street address.”
“Strange that he has a car and a passport with that address, but no driver’s license.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want his picture taken any more than necessary. Does he know you’re looking at him?”
“Probably not, but he might guess.”
“Maybe, if he’s wonky, he figured
that someday, somebody would be looking for a photograph of him.”
“He has a passport, and you need a photograph for that.”
“Yeah, but the State Department is a lot harder to get a photograph out of than a state driver’s license office.”
“Once again, you have a point.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment. Let me know about the license.”
“Will do,” Berman said.
“And, Bob?”
“Yeah?”
“Put your mind to other ways to find a photograph.”
“I already did.” Berman hung up.
49
STONE SAT ON THE AFTERDECK AND NURSED A GIN AND tonic. “Dino,” he said finally, “when you arrested Manning that time in New York, you fingerprinted him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because that gives us a possible way to find out what Manning has been doing for the past four years to earn a living. I can’t see him doing it honestly.”
“What do you need?”