since been eliminated from the list, either because their DNA didn’t match, they had strong, verified alibis, or, in one case, they were dead at the time of the homicide.
Dead is always a good alibi.
Dex is as frustrated by the case as I am. And I know he’s suspicious of my claims that Leonardo has been visiting the mall. He’s not a tracker, but I can tell from our conversations that he’s done some research since Leonardo’s first shopping trip a number of years ago. He knows that human tracking doesn’t work on asphalt, or on the frequently polished floors of Bellis Fair Mall. To his credit, he doesn’t ask too many questions.
Other than my father, Jimmy, and FBI Director Carlson, Diane and Dex are the only ones I’ve considered sharing my secret with. I still might. It depends on Leonardo.
Collecting the statewide printout of Saturn L-series sedans from the printer, we next tackle the mystery truck from Redding … and immediately derail. “It’s just too far away and too poor-quality,” Dex says. The most he can pull from the image is that the truck is a standard-cab, and there’s a slight reflection on the front fender that might— might —be a badge, but fender badges on trucks are so common that it only narrows the search by half.
“Here’s one thing,” Dex adds, pointing to an image of the truck as it almost exits the screen. “See that hint of red?” I follow his finger to the upper back edge of the cab, just above the rear window.
“Third brake light,” I say. “Like on the Saturn.”
“Exactly, and those weren’t introduced into the U.S. until 1986; that means your suspect truck is ’86 or newer.”
I give him a defeated smile. “That’s ninety-eight percent of the trucks on the road.”
“Oh, less than that if you factor in the standard cab and the fender badge,” Dex replies in a chipper voice, “but, yes, you’re still looking at thousands of trucks, perhaps tens of thousands, depending on the location and size of your search area.”
“Tens of thousands, is that all?” I say sarcastically. “No problem. You’ve been a big help, Dex.”
He just grins.
* * *
Hangar 7 is a regular hive of buzzing activity when I return. Les and Marty are tinkering with Betsy … which is a little disconcerting considering neither of them are mechanics and they have the left engine cover cracked open. Marty’s poking around inside with a screwdriver as Les looks on.
I try not to look or listen as I pass. The less I know, the better.
Jimmy’s in the break room plopped down on the couch next to his wife, Jane, looking through some catalogs and magazines. Their son, six-year-old Pete, is by himself at the foosball table on the hangar floor. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head so far you can barely see his eyes.
The conversation in the break room smells like a remodel. Jane’s been talking about a makeover on their kitchen for the last year and recently told Jimmy that she’s tired of waiting. Worse, she’s under the impression that I’m going to help—so I make a beeline for the foosball table instead.
“Hey, Petey,” I say, eyeing the rows of miniature plastic soccer players. “You want to give your Uncle Steps a foosball thrashing?” His face is in shadow, but I see the eager smile. “Hey, what’s with the hood, buddy?” His smile turns instantly to grimace as he hesitates, then walks up close to me. Looking around quickly, he pulls the hood back a few inches, just enough for me to see that his thick curly hair is gone. Not gone as in shortened, but gone as in nearly bald; the kid’s got barely a quarter inch of hair left, just fuzz. My eyes go big and I give him a sympathetic look as he pulls the hood back in place.
“What happened, big guy? You get some gum in your hair or something?”
He corkscrews his mouth and says in his husky little voice, “We went to the barber shop and I got to pick which piece I wanted to
Dead is always a good alibi.
Dex is as frustrated by the case as I am. And I know he’s suspicious of my claims that Leonardo has been visiting the mall. He’s not a tracker, but I can tell from our conversations that he’s done some research since Leonardo’s first shopping trip a number of years ago. He knows that human tracking doesn’t work on asphalt, or on the frequently polished floors of Bellis Fair Mall. To his credit, he doesn’t ask too many questions.
Other than my father, Jimmy, and FBI Director Carlson, Diane and Dex are the only ones I’ve considered sharing my secret with. I still might. It depends on Leonardo.
Collecting the statewide printout of Saturn L-series sedans from the printer, we next tackle the mystery truck from Redding … and immediately derail. “It’s just too far away and too poor-quality,” Dex says. The most he can pull from the image is that the truck is a standard-cab, and there’s a slight reflection on the front fender that might— might —be a badge, but fender badges on trucks are so common that it only narrows the search by half.
“Here’s one thing,” Dex adds, pointing to an image of the truck as it almost exits the screen. “See that hint of red?” I follow his finger to the upper back edge of the cab, just above the rear window.
“Third brake light,” I say. “Like on the Saturn.”
“Exactly, and those weren’t introduced into the U.S. until 1986; that means your suspect truck is ’86 or newer.”
I give him a defeated smile. “That’s ninety-eight percent of the trucks on the road.”
“Oh, less than that if you factor in the standard cab and the fender badge,” Dex replies in a chipper voice, “but, yes, you’re still looking at thousands of trucks, perhaps tens of thousands, depending on the location and size of your search area.”
“Tens of thousands, is that all?” I say sarcastically. “No problem. You’ve been a big help, Dex.”
He just grins.
* * *
Hangar 7 is a regular hive of buzzing activity when I return. Les and Marty are tinkering with Betsy … which is a little disconcerting considering neither of them are mechanics and they have the left engine cover cracked open. Marty’s poking around inside with a screwdriver as Les looks on.
I try not to look or listen as I pass. The less I know, the better.
Jimmy’s in the break room plopped down on the couch next to his wife, Jane, looking through some catalogs and magazines. Their son, six-year-old Pete, is by himself at the foosball table on the hangar floor. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head so far you can barely see his eyes.
The conversation in the break room smells like a remodel. Jane’s been talking about a makeover on their kitchen for the last year and recently told Jimmy that she’s tired of waiting. Worse, she’s under the impression that I’m going to help—so I make a beeline for the foosball table instead.
“Hey, Petey,” I say, eyeing the rows of miniature plastic soccer players. “You want to give your Uncle Steps a foosball thrashing?” His face is in shadow, but I see the eager smile. “Hey, what’s with the hood, buddy?” His smile turns instantly to grimace as he hesitates, then walks up close to me. Looking around quickly, he pulls the hood back a few inches, just enough for me to see that his thick curly hair is gone. Not gone as in shortened, but gone as in nearly bald; the kid’s got barely a quarter inch of hair left, just fuzz. My eyes go big and I give him a sympathetic look as he pulls the hood back in place.
“What happened, big guy? You get some gum in your hair or something?”
He corkscrews his mouth and says in his husky little voice, “We went to the barber shop and I got to pick which piece I wanted to
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