stuff?”
“Did Terri Blankenship write the article?”
Frank glanced at the paper. “How’d you know?”
“Rumor has it Andersen’s sleeping with her.”
“Ouch. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.”
“No kidding. I wonder what else he’s leaking to her. And don’t even say what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah, yeah. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Frank dropped the newspaper on the counter. “How do you want to tackle the car?”
“All we have are reports of a coupe or sports car and a big engine. No one actually got a real description.” Mick’s fingers tried to smooth the tension from his forehead. He’d had a headache for days. He propped his elbows on the table, thumbs at the hinge of his jaw, fingers cradling his head. Their one clue was turning into a grain of sand on a wide Carolina beach.
Frank wandered into the dining room and peered over Mick’s shoulder.
He angled the screen so Frank could see the information. “Let’s see how many we can get rid of. If we ignore the generic Chevy and Ford four-door sedans, that cuts it nearly in half.”
“Get rid of all the trucks too,” the other agent suggested.
Mick further narrowed the list by excluding the foreign cars. He paged through the remaining records. “Corvettes didn’t have big enough trunks to conceal a body.”
“Thunderbirds were clubby boats by then,” Frank said. “They had big engines, but they weren’t cool enough for our guy to be driving one now.”
“The clerk did say it was a coupe.”
“You were what in the eighties? Two? Three? I was in college. I can’t believe that was thirty years ago.” Frowning, Frank drummed his fingers on the table. “What were the tough guys driving?”
“British cars were hot when I was in high school.” Mick stretched, remembering a time that seemed so simple in retrospect. “Old Triumphs and MGs. Jeeps and Blazers were big. Lots of four-by-fours. As far as domestics went, we’re talking Mustangs, Camaros or Trans Ams.”
“They’ve been around a long time. Seems like they were big when I was in high school too.”
There were thousands of them. He cursed the mild South Carolina climate that didn’t turn cars into rusting hulks, eaten away by salt like the cars of the Northeast and Midwest. They’d have to find and investigate the owners of each car.
Frank hung over his shoulder. “It would help if they’d included the exterior color.”
Mick’s attention caught on the Vehicle Identification Number. “The manufacturer would have everything—including the original body color and interior package. Clark said the fibers were old. They could be the original carpets.”
“Good idea,” his partner nodded. “It’s possible he repainted the car, but we can at least start with the shorter list.”
Mick’s fingers danced over the keys, sorting the remaining cars by maker, then model, and sent each manufacturer the relevant VIN list, requesting specifications. As much publicity as this case had generated, he knew he’d have no trouble getting the information.
The message list refreshed with the outgoing requests, and the incoming message tone sounded.
“That was quick.”
“‘File received’ confirmations,” Mick said. He pointed at the screen. “Who’s Kevin Rynd?” The message subject line read, “Investigation.”
“Agnes Scott address. Did we talk to him when we interviewed people at the college after Baldwin’s murder?”
“I don’t think so.” Mick opened the message.
Miss Geiger—Emily, since I have been intimate with her—is not young and beautiful any longer. Such is the cost of war. Soldiers die, women break. She is not the first, nor will she be the last.
What the hell was this?
Emily foolishly believed in her own abilities. Women have neither the strength of mind nor body to compete with men. Soon they will recognize this and return to their subservient position—the one they have held throughout history as man’s
“Did Terri Blankenship write the article?”
Frank glanced at the paper. “How’d you know?”
“Rumor has it Andersen’s sleeping with her.”
“Ouch. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.”
“No kidding. I wonder what else he’s leaking to her. And don’t even say what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah, yeah. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Frank dropped the newspaper on the counter. “How do you want to tackle the car?”
“All we have are reports of a coupe or sports car and a big engine. No one actually got a real description.” Mick’s fingers tried to smooth the tension from his forehead. He’d had a headache for days. He propped his elbows on the table, thumbs at the hinge of his jaw, fingers cradling his head. Their one clue was turning into a grain of sand on a wide Carolina beach.
Frank wandered into the dining room and peered over Mick’s shoulder.
He angled the screen so Frank could see the information. “Let’s see how many we can get rid of. If we ignore the generic Chevy and Ford four-door sedans, that cuts it nearly in half.”
“Get rid of all the trucks too,” the other agent suggested.
Mick further narrowed the list by excluding the foreign cars. He paged through the remaining records. “Corvettes didn’t have big enough trunks to conceal a body.”
“Thunderbirds were clubby boats by then,” Frank said. “They had big engines, but they weren’t cool enough for our guy to be driving one now.”
“The clerk did say it was a coupe.”
“You were what in the eighties? Two? Three? I was in college. I can’t believe that was thirty years ago.” Frowning, Frank drummed his fingers on the table. “What were the tough guys driving?”
“British cars were hot when I was in high school.” Mick stretched, remembering a time that seemed so simple in retrospect. “Old Triumphs and MGs. Jeeps and Blazers were big. Lots of four-by-fours. As far as domestics went, we’re talking Mustangs, Camaros or Trans Ams.”
“They’ve been around a long time. Seems like they were big when I was in high school too.”
There were thousands of them. He cursed the mild South Carolina climate that didn’t turn cars into rusting hulks, eaten away by salt like the cars of the Northeast and Midwest. They’d have to find and investigate the owners of each car.
Frank hung over his shoulder. “It would help if they’d included the exterior color.”
Mick’s attention caught on the Vehicle Identification Number. “The manufacturer would have everything—including the original body color and interior package. Clark said the fibers were old. They could be the original carpets.”
“Good idea,” his partner nodded. “It’s possible he repainted the car, but we can at least start with the shorter list.”
Mick’s fingers danced over the keys, sorting the remaining cars by maker, then model, and sent each manufacturer the relevant VIN list, requesting specifications. As much publicity as this case had generated, he knew he’d have no trouble getting the information.
The message list refreshed with the outgoing requests, and the incoming message tone sounded.
“That was quick.”
“‘File received’ confirmations,” Mick said. He pointed at the screen. “Who’s Kevin Rynd?” The message subject line read, “Investigation.”
“Agnes Scott address. Did we talk to him when we interviewed people at the college after Baldwin’s murder?”
“I don’t think so.” Mick opened the message.
Miss Geiger—Emily, since I have been intimate with her—is not young and beautiful any longer. Such is the cost of war. Soldiers die, women break. She is not the first, nor will she be the last.
What the hell was this?
Emily foolishly believed in her own abilities. Women have neither the strength of mind nor body to compete with men. Soon they will recognize this and return to their subservient position—the one they have held throughout history as man’s
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