already fluttering stomach. She had begun to think these crooks were smart, but who would use theirown car for a burglary? “Is there still no one at his house? Do we have a work address or anything?”
“CPD just called Jason about that. The address is old—the woman living there bought it last spring. Doesn’t know anything else about him, not even what he looks like. CPD checked her out, and she’s, like, Snow White: a fashion designer, two kids. Not the type to be an armed robber’s moll.”
“So where’s he been since last spring? He sure hasn’t been living in that Benz, unless he’s a neat freak of the highest order. It’s clean. ”
“You keep saying that,” Jason said.
“We see a lot of cars,” Theresa explained. “Most are filthy. Some have their own supply of cockroaches.”
Jason made a face. “I see. This is the Ohio state database that these prints turned up in?”
“You betcha. And before you ask, we can’t search the country unless we send it to the FBI and wait four or five weeks.”
“Wonderful.”
“It’s not like TV,” Don explained gently. “Moving right along. I superglued the Advil bottle, the Tic Tac container, the Kleenex package, and even that little piece of foil but didn’t get any fingerprints of value. The fumes only brought up a smudge here or there. I used mag powder on the owner’s manual and the envelope and the receipt, since the pulverized metal is better on porous surfaces. And tell Paul,” he added to Theresa, “I hope he appreciates it, because I hate that black powder crap.”
“Duly noted.”
“I got nothing with the mag powder either. CPD called Conrad’s about the receipt, but it had been paid with cash by RobertMoyers, with the same address, the one he sold to the fashion designer. No one at Conrad’s remembers anything about one sale four years ago. And no one at Sirius will tell me anything about the satellite radio account either, so the cops are running that down.”
“Have you called about the meter on that envelope?”
“The what?”
“Where is it?”
Don moved to a counter and picked up the number ten envelope, now sooty from the mag powder used to process it. “It’s blank. Nothing but the forty-two-cent imprint.”
Theresa peered through the plastic at the inked red markings. “Postage meters are closely regulated. You have to lease them from a dealer authorized by the United States Postal Service. This is a Pitney Bowes; if we call them with this serial number, they should be able to give us the name of the company that metered this envelope.”
Jason listened attentively. “That easy, huh?”
“Not really—they’ll want faxes on letterhead and a few other forms of identification before they’ll release the information. I’ll take the envelope back with me and get some police VIP to call.”
Don thrust a printed form and a pen at Theresa. Chain-of-custody procedures had to be maintained, even under extenuating circumstances, up to and including Armageddon. “Sign here and it’s all yours. Now, follow me.”
She led them into one of the back rooms, pausing at the door.
“That looks—” Theresa stopped.
Don nodded. “Yep.”
“Like Leo. At a microscope.”
“Yep.”
“It’s like he’s working. ”
“You betcha.”
“I can hear you, you know.” Her boss spoke without moving his lean face from the ocular lenses of an old polarized light microscope. “I can also hear the percentage of your cost-of-living increase dropping like a sow’s litter.”
Theresa approached with caution, as if a heavy tread could shatter the tableau. “What are you doing?”
“Pollen.”
“What?”
“Remember pollen? The powdery stuff that busy little bees carry from one plant to another, making most of our food supply possible? Identifying them with polarized light was a big deal in the fifties and sixties, tracking dastardly criminals back to the apple tree behind the crime scene.” He replaced a pair of
“CPD just called Jason about that. The address is old—the woman living there bought it last spring. Doesn’t know anything else about him, not even what he looks like. CPD checked her out, and she’s, like, Snow White: a fashion designer, two kids. Not the type to be an armed robber’s moll.”
“So where’s he been since last spring? He sure hasn’t been living in that Benz, unless he’s a neat freak of the highest order. It’s clean. ”
“You keep saying that,” Jason said.
“We see a lot of cars,” Theresa explained. “Most are filthy. Some have their own supply of cockroaches.”
Jason made a face. “I see. This is the Ohio state database that these prints turned up in?”
“You betcha. And before you ask, we can’t search the country unless we send it to the FBI and wait four or five weeks.”
“Wonderful.”
“It’s not like TV,” Don explained gently. “Moving right along. I superglued the Advil bottle, the Tic Tac container, the Kleenex package, and even that little piece of foil but didn’t get any fingerprints of value. The fumes only brought up a smudge here or there. I used mag powder on the owner’s manual and the envelope and the receipt, since the pulverized metal is better on porous surfaces. And tell Paul,” he added to Theresa, “I hope he appreciates it, because I hate that black powder crap.”
“Duly noted.”
“I got nothing with the mag powder either. CPD called Conrad’s about the receipt, but it had been paid with cash by RobertMoyers, with the same address, the one he sold to the fashion designer. No one at Conrad’s remembers anything about one sale four years ago. And no one at Sirius will tell me anything about the satellite radio account either, so the cops are running that down.”
“Have you called about the meter on that envelope?”
“The what?”
“Where is it?”
Don moved to a counter and picked up the number ten envelope, now sooty from the mag powder used to process it. “It’s blank. Nothing but the forty-two-cent imprint.”
Theresa peered through the plastic at the inked red markings. “Postage meters are closely regulated. You have to lease them from a dealer authorized by the United States Postal Service. This is a Pitney Bowes; if we call them with this serial number, they should be able to give us the name of the company that metered this envelope.”
Jason listened attentively. “That easy, huh?”
“Not really—they’ll want faxes on letterhead and a few other forms of identification before they’ll release the information. I’ll take the envelope back with me and get some police VIP to call.”
Don thrust a printed form and a pen at Theresa. Chain-of-custody procedures had to be maintained, even under extenuating circumstances, up to and including Armageddon. “Sign here and it’s all yours. Now, follow me.”
She led them into one of the back rooms, pausing at the door.
“That looks—” Theresa stopped.
Don nodded. “Yep.”
“Like Leo. At a microscope.”
“Yep.”
“It’s like he’s working. ”
“You betcha.”
“I can hear you, you know.” Her boss spoke without moving his lean face from the ocular lenses of an old polarized light microscope. “I can also hear the percentage of your cost-of-living increase dropping like a sow’s litter.”
Theresa approached with caution, as if a heavy tread could shatter the tableau. “What are you doing?”
“Pollen.”
“What?”
“Remember pollen? The powdery stuff that busy little bees carry from one plant to another, making most of our food supply possible? Identifying them with polarized light was a big deal in the fifties and sixties, tracking dastardly criminals back to the apple tree behind the crime scene.” He replaced a pair of
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