posting two deputies here and one there. Rotate 24/7.”
Puller stretched out his back.
“You hungry?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a good restaurant in town. It’s open late.”
“Late enough for me to grab a shower and change my clothes?”
“Yes. I plan on doing the same. Try to get the stench out.”
“Tell me how to get there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Annie’s Motel.”
“Restaurant’s only three minutes from there, two blocks to the east. Hang a right on Cyrus Street. Can’t miss it. Hell, everything here is only three minutes from each other. That kind of town.”
“Forty minutes to the hotel. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Five minutes there. I’ll see you in sixty minutes.”
“But the minutes only add up to fifty-five.”
“I need five minutes to communicate with my boss. I should’ve done it before now, but things got a little busy.”
“A little busy? You have high standards, then. I’ve got my stopwatch. Don’t disappoint me.”
He drove back to the motel, passing the restaurant where they would be eating, showered, and changed into fresh jeans and aT-shirt. He pulled out his mini laptop, plugged in his communication fob, and sent an encrypted email back to Quantico. Then he spent two minutes on his secure phone filling in the SAC on what he had discovered and his progress so far. Don White wanted detailed reports sent out the next day by email with more formal ones in the snail mail shortly thereafter.
“Lot of eyes on this, Puller.”
“Yes, sir. You made that very clear.”
“Any theories yet?” White asked.
“As soon as I have them, so will you. The colonel’s laptop and briefcase are secure. I’ll try to get them released from police custody and drop them off at the DHS site.”
“Have you readied anything to be sent to USACIL yet?”
“In the process, sir. Should go out tomorrow. At least the first batch. There’s a lot to process. Two crime scenes instead of one.” He paused to allow the SAC to offer more manpower to assist him. The offer never came.
“Lines of communication open, Puller,” the man said instead.
“Yes, sir.”
Puller closed his phone and slipped his mini laptop into an inner pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like leaving things like that behind in a motel room that anyone could break into with a jackknife or credit card. He gunned up, one front, one back.
He passed his car on the way out and double-checked that it was locked. He decided it would be faster to walk to the place than drive.
So Puller walked. He’d get a better lay of the land that way. And he might just see the person who had wiped out two households. He had a feeling this killing was local. But not necessarily in all respects.
CHAPTER
19
T HE PLACE WAS like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use—although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.
Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.
Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the
Puller stretched out his back.
“You hungry?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a good restaurant in town. It’s open late.”
“Late enough for me to grab a shower and change my clothes?”
“Yes. I plan on doing the same. Try to get the stench out.”
“Tell me how to get there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Annie’s Motel.”
“Restaurant’s only three minutes from there, two blocks to the east. Hang a right on Cyrus Street. Can’t miss it. Hell, everything here is only three minutes from each other. That kind of town.”
“Forty minutes to the hotel. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Five minutes there. I’ll see you in sixty minutes.”
“But the minutes only add up to fifty-five.”
“I need five minutes to communicate with my boss. I should’ve done it before now, but things got a little busy.”
“A little busy? You have high standards, then. I’ve got my stopwatch. Don’t disappoint me.”
He drove back to the motel, passing the restaurant where they would be eating, showered, and changed into fresh jeans and aT-shirt. He pulled out his mini laptop, plugged in his communication fob, and sent an encrypted email back to Quantico. Then he spent two minutes on his secure phone filling in the SAC on what he had discovered and his progress so far. Don White wanted detailed reports sent out the next day by email with more formal ones in the snail mail shortly thereafter.
“Lot of eyes on this, Puller.”
“Yes, sir. You made that very clear.”
“Any theories yet?” White asked.
“As soon as I have them, so will you. The colonel’s laptop and briefcase are secure. I’ll try to get them released from police custody and drop them off at the DHS site.”
“Have you readied anything to be sent to USACIL yet?”
“In the process, sir. Should go out tomorrow. At least the first batch. There’s a lot to process. Two crime scenes instead of one.” He paused to allow the SAC to offer more manpower to assist him. The offer never came.
“Lines of communication open, Puller,” the man said instead.
“Yes, sir.”
Puller closed his phone and slipped his mini laptop into an inner pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like leaving things like that behind in a motel room that anyone could break into with a jackknife or credit card. He gunned up, one front, one back.
He passed his car on the way out and double-checked that it was locked. He decided it would be faster to walk to the place than drive.
So Puller walked. He’d get a better lay of the land that way. And he might just see the person who had wiped out two households. He had a feeling this killing was local. But not necessarily in all respects.
CHAPTER
19
T HE PLACE WAS like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use—although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.
Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.
Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the
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