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“We can run it at a tenth of the speed,” Jameson explained, reaching over her to tap a few keys. “Here.”
He hit play and this time Raisa was able to gather her bearings.
She watched it carefully, knowing both Jameson and St. Ivany were doing the same. But it was difficult. There was no good angle of the driver, only of the car. And of Kilkenny and Raisa.
Raisa had to watch her own horrified face too many times before Jameson reached over her and slammed the space bar.
“There,” he said, with the confidence of someone who could spot the right markings on a bird a hundred yards away. “That sticker.”
He tapped the screen. It was paused on a shot that showed the SUV’s windshield. Raisa couldn’t tell what he was talking about, and from St. Ivany’s silence, she couldn’t, either.
Jameson leaned over Raisa once more and tapped at the keys. “Come on. Right there.”
He was right. There was some kind of sticker, but of what it wasn’t clear.
“Here,” Jameson said, and then did some kind of magic with his mouse and keyboard. And there, blown up and pixelated though it might be, was a tag for a local rental place. “They rented the car.”
And if the person rented the car, they must have had to show ID.
Raisa nearly pumped her arm in the air but refrained. “Thank you. Can you print this out, and send it to us via email as well? We need to submit it to a judge.”
Jameson leaned in for a moment, and then a printer hummed to life. “Done.”
“Thank you,” Raisa said, as sincerely as possible, when she stood. “I very much appreciate it.”
“I hardly did anything,” he demurred.
St. Ivany took care of the logistics after that, contacting a local judge, presenting the evidence. Sending the picture of the windshield tag that would lead them back to the local car rental shop that offered better prices than all the chains—in their words.
Meanwhile, Raisa stared at the printed-out picture, trying not to see ghosts in the shadows.
She couldn’t deny that it looked like Isabel behind the wheel, even though the rational side of her couldn’t help but note that all that was shown was the hint of a profile.
“Let’s roll,” St. Ivany said, grabbing Raisa by the arm.
“Will we get the warrant?” Raisa asked. St. Ivany didn’t even lead them to the SUV. Apparently, the shop was in town.
“Yeah,” St. Ivany said. “Our judge is kind of a lovable asshole, but he won’t give us shit on this. That picture is a slam dunk, and Kilkenny is an FBI agent. So.”
So no one would admit it, but everyone in law enforcement was a little more sensitive to solving cases involving one of their own.
A teenager was working the counter of the rental place, his floppy hair falling into his eyes as he swiped at his phone.
“We need your manager,” St. Ivany said, before the door had even closed behind them.
“Jeez, Karen,” the teenager mumbled. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”
St. Ivany flashed her ID. “We need your manager.”
The teenager straightened, going a bit pale at the sight of the badge. “Okay, lady. I mean. Sergeant. I mean. Det—”
“Get your manager,” St. Ivany cut in.
“Right.” The teenager almost fell off his stool in his scramble.
Two minutes later he reemerged from the back, trailing behind a woman with the same no-nonsense expression as the superintendent of the women’s prison.
“I’m sorry if Cole—”