Page 98 of Devoted in Death

“Outer Banks—North Carolina. A property owner’s decal. We’ve narrowed the license plate. Odds on New Jersey. Highest probability on the van is a ’58 or ’59 RoadStar, black or navy. Give us a minute.”

At another station McNab jiggled and bopped. “Nothing popped on facial rec, yet. I’m still trying to boost the image.”

“Initial cross-match results,” Roarke said. “Eight-six OBX property owners with vans within our parameters.”

“Gotta do better.”

“So I will.”

“On the gray,” Feeney put in. “We’ve got five matches.”

“That’s workable. Names, images, locations.”

“Coming on screen. Map on screen two. We can work the route, determine the most probable.”

Eve turned her attention to the screen, watched the locations light up, backtracked from Jansen’s location. “We’ll run these five. Shelley Lynn Waynes—she’s right on the route if you backtrack it.”

“Bringing her up,” Feeney said.

“Age thirty-one. Married—six years—two kids. Schoolteacher. Her truck gets boosted, she’s going to report it. Maybe lent it to a friend, a relative, but...”

“Low probability,” Feeney said. “I’ll tag her, suss it out, but she’s whistle clean. This Bowie Nettleton’s the next favorite by route. Age seventy-four, retired military. Master Sergeant, currently mayor of Three Springs, Oklahoma. Two sons, both still serving, a grandson, granddaughter, also serving. And a granddaughter in college—political science major.”

“I’m not getting a buzz, but we’ll check.”

“Barlow Lee Hanks,” Eve read, eyes narrowing on the next image. “Too old for our unsub at fifty-eight. Offspring?”

“None on record.”

“Owns his own business, mechanic, bodywork—much like the idiot Dorrans, in Lonesome, Oklahoma. Bumbo said the truck had been worked on—good work. Mechanic.”

“‘Bumbo’?” Roarke repeated.

“Jimbo.” Banner shrugged. “I guess it amounts to the same.”

Even as he spoke, Eve went with her gut. She pulled out her ’link, tagged Santiago. “How’s the face?” she asked, studying the black and swollen right eye.

“It’s had worse.”

“Get it seen to, then you and Carmichael are heading to Oklahoma. Lonesome, Oklahoma. Barlow Lee Hanks. I’d like to know who he lent his ’52 American Bobcat to. Get started as soon as you can. I’ll feed you details when you’re en route.”

“We’ll get along like little doggies.”

“Why?”

“You know, little—it’s a cowboy thing. Never mind. We’re wrapping this part up. The asshole keeps good records. We can track the various parts of the truck, and most are local.”

“Turn that over to the locals for now. Oklahoma takes priority. I’ll get back to you.”

She pushed the ’link into her pocket. “Thanks,” she said to the room at large.

“Data’s already on your comps,” Roarke told her. “I’ll have the van narrowed down shortly.”

“Good. Let’s move.”

Banner followed her out the door. “Right in your house. You got all those juicy toys right in your house.”

“We work here, too.”