He and Durkee both signed off on the custody sheets, and Ogilvie twisted no-release plastic straps around the CPU and sealed them with his department’s lead slug. Durkee helped him tote the things up the stairs, through the building, and down another set of stairs. They ducked heads and raised shoulders and stalked through the driving snow to get to Ogilvie’s van, then hightailed it back inside and did it again.
The three CPUs secured in a locker in the back, Ogilvie followed Durkee back inside one more time to get the hard-copy transcripts the Millers Kill officer had prepped and to take him up on the offer of a hot refill for his traveling mug.
“Crappy weather,” Durkee said, leading Ogilvie to the coffee machine. “I’m glad I’m not headed down to Albany.”
“I’ll take it slow. My boss thinks your perp might be part of an areawide identity theft ring. He’s practically wetting his pants over those CPUs.”
“I hope he finds some leads, then, because when we catch Shambaugh, he’s going down for Man One, not fraud.” Durkee crossed the squad room to his desk and retrieved a thick plastic document box. “Here’s the printouts.”
“Thanks.” Ogilvie hefted the box one-handed and slipped it beneath his arm. “So… word is this guy was ripping off your chief when he sliced and diced his partner.”
Durkee frowned. “He was there, all right. We’ve got the prints. The funny thing is-”
Ogilvie’s ears perked up. He did enjoy a juicy piece of information. “What?”
“It’s probably because I’m not real skilled in this. I’m sure you guys will uncover something. It’s just… I couldn’t find any trace of any of the Van Alstynes’ information in there. No SSNs, no card numbers-nothin’.”
Approaching the red light where Main crossed Route 17, Officer Kevin Flynn feathered his brakes and wished for the fifth time since leaving the station he had had the cojones to stand up to Investigator Jensen. Not so much about driving halfway across the township to talk with Quinn Tracey, but about taking his own truck.
He had just gotten back from interviewing first Shambaugh’s sister, and then his sister-in-law. Jensen called him into the chief’s office, where she had just moved in and set up camp. “O’Flynn,” she said, tossing a folder across the desk at him, “there may be a common thread in these animal abuse cases.”
“It’s just Flynn, ma’am.” He picked the folder up.
“Flynn.” She smiled insincerely. “This department has three reported cases, and I have information that there’ve been two more incidents that weren’t reported. You’ll see my notes. A kid named Quinn Tracey worked for the five owners.”
He looked up from where he had been flipping through the folder. “All five?”
“Amazingly, the brilliant investigative minds in this department hadn’t made the connection. Get yourself up to date and then get over to the Traceys’ house and talk with the kid.”
“Okay if I take my personal vehicle, ma’am? It’s better in the snow than the Crown Vics.”
“No, Officer Flynn, it’s not okay. You’ve got a uniform and a squad car. I expect to see you in both.”
He glanced out the tall windows. He could barely see the trees in the park across the street for the snow pelting down. “The chief lets me use my four-by-four if I’m not on traffic duty.” He could see from her expression that mentioning the chief had been a mistake.
“Your chief lets a lot of things slip by that are frankly unprofessional. If you ever hope to get out of this town and move up into serious policing, you need to change your attitude.” At that moment, Mark Durkee sidled through the office door. “Be more like Officer Durkee. No facial hair on him.”
Kevin clutched the seam of his pants to keep from touching his soul patch. “Ma’am,” he said. He brushed past Mark without looking at him. Suckup.
So now he was sliding toward Route 17, the squad car shimmying as its tires tried, and failed, to find traction. An eighteen-wheeler rolled into the intersection. He was headed straight for its rear wheels. “Holy St. Christopher, pray for me,” he blurted out, an incantation his mother always said when she ran into trouble behind the wheel. Amazingly, the light turned green, the truck roared past, and Kevin slid through the intersection unharmed.
“Wow.” He gently accelerated. He’d have to tell his mom. Of course, then she’d get on his case even more about going to Mass.
The Tracey house was set back a ways, and he didn’t even try to get the Crown Vic up the driveway. He parked on the shoulder, flipped on his warning flashers, and hiked up to the front porch.
A middle-school-aged girl answered the door. She looked at him suspiciously when he asked to see her mother. “Hold on,” she said, shutting the door in his face. He took off his hat and beat some of the snow off his shoulders.
A good-looking soccer mom yanked the door open. “Has there been an accident?” she cried.
“An accident? No, ma’am.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Thank heavens.” She stood there, hand pressed to her chest, until she seemed to realize he was still standing on the welcome mat. “I’m so sorry!” She beckoned him to come inside. “I’m afraid Deidre takes ‘Do not let strangers in’ a little too literally.”
“No need to apologize, ma’am.” He tucked his hat under his arm. “Are you Quinn Tracey’s mother?”
The look of alarm fell over her features again. “Yes.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions, with your permission.”
She looked toward the interior of the house, then back at Kevin. “That’s why I asked you if there was an accident. He went tearing out of here at least a half hour ago and took off in his truck. I don’t know where he is.”
Sergeant Isabel O’Brien of the New York State Police was one of the few members of her troop who actually liked storms. Instead of the mind-numbing tedium of the radar gun, she got to cruise east and west on the Thruway, looking for vehicles in trouble. Instead of being greeted with sour jokes about making the end-of-the-month ticket quota, she was hailed as a hero by drivers who had skidded into the median.
She had just passed the Schenectady exit when her radio squawked. She hit the reception button. “Eight-one-nine here. Go ahead.”
“Eight-one-nine, we have a call from the Roy Rogers manager at the Patter-sonville travel plaza. He’s reporting a suspicious individual, male Caucasian, thirties or forties, hanging around the employee parking area.”
“Dispatch, I am responding.” O’Brien tapped her computer screen to register the time and bring up an incident log. She turned on her lights and pulled into the passing lane. Traffic to her right, already slow due to the storm-imposed speed limit of forty-five miles per hour, decelerated even further as she swept past.
She was a scant five miles from Pattersonville when her radio lit up again. “Eight-one-nine, be advised the suspicious individual has left the Indian Hill rest station and is headed east in a 1992 Volvo station wagon, dark green.”
“Plates?”
There was a pause. “Hold on on the plates.”
Huh. That was odd. “Should I pursue?”
“Eight-one-nine, the manager reports the POI may have switched plates with one of his employees. We’re trying to get a confirmation on that. Please proceed without lights.”
O’Brien turned off the lights but kept her speed at a steady fifty-five, which was as fast as she was going to go, unless this guy turned out to be Osama bin Laden.