"Why?"
"It had something to do with a crane." The man's voice had a noticeable quiver.
"A crane?"
"Yeah. He asked me if I knew anything about these U-cranes. Maybe they're rentals like the vans."
Duarte talked to the young man and got a clear idea of where he needed to go next.
The drive to Kansas City was three hours, and in the little rented Cobalt it felt like five. The manager was immediately helpful as soon as he saw Duarte's ATF identification.
The older man brushed back his longish gray hair with one hand. "Since the bombing, we don't take no chances in this part of the country. I worked in Oklahoma City. I don't care if it's Ryder, Budget or us, anyone in the Midwest will help you. We don't need subpoenas or nothin'."
Duarte nodded. "Thanks. I just want to know if a guy named William Floyd has rented a truck and maybe if he gave you an idea where he was going."
The manager punched up a computer on his desk and said, "Yep, has a step van for ten days."
"Say where he was going?"
The man smiled. "Doesn't need to."
"Why's that?"
"Because we have a GPS in that truck."
"You have GPS service in your vehicles?"
"Not all of them. Just a few of the vans. They been disappearing down in Louisiana and we wanted to see if a GPS or LoJack would solve the problem. It's not public knowledge or nothing. Just the big, corporate stores use them. We stuck a unit on that truck because it was new and like the others that have gone missing."
"Where on the van is it?"
"We seal them in the front bumper with the unit wired to the battery for power. No one would even notice it unless they were looking."
"Does that mean you can tell me where the truck is right now?" Duarte was amazed at the breaks you could catch if you just did a little follow-up.
The man called up a new screen on the computer. "It's just like putting a Nextel phone with GPS on the bumper. Here, look." He slid to the side so Duarte could look at the screen. "See, it interfaces with a mapping program, and it sends a signal once an hour." He looked at the data. "This van has been in Lafayette, Louisiana, for two days now. Right on this street." He pointed to a map on the screen.
Five minutes later, Duarte had a hard copy of the map and was figuring the fastest way to Lafayette after a few hours' rest.
Alice Brainard was just cleaning up everything at her workstation when Scott Mahovich came to her door.
"Is it safe for me to come in?" His black eye had turned a pus-yellow color.
"Are you going to do anything stupid?"
"I don't plan to."
"Then you may enter." She was only half playing. She didn't like men who took women for granted and especially those who took liberties. It wouldn't have been so bad except that she hadn't thought Scott was like that. He had always been so quiet and shy. She wondered if Alex would be upset if he heard. He'd probably think it was funny.
The DNA scientist said, "I'll have a profile from the blood tomorrow. Do we have a suspect yet?"
"Not that I know of."
"Is the ATF going to reimburse the county for the work I did?"
"Are you going to be able to handle a sexual harassment suit or another smack in the face?"
"Point taken."
She smiled, knowing she owned this guy now.
30
IN HIS KANSAS CITY HOTEL ROOM, DUARTE ROLLED OVER AND answered his cell phone on the second ring. He had slipped back into a pattern of insomnia which had plagued him for years after his service in Bosnia. Now, as he felt more and more like he had missed something obvious about the killings, he was awake, lying in bed, when the phone rang.
"Hello," he said, before even checking the clock.
"I knew you'd be awake."
He smiled at the sound of Alice Brainard's voice.
She continued. "I bet you already worked out, too."
"Nope, I technically haven't been to sleep yet."
"Out partying with Félix?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what happened?"
"I'm not sure. I'm caught up in the follow-up to our case, and it's taking more time than I thought." He didn't intend to worry her with the details of more bodies.
"At least I can tell you we have a profile from the blood under your informant's fingernail. All you need is a suspect."
Duarte thought of the Flame of Panama's first mate. "I may have one."
"Can you get a comparison sample from him?"
"By what I suspect right now, if I can draw blood on this guy we should have plenty."
"That sounds like a good, determined ATF agent." There was a pause. "How're things in New Orleans?"
"Good, I guess, but I'm in Kansas."
"Why Kansas?"
"Long story."
Alice said, "When are you coming back?"
"Soon as I can. We have a few loose ends to clear up."
"We'll have a great homecoming date when you do."
"Can't wait."
They exchanged goodbyes and he looked up at the clock. It was 5:55.
Thanks to Alice, Alex Duarte had already eaten breakfast and traveled all the way from Kansas City to Lafayette by eight in the morning. It had been pure luck to meet a pilot with the Department of Homeland Security, a former customs agent who was flying down to Houston the next day. Duarte had spoken to the uniformed man in the lobby of the hotel, and the good old boy from Dallas had remembered when, before 9/11, both customs and the ATF had been under the Treasury Department and sometimes worked closely together. He knew some of Duarte's friends from the ATF office in Miami and gladly let Duarte take one of the empty seats in the sleek Gulfstream jet. The pilot made a quick stop in Lafayette and was on his way again.
Now, in another damn rented Chevrolet Cobalt, he slowly cruised down Talbot Street, looking for an obvious place where the rented U-Haul van might be stashed. He had checked with the Kansas City U-Haul manager, who'd said the van was still in the same spot.
As he drove, Duarte realized the GPS unit might just be in a trash can. But he had to try. He had to admit to himself that he had no idea where this was going. He didn't know what had been taken from the cargo container; he didn't know why Byron Gastlin had been killed; he didn't know who'd killed Cal Linley. All he knew was he had a lead, and he was going to follow it.
Duarte almost stopped the little Cobalt in traffic when he looked up and saw the U-Haul sign on the dingy little building that looked like a former gas station. The van had to be there. He wondered if it had been turned in as he pulled the Cobalt into the tiny lot.
Inside, the business presented no more of a professional look. Ancient posters of 1970s vintage cars pulling U-Haul trailers were stuck on the walls without pattern, a small office with a desk piled high in paperwork was empty.
Duarte peeked through an open door into the two-bay garage. It was hot, but the bay doors were closed and a large man with blond hair leaned under the hood of a van. Stepping inside, he said, "Excuse me," in a loud voice.
The giant man in a filthy, white T-shirt that had to have been dirty when he put it on this morning, straightened up and looked toward Duarte.
"Help you?"
"Maybe. I'm interested in a van."
"I only got trailers left. Three of 'em out in the back. Should get a van back tonight."
Duarte got a sense this guy was nervous. "What about the one in the bay?"