Pulling around the vehicles, Harrow saw the sheriff and deputy herding sheep back into a fenced-in field.
After parking on the shoulder, Harrow turned the emergency flashers on, and they all climbed out, Hathaway and Hughes going for the trunk, lanky Laurene stretching her legs and looking amused by the sheep-herding effort, breeze lifting her cornrows. Harrow watched Choi go over and give the officers a hand.
Looking at Hathaway, who was pantomiming turning a key in a lock, Harrow shook his head.
When he got closer to the cameraman, he handed him the keys and, sotto voce, said, “Not until the gate’s locked. I don’t want any footage that’s going to make these men look silly. We don’t need any rustic comedy. Understood?”
Hathaway nodded. “I guess somebody’s gotta get those sheep off the road.”
“That’s right. I herded cows like that back in Iowa, and nobody put it on TV.”
Harrow seldom ordered Hathaway around, because the senior cameraman knew his job well enough that Harrow stayed out of his face. On the other hand, when Harrow spoke, Hathaway paid heed.
Using his cell, Harrow made a quick call to Jenny Blake, reading her the number off the plate on the back of the sheriff’s Tahoe.
“Let me know when you’ve run it,” he said.
Jenny didn’t bother to answer, just clicked off and got to work.
As Choi chased the last of the sheep through the gate, the deputy — balding and about fifty — closed the gate and latched it. Choi climbed back over the fence as Harrow walked up to the sheriff.
Beefier than his associate, his brown hair full but showing signs of gray, the sheriff wore the same tan uniform shirt as his deputy. The only differences were a gold star on his collar where the deputy bore a single gold bar; also, the junior officer wore brown uniform pants where the sheriff was in blue jeans.
Harrow said, “Sheriff, I’m—”
“J.C. Harrow,” the sheriff said, holding out a hand. He had brown eyes, a square jaw, and a thin-lipped straight line of a smile.
Shaking hands, Harrow said, “Your dispatcher called you.”
The sheriff nodded. “Janet’s a big fan of your show, and she rang me right after you left the office. I’m Herm Gibbons, by the way — Sheriff of Smith County.”
“Good to meet you, Sheriff.”
“Herm, please.”
“Herm,” Harrow repeated. “And make it ‘J.C.’” He introduced Choi and Laurene, then pointed out the camera crew.
“They’re free to film,” Gibbons said. With a head bob toward his associate, he said, “This is Deputy Colby Wilson.”
The deputy shook hands all around. To Choi, he said, “Thanks for the assist. You don’t look like a country boy.”
Choi said, “I’m from the wild, wild East.”
“I was told you were at a crime scene,” Harrow said to the sheriff. “Is this it?”
The sheriff nodded. “Some fool opened the gate on purpose.”
Choi blinked. “And that’s a crime?”
Gibbons grinned. “Around here it is. More serious than cow tipping, son, less so than rustling. Sheep get out in the road, they can cause an accident, since not everybody obeys the speed limit in the boonies. Doesn’t really seem to be the sort of offense, though, that’d attract the host of Crime Seen! What really brings you around?”
“In Pratt last night,” Harrow said, “one of our staff was abducted.”
“One of your own? Damn!”
Briefly, Harrow explained.
The sheriff frowned. “Hell of a thing. How are you people holding up?”
Nods all around, and Harrow said, “We’re dealing with it by going proactive.”
“Good for you — that’s the only way. A plus on your side? Chief Walker’s a good man, and the FBI’ll back him up — may take ’em a day or two to find their way to Pratt, though.”
“We frankly haven’t connected with the federal people yet. With our unofficial status, well...”
“I get it, J.C. You want to stay in the game, and those boys are likely to sideline you. Is there some way we can help? Something that makes you think your kidnapper’s headed our way?”
Harrow said, “The suspect drove a Ford F-one fifty.”
Deputy Wilson put in: “No shortage of those in Kansas.”
“We have a license number,” Harrow said, and gave it to them.
“Hell,” Gibbons said, frowning, jaw dropping.
Deputy Wilson was frowning, too. “Herm — don’t tell me you know who that vehicle belongs to?”
“Not the truck,” Gibbons said, “but the license number — it’s mine.”
“Yours?” Wilson blurted. “What...?”
To Harrow, the sheriff’s surprise seemed genuine.
“Sheriff, we’ve been chasing switched plates since New Mexico. Someone is trying to draw us here. Any idea who, or why?”
The sheriff and the deputy traded a long look, but they were both shaking their heads.
“This is a quiet town,” Gibbons said. “Always has been.”
“And you can’t think of anyone,” Harrow said, “who might abduct a member of my crew? We think he’s trying to draw attention to himself or perhaps some perceived problem or even injustice by a civil servant.”
Gibbons shook his head again, but added, “We’ll sure look into it. We’ll get the state boys down here to help out too.”
“I appreciate it,” Harrow said.
Once again, they’d gotten close, and the trail had gone cold. Before Harrow could ask another question, his cell vibrated.
“Excuse me,” he said, and stepped off a few feet and answered the call. “Harrow.”
“Jenny. I hacked the Kansas DMV and ran the tag you gave me. The plate is registered to a red Ford F-150.”
“Same truck as our suspect.”
“The one we’ve been looking at is probably a 2000,” Jenny said. “This one is a 2007.”
“And the owner?”
“Brown,” Jenny said. “Daniel T.”
She gave him the address.
“Thanks, Jenny. And Jenny? Do me a favor.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Don’t use the term hacked on a cell conversation.”
“Got it, boss,” she said, and clicked off.
Turning back to the sheriff, Harrow could see that Gibbons, Wilson, Choi, and Laurene had moved to the rear of the Tahoe, and were looking at the plate.
Harrow walked back to join the group.
“They’re not your plates, are they?” Harrow asked, looking down at the back of the sheriff’s SUV.
“They’re not mine,” Gibbons agreed almost robotically. He seemed to be trying to figure out when they might have been stolen.
“I just got a call,” Harrow said. “My computer specialist says the plates are registered to—”
“Daniel T. Brown,” Gibbons said.
Wilson appeared shocked. “Brown? No shit...”
Harrow felt his eyebrows raise. “How did you know that?”
Gibbons shook his head, sighed. “Dan Brown had this job before I did. He’s the retired Smith County Sheriff. I know his plate number well as I know my own.”
The suspect using the license plates of a retired civil servant sounded alarm bells.
Harrow said, “We need to see him right away.”
Shaking his head, Gibbons said, “Not until tomorrow night, at the earliest. He’s fishing in Canada — one of them backwoods places. He’s supposed to be flying home tomorrow.”
“Lebanon’s a little small for an airport.”
“He’ll land in Kansas City and drive back.”
Harrow did some quick thinking.
Since Brown fit the profile of the previous victims — at least in that he was a retired civil servant — Harrow was concerned that by using his plates, the killer might be sending a message that Brown and his family were the next intended victims.