rented a minivan.”
Stevens peered over her shoulder. “But he didn’t.”
“Not according to the file, he didn’t.” She squinted at the screen. “Whatever. In any case, his name’s Alex Kent. Lives in Chicago.”
Alex Kent, Chicago. Allen Bryce Salazar, Council Bluffs. Another alias, maybe. Windermere would want it, regardless. “You mind printing that out for me?” Stevens said.
“Not at all.” The clerk pressed a button and her printer fired up beside her. She stared at her computer for a second. Then she looked at Stevens. “What’s this about, anyway?”
Stevens met her eyes. “Murder,” he said. “A man was killed yesterday. We think this kid here’s the perpetrator.”
The woman gasped. “My Lord.”
“You said it.” Stevens took the printout. “Anyway, much obliged. You figure this Kent guy flew home to Chicago?”
“Chicago?” The woman frowned again. “No, that’s the other thing. I snuck a glance at his itinerary when he dropped off the car. I’m quite certain the young man was headed back to Minneapolis.”
26
T he Criminal Investigative Division was all but empty. Windermere sat in her cubicle, where she’d sat for most of the day, staring at her computer screen and trying to figure out a way around the Department of Defense’s involvement in Triple A Industries.
As Windermere had told Stevens the day Spenser Pyatt was murdered, she wasn’t much of a motive person. Where Stevens found endless fascination in exploring the reasons why a criminal committed his particular crimes, Windermere had long ago decided she couldn’t care less, as long as the right person was arrested.
Now, though, with the question of who at an impasse, Windermere found herself circling back to the why. Spenser Pyatt had been murdered, shot by an anonymous sniper. The sniper had disappeared and left a maze of disjointed clues behind him. So maybe it was time to focus on why Spenser Pyatt had died. Who stood to gain from his death?
The elevator doors dinged across the office. Windermere ignored them. Mathers, probably, returning with dinner. Windermere’s stomach growled its anticipation. She ignored it, too.
Spenser Pyatt had controlled a media empire. He’d been a very rich man. It was natural to suspect that his wealth had played a role in his demise. From what Windermere and Mathers could figure, though, the guy was crystal clean: in fifty years of business, he’d never once been linked to any untoward activity, illegal or otherwise, and his will had remained unchanged for over a decade. Pyatt’s wife and children would divide up his empire; there were no unusual life insurance policies or spurned lovers looking for payouts. By any account, Spenser Pyatt had been a remarkably simple man, and scrupulously honest to boot.
A shadow loomed above Windermere, blocking her light. “You bring the peanut sauce?” Windermere said.
“Must have forgotten it.” A new voice. Not Mathers’s. Windermere looked up and saw Kirk Stevens standing above her. He flashed her a grin. “Mind if I sit?”
Windermere felt her breath catch, involuntarily. Hated herself for it. Hated the fact that a married, middle-aged cop could get her off her game. She blinked and shook her head. “Be my guest,” she said, pulling achair over. “You get lost or something? What are you doing all the way out here, Stevens?”
Stevens dropped a piece of paper on her desk. Then he sat and waited. Windermere tried to stare him down before curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the paper and read it. “I don’t get it.”
It was a printout from a Liberty rental agency in Duluth. The airport, it looked like. Some guy from Chicago had rented a Kia for a couple hours yesterday. Alex Kent. Windermere scanned the page. Found the payment information and stopped cold. “Triple A Industries,” she said. “Holy shit.”
Stevens frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Who is this guy, Stevens?” she said. “What’s his story?
Stevens peered over her shoulder. “But he didn’t.”
“Not according to the file, he didn’t.” She squinted at the screen. “Whatever. In any case, his name’s Alex Kent. Lives in Chicago.”
Alex Kent, Chicago. Allen Bryce Salazar, Council Bluffs. Another alias, maybe. Windermere would want it, regardless. “You mind printing that out for me?” Stevens said.
“Not at all.” The clerk pressed a button and her printer fired up beside her. She stared at her computer for a second. Then she looked at Stevens. “What’s this about, anyway?”
Stevens met her eyes. “Murder,” he said. “A man was killed yesterday. We think this kid here’s the perpetrator.”
The woman gasped. “My Lord.”
“You said it.” Stevens took the printout. “Anyway, much obliged. You figure this Kent guy flew home to Chicago?”
“Chicago?” The woman frowned again. “No, that’s the other thing. I snuck a glance at his itinerary when he dropped off the car. I’m quite certain the young man was headed back to Minneapolis.”
26
T he Criminal Investigative Division was all but empty. Windermere sat in her cubicle, where she’d sat for most of the day, staring at her computer screen and trying to figure out a way around the Department of Defense’s involvement in Triple A Industries.
As Windermere had told Stevens the day Spenser Pyatt was murdered, she wasn’t much of a motive person. Where Stevens found endless fascination in exploring the reasons why a criminal committed his particular crimes, Windermere had long ago decided she couldn’t care less, as long as the right person was arrested.
Now, though, with the question of who at an impasse, Windermere found herself circling back to the why. Spenser Pyatt had been murdered, shot by an anonymous sniper. The sniper had disappeared and left a maze of disjointed clues behind him. So maybe it was time to focus on why Spenser Pyatt had died. Who stood to gain from his death?
The elevator doors dinged across the office. Windermere ignored them. Mathers, probably, returning with dinner. Windermere’s stomach growled its anticipation. She ignored it, too.
Spenser Pyatt had controlled a media empire. He’d been a very rich man. It was natural to suspect that his wealth had played a role in his demise. From what Windermere and Mathers could figure, though, the guy was crystal clean: in fifty years of business, he’d never once been linked to any untoward activity, illegal or otherwise, and his will had remained unchanged for over a decade. Pyatt’s wife and children would divide up his empire; there were no unusual life insurance policies or spurned lovers looking for payouts. By any account, Spenser Pyatt had been a remarkably simple man, and scrupulously honest to boot.
A shadow loomed above Windermere, blocking her light. “You bring the peanut sauce?” Windermere said.
“Must have forgotten it.” A new voice. Not Mathers’s. Windermere looked up and saw Kirk Stevens standing above her. He flashed her a grin. “Mind if I sit?”
Windermere felt her breath catch, involuntarily. Hated herself for it. Hated the fact that a married, middle-aged cop could get her off her game. She blinked and shook her head. “Be my guest,” she said, pulling achair over. “You get lost or something? What are you doing all the way out here, Stevens?”
Stevens dropped a piece of paper on her desk. Then he sat and waited. Windermere tried to stare him down before curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the paper and read it. “I don’t get it.”
It was a printout from a Liberty rental agency in Duluth. The airport, it looked like. Some guy from Chicago had rented a Kia for a couple hours yesterday. Alex Kent. Windermere scanned the page. Found the payment information and stopped cold. “Triple A Industries,” she said. “Holy shit.”
Stevens frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Who is this guy, Stevens?” she said. “What’s his story?
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