up is a request that’s got my name on it, and now I see from the NCIC that one of the plates was reported lifted from a car parked at a mall in East Jibib someplace.“
“Which of the plates?“
“S-L-H-2-3-7. Came off a 1990 Buick LeSabre owned by a Manchester woman named Squires, Emily D.“
“And where is the mall?“
“Just off 93, south of Manchester .“
About an hour north of where I’d helped Melinda and Eddie. “How old is this Squires?“
“Hold on, hold on. She’s married... sixty—no, that was when the registration was... Wait a minute—seventy-two years young.“
“How about the B-A-T-6-1-1?“
“That one’s just on the Motor Vehicle, not the hot list. Be longs to a Dodge Swinger registered to Finn, Oswald M. D.O.B.—for chrissake, he’s eighty-six. What’ve you got, some car-jackers out of a nursing home?“
“Where’s this Finn from?“
“Elton.“
“Where’s that?“
“What am I supposed to be now, your geography teacher?“
“Just a second.“
I went through the Rand McNally I kept in a desk drawer. The atlas was five years old, but the towns hadn’t changed names much. Elton was maybe thirty miles northwest of Manchester . Melinda and Eddie might have come from there in Finn’s Dodge, the redhead boosting a plate for his truck from the mall where the Squires woman parked her car. Then Redhead kills Melinda down here, switches the plates, and leaves the Dodge with the wrong tags to be traced, if at all, weeks—
“Hey, Cuddy, you still there?“
“I’m here, O’Boy.“
“What am I supposed to say if Mrs. Squires wants her Plates back?“
“Tell her they’re on Mr. Firm’s Dodge.“
“And where is that?“
“Parked next to the Fort Point Channel.“
“Fort—over by you in Boston , there?“
“Right.“
The guttural noise. “I don’t know the woman, but somehow I got the feeling she isn’t gonna like that.“
“O’Boy?“
“Yeah?“
“How about an address on Oswald Finn?“
6
I drove north on interstate 93, noticing half a dozen places on the other side of the road where the redheaded guy in the GMC truck could have waited to pick up and follow Melinda and Eddie southward into Boston . Crossing the New Hampshire line, I stayed on 93 through Manchester . After twenty minutes or so, I saw an exit for Elton and two other towns, the exit ramp having at its bottom another sign with Elton to the left and the other towns to the right.
Turning left took me onto a two-lane road, wild meadows and small ponds on either side. I opened the moonroof to enjoy the slower speed. The air was bracing, less like the last day of summer and more like the first day of fall. The lanes grew narrower, then started to climb, pines and hemlocks now bordering the road. I went another six miles before descending toward a little town that looked as though it had jumped off a tourist’s postcard.
White steeple like a whooping crane towering over all the other buildings, some red brick, others clapboard in white, blue, and yellow, all with black shutters and close to the street. Stately maple and oak for shade, the shrubbery in front most houses trimmed lovingly. There was a blinking light at the center of Main Street , where the octagonal gazebo on the green bespoke brass band concerts a century ago. Across from the green was the municipal office building, stolid in gray granite, a hunk of oak with curlicue lettering advertising library, town clerk, and police. I left the Prelude in a visitor parking slot and walked into the building.
Red arrows on the corner of the entryway pointed every which way. I took the one toward POLICE,
The door with the stenciling on it reminded me of my pebbled-glass one at the office, a fine web of chicken wire visible through the translucent glass. I knocked and heard, “Come on in.“
The voice was male, that low, intimate tone of an airline pilot explaining to the passengers why he’d suddenly climbed three thousand feet without
“Which of the plates?“
“S-L-H-2-3-7. Came off a 1990 Buick LeSabre owned by a Manchester woman named Squires, Emily D.“
“And where is the mall?“
“Just off 93, south of Manchester .“
About an hour north of where I’d helped Melinda and Eddie. “How old is this Squires?“
“Hold on, hold on. She’s married... sixty—no, that was when the registration was... Wait a minute—seventy-two years young.“
“How about the B-A-T-6-1-1?“
“That one’s just on the Motor Vehicle, not the hot list. Be longs to a Dodge Swinger registered to Finn, Oswald M. D.O.B.—for chrissake, he’s eighty-six. What’ve you got, some car-jackers out of a nursing home?“
“Where’s this Finn from?“
“Elton.“
“Where’s that?“
“What am I supposed to be now, your geography teacher?“
“Just a second.“
I went through the Rand McNally I kept in a desk drawer. The atlas was five years old, but the towns hadn’t changed names much. Elton was maybe thirty miles northwest of Manchester . Melinda and Eddie might have come from there in Finn’s Dodge, the redhead boosting a plate for his truck from the mall where the Squires woman parked her car. Then Redhead kills Melinda down here, switches the plates, and leaves the Dodge with the wrong tags to be traced, if at all, weeks—
“Hey, Cuddy, you still there?“
“I’m here, O’Boy.“
“What am I supposed to say if Mrs. Squires wants her Plates back?“
“Tell her they’re on Mr. Firm’s Dodge.“
“And where is that?“
“Parked next to the Fort Point Channel.“
“Fort—over by you in Boston , there?“
“Right.“
The guttural noise. “I don’t know the woman, but somehow I got the feeling she isn’t gonna like that.“
“O’Boy?“
“Yeah?“
“How about an address on Oswald Finn?“
6
I drove north on interstate 93, noticing half a dozen places on the other side of the road where the redheaded guy in the GMC truck could have waited to pick up and follow Melinda and Eddie southward into Boston . Crossing the New Hampshire line, I stayed on 93 through Manchester . After twenty minutes or so, I saw an exit for Elton and two other towns, the exit ramp having at its bottom another sign with Elton to the left and the other towns to the right.
Turning left took me onto a two-lane road, wild meadows and small ponds on either side. I opened the moonroof to enjoy the slower speed. The air was bracing, less like the last day of summer and more like the first day of fall. The lanes grew narrower, then started to climb, pines and hemlocks now bordering the road. I went another six miles before descending toward a little town that looked as though it had jumped off a tourist’s postcard.
White steeple like a whooping crane towering over all the other buildings, some red brick, others clapboard in white, blue, and yellow, all with black shutters and close to the street. Stately maple and oak for shade, the shrubbery in front most houses trimmed lovingly. There was a blinking light at the center of Main Street , where the octagonal gazebo on the green bespoke brass band concerts a century ago. Across from the green was the municipal office building, stolid in gray granite, a hunk of oak with curlicue lettering advertising library, town clerk, and police. I left the Prelude in a visitor parking slot and walked into the building.
Red arrows on the corner of the entryway pointed every which way. I took the one toward POLICE,
The door with the stenciling on it reminded me of my pebbled-glass one at the office, a fine web of chicken wire visible through the translucent glass. I knocked and heard, “Come on in.“
The voice was male, that low, intimate tone of an airline pilot explaining to the passengers why he’d suddenly climbed three thousand feet without
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