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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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said, “Heads up.”
Rogers turned to see something flipping toward her like a 2001 obelisk. Reflexively, she caught it.
A Snickers bar.
“Your reward,” Reeder said. “Guess who I begged it off.”
She looked over to see Bishop grinning at her. She nodded her thanks to the DC cop, then tore the wrapper with a satisfying rip. Soon the taste of carrot was a memory as chocolate fueled her tedious return to checking security video from the other, probably less significant robberies.
Ninety minutes later, Miggie materialized beside her like a nerdy apparition.
“Something?” she asked, hope rising.
He said, “First, a question.”
“Okay.”
“How did Bowie PD not see this?”
With a shrug, she said, “Easy to miss. I didn’t catch the reflection until I went through it frame by frame—twice.”
“Pretty major screwup,” he said, “if this is what it could be. I mean, Justice Venter might still be alive.”
“Meaning you do have something.”
He handed her several printout pages. “Facial rec got us a possible in the system.”
“ ‘Charles Granger,’ ” she read from the guy’s lengthy rap sheet. “Armed robbery, assault . . . busy boy.”
“He seems a dedicated professional, yeah. Check the picture out.”
“Looks right. Is this address still good?”
“You know as much as I do. Oh, except for one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s his mom’s house.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Charles Granger lives at his mom’s house.”
“He does.”
“An armed robber who’s a nerd?”
“ I live at my mom’s house.”
She looked at him as if to say, I rest my case .
Studying the rap sheet, she said, “Mom’s house or not, this address is two years old.”
“Best we got, Patti.”
“Probably worthless.”
“Probably.”
Reeder, who hadn’t seemed to be listening as he went over security footage, said, “Only one way to find out.”
She squinted at him, as if trying to bring him into focus. “I thought you made these guys as a waste of time.”
“I could be wrong.”
She blinked at him. “That’s happened before , has it?”
“Sure.” His smile was damn near angelic, which somehow went with the white hair and tanned rugged face. “As recently as last year.”
She grunted a laugh. “Well, the pair on this bar robbery look like the guys from the Venter hit.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Let me write that down.”
He nodded toward his monitor. “I’ve been comparing the out-of-state footage to the Verdict stuff, and there are things about how the two holdup men stand, and carry themselves, that don’t jibe.”
“Oh, really? But then, like you said—you could be wrong.”
He got up, took his suit coat from the back of his chair, and climbed into it; he wore no sidearm that she could see.
Then he said pleasantly, “But if I’m right, Patti, why don’t we get these clowns out of the way, so we can get cracking on the real assassins?”
She winced. “So . . . shouldn’t we go over and tell Bishop and Pellin? It’s their lead.”
Buttoning his suit coat, Reeder thought for a moment. She followed his eyes over to Sloan, seated at the conference table talking with Eaton, the hostile Homeland Security guy. Reeder stared at Sloan and damned if the man didn’t seem to sense it. With a glance, Reeder summoned their boss.
Shortly, Sloan was leaning in to study the freeze frame on her computer. “That’s not much of an image. You got facial rec on this?”
Rogers said she did.
The SAIC took a long look at the suspect’s rap sheet.
“So we have an address,” Sloan mumbled.
“We do,” she said redundantly.
Sloan called Miggie over, who reiterated that this was a possible match, but not one hundred percent.
A little crossly, Sloan asked him, “What would you give it?”
“Fifty-fifty would be a push,” the computer analyst said. “Nothing that would hold up in court.”
“Not arrest-warrant-worthy?”
“God no.”
Sloan nodded
Rogers turned to see something flipping toward her like a 2001 obelisk. Reflexively, she caught it.
A Snickers bar.
“Your reward,” Reeder said. “Guess who I begged it off.”
She looked over to see Bishop grinning at her. She nodded her thanks to the DC cop, then tore the wrapper with a satisfying rip. Soon the taste of carrot was a memory as chocolate fueled her tedious return to checking security video from the other, probably less significant robberies.
Ninety minutes later, Miggie materialized beside her like a nerdy apparition.
“Something?” she asked, hope rising.
He said, “First, a question.”
“Okay.”
“How did Bowie PD not see this?”
With a shrug, she said, “Easy to miss. I didn’t catch the reflection until I went through it frame by frame—twice.”
“Pretty major screwup,” he said, “if this is what it could be. I mean, Justice Venter might still be alive.”
“Meaning you do have something.”
He handed her several printout pages. “Facial rec got us a possible in the system.”
“ ‘Charles Granger,’ ” she read from the guy’s lengthy rap sheet. “Armed robbery, assault . . . busy boy.”
“He seems a dedicated professional, yeah. Check the picture out.”
“Looks right. Is this address still good?”
“You know as much as I do. Oh, except for one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s his mom’s house.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Charles Granger lives at his mom’s house.”
“He does.”
“An armed robber who’s a nerd?”
“ I live at my mom’s house.”
She looked at him as if to say, I rest my case .
Studying the rap sheet, she said, “Mom’s house or not, this address is two years old.”
“Best we got, Patti.”
“Probably worthless.”
“Probably.”
Reeder, who hadn’t seemed to be listening as he went over security footage, said, “Only one way to find out.”
She squinted at him, as if trying to bring him into focus. “I thought you made these guys as a waste of time.”
“I could be wrong.”
She blinked at him. “That’s happened before , has it?”
“Sure.” His smile was damn near angelic, which somehow went with the white hair and tanned rugged face. “As recently as last year.”
She grunted a laugh. “Well, the pair on this bar robbery look like the guys from the Venter hit.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Let me write that down.”
He nodded toward his monitor. “I’ve been comparing the out-of-state footage to the Verdict stuff, and there are things about how the two holdup men stand, and carry themselves, that don’t jibe.”
“Oh, really? But then, like you said—you could be wrong.”
He got up, took his suit coat from the back of his chair, and climbed into it; he wore no sidearm that she could see.
Then he said pleasantly, “But if I’m right, Patti, why don’t we get these clowns out of the way, so we can get cracking on the real assassins?”
She winced. “So . . . shouldn’t we go over and tell Bishop and Pellin? It’s their lead.”
Buttoning his suit coat, Reeder thought for a moment. She followed his eyes over to Sloan, seated at the conference table talking with Eaton, the hostile Homeland Security guy. Reeder stared at Sloan and damned if the man didn’t seem to sense it. With a glance, Reeder summoned their boss.
Shortly, Sloan was leaning in to study the freeze frame on her computer. “That’s not much of an image. You got facial rec on this?”
Rogers said she did.
The SAIC took a long look at the suspect’s rap sheet.
“So we have an address,” Sloan mumbled.
“We do,” she said redundantly.
Sloan called Miggie over, who reiterated that this was a possible match, but not one hundred percent.
A little crossly, Sloan asked him, “What would you give it?”
“Fifty-fifty would be a push,” the computer analyst said. “Nothing that would hold up in court.”
“Not arrest-warrant-worthy?”
“God no.”
Sloan nodded
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