Page 7 of Twisted Devil

Moving slowly, I tucked myself back into my bra then, climbing to my hands and knees, I crawled over to the edge of the mattress and fished out the piece of mortar. I didn't have a second to lose.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JASON

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. They burned from staring at the screen for so long, trying to make sense of the barely visible numbers and letters. The back of the van was splattered with mud, and dirt obscured 90% of the license plate. I'd been running a combination of potential numerals but so far had come up empty.

I glanced up as Kennedy approached. “How's it going?”

I pointed to the screen. “Same as it was about an hour ago.”

The first digit on the license plate I suspected was either an E or an F. The fourth digit was what I thought looked like a number nine. One of the techs was running all of the license plates with numbers that fell within that particular sequence, but even narrowing it down to white vans, there were still too many options. I had to find something else.

I pushed away from my desk and headed to the kitchenette where I refilled my mug with the coffee that’d been sitting out for hours. The smell of it alone reminded me of Chloe, and my heart twisted. I leaned against the cabinets, stirring my coffee, lost in thought.

Kevin Mazzarra stepped up next to me. “Any leads on your case?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Not yet. What are you guys working on? Still the investment fraud?”

“Yep. Boring as hell.” He nodded and pulled the empty Diet Pepsi can from the koozie and tossed it in the recycle bin.

My eyes lit on the logo printed on the insulator, and something sparked in my memory. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Good luck.”

I headed back to my computer and studied the frame until I found what I was looking for. I enlarged the picture, focusing on the back of the van. Mud covered most of it, but what appeared to be several points, like a large sunburst, was situated in the lower left corner just above the bumper.

I waved Kennedy over. “Think this could be a dealership logo?”

He studied the screen, then nodded. “Could be. Too defined to be mud splatter.”

“The van, or this plate at least, is registered in Illinois. Let's pull dealerships within a fifty-mile radius and see if any of them have insignias that might look like this.”

Soon we had a list of 463 dealerships, both new and used, to sift through. Christ. This was going to take forever. One by one, we pulled them up and crossed them off the list. But on number forty-seven, we hit pay dirt. The five lines that stuck up in a sort of trident were a match to Norton Chevrolet. I picked up the phone and punched in the number for the sales manager.

She answered a few rings later, and I introduced myself. “Ms. Miles, my name is Jason Doyle with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m wondering if you can help me with something.”

“I can try,” she offered. “What do you need?”

The van itself was a newer model that they had just started producing about five years ago. I relayed to Ms. Miles the model number of the van. “Could you please provide me a list of purchases from the past five years?”

“I should be able to do that,” she said slowly. “I’ll email you what I find, but I have to warn you, that’s a pretty popular model.”

“No problem. Anything you can do will be helpful.” I gave her my email address then hung up and focused on the screen in front of me, racking my brain for another way to figure out who the hell this guy was.

My thoughts were broken nearly an hour later when my email dinged with an incoming message. I opened it and barely held back a groan as I skimmed the long list of names. At least it was a starting point. I hit the button to print it, then made my way to the printer. I tipped my head toward Kennedy. “Just got the list of purchases from Norton. Want to help me check them off?”

“Sure.”

I handed him a couple of pages, then returned to my desk. It felt like hours had passed before Kennedy jumped up. “Hey, I think I've got it.”

He passed me the paper with a highlighted name. Jeffrey Wainwright. I tapped the name into the database and held my breath. “Caucasian, 38 years old, brown hair, brown eyes. No priors.”

Either this wasn't the guy we were looking for, or he'd been extremely careful up until now. “Let's check his home address,” I said as I pulled up the address on file with the DMV.

I pinpointed it on the map and took a look at the surrounding areas. Located northwest of town, the area was fairly isolated. I used my forefinger to draw a little circle on the map. “No homes within a four-mile radius.” Which meant no one to run to for help. My gut twisted, and the hairs on the back of my neck lifted.

Kennedy tipped his head. “I think it's a good bet. Let's check it out.”

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