Page 23 of Be Courageous

Sometimes it took intimidation tactics to get people to be upfront—especially people with an innate mistrust of law enforcement. Not five minutes later, with the two SOGs looming behind him, displaying their harnessed pistols, Mr. Dawson confirmed Fitz’s suspicions.

His expression cleared abruptly. “You know, now that I think about it, a customer did roll up here yesterday, late afternoon in a maroon Buick, older model. That’s right. He bought a bottle of Old Crow whisky.”

Fitz’s blood flowed faster. “Was there a kid with him? The one whose picture we showed you?”

The proprietor’s eyes flashed with indignation. “No, of course not. I would’ve told you if I’d seen the kid. I’ve got grandkids myself.”

“Describe the driver. Do you know him?”

“Oh, I’ve seen him here from time to time. Burly fellow, late forties, with a head of graying hair. Sometimes he has a beard; sometimes not. He’s got a scar on his lip.” Mr. Dawson touched his own mouth.

Fitz scribbled himself a note. “How often does he come here and from which direction? Did he ever give his name?”

“No name. Comes here maybe once, twice a week from the eastbound lane. Told me he drives across the state line cause my store’s closer than the one in Edinburgh.”

“Good.” Fitz made a note that the man resided in Virginia. “What else has he told you? What have you inferred about him?”

“Um,” Mr. Dawson thought back, “well, he asked me once if my security camera worked. Should’ve told him, yes, but he didn’t seem like the type to rob me, even with the tattoos on his hand.”

Fitz pounced on the detail. “Tattoos of what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mr. Dawson searched his memory. “Letters,” he replied, sounding more certain. “I remember readingT, O, M. Couple ofM’s, I think.”

“Was it a name?Tommymaybe?” Fitz quizzed.

The proprietor stared down at the counter as if picturing the perp’s hand. “Yeah, I think there might’ve been aYon his pinkie.”

“That’s good, Mr. Dawson. You’ve been very helpful. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to lift fingerprints off your front door and this counter here—won’t take but half an hour or so.”

The store owner crossed his arms and sighed. “Be quick about it. I’m bound to lose business with Feds milling around my store.”

* * *

Hearing a quiet knock on her hotel-room door, Faith wondered if she’d imagined it, but she wasn’t about to ignore the sound or wait for Fitz to knock again since it was quite late.Please, let it be him!

She padded to the door in the plaid pajamas she’d stuffed into a bag that morning.

Fitz, still in the butter-yellow polo and navy slacks he’d worn all day, regarded her through red-rimmed eyes. His wavy, auburn hair stuck up in places, giving him a boyish demeanor. “Were you sleeping?”

His tone alone told her he had news. “No. What did you find out?”

He glanced past her. “May I come in?”

She hesitated the barest second, balancing propriety against her need to be near him. “Sure.” She pulled the door open, admitting him.

As he entered the room, Fitz’s gaze went straight to the rumpled bed before he veered toward the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down on it.

Faith sat at the foot of the bed close to him. His gaze flicked over her pajama-clad frame, and his lips twitched toward a smile, one that faded as he prepared to tell her his news.

“We have the perp’s prints.”

Elation and terror filled Faith in equal parts. “Seriously? Out of all the prints you lifted from the shop? How’s that possible?”

“His were one of just two prints in the system. His name is Brian Sutton. He owned a gun shop near here, just across the border in southeast Virginia.”

Faith’s mouth turned dry. Goosebumps ridged her arms. She knew this story.

“A decade ago, he was arrested for selling a semiautomatic weapon to a felon. Since he had a prior record, he got ten years. He was just released from prison three months ago.”

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