Page 144 of Swept for Forever
I smiled into the receiver. “I’m marking it down. One point to me.”
“Fine! Just don’t let it go to your head.” The clack of typing continued. “Well, Powell, you’re onto something. Allan Spears. Car accident five years ago. Cervical fracture. Some rehab, mostly recovered. And permanent loss of rotation range on the left side.”
“That’s our guy,” I muttered.
She whistled low. “Makes sense. That walk, that rigidity, it wasn’t just arrogance then.”
I took a breath, then pushed forward. “What about the bullet?”
Her voice dropped into serious mode.
“The bullet’s a pain. It’s deformed. It’s not hopeless, but a challenge. Whoever fired it used a revolver. Deep grooves. Colt-style.”
“We’ve got to find out if such a weapon is registered to Allan Spears.”
“The thing is, Montana’s records aren’t just lying around waiting for a California girl to dig through.”
“I thought as much,” I said. Unless the gun had been entered into the National Crime Information Center, there was no way Susan could find a match.
“My lab’s processing it now. It should help us tighten the match, but it’s not instant. These things take a minute.”
“Keep me posted,” I said.
“Always, Dom.”
I hung up, the image of Allan Spears burning behind my eyes.
Then I stormed into the sheriff’s office.
Old Hound Boone was hunched over paperwork, a half-drained coffee sitting at his elbow. He looked up when I walked in, muttering, “Oh, hell.”
“You heard from your men?” I asked, heading straight for him.
He shook his head. “Not yet. But they’re solid. They’ll find her.”
“They’d better.”
I pulled up my phone, tapped the screen, then turned it around so he could see Susan’s sketch on one side and a photo on the other. The resemblance was chilling.
“This is your guy,” I said, and tossed the name onto the counter like a live grenade.
“Allan Spears?”
I nodded.
Boone sat back in his chair, his eyebrows lifting as if I’d just told him God was a suspect. “Are you mad?”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why are you so afraid of this name?”
“Because he’s connected,” Boone hissed, glancing toward the door. “He and the Commissioner go back decades. The guy’shis kid’s godfather, Dom. You think we can walk in and accuse someone like that without a stack of bulletproof evidence?”
“I don’t need a stack. I need a lead. Find out if Spears has a Colt-type gun.”
“If we get a serial, ATF might trace it to the original owner. They’ve got that tracing center, so they’ll know who sold it and when. But that’s a wait. And Montana doesn’t register, so if it changed hands privately, it’s vapor.”
“No serial number, Boone.”
“Then it’s a dead end.”
