Gaspar drove on and said, “And Alfred Lane, who owes Bernie Owens big bond money, just happens to be working in the very place where Sylvia’s mail hibernated for five long years. Gets better and better, doesn’t it? Go right ahead. You can call me brilliant now. Roscoe would.”
Kim punched him again, harder this time, and he laughed harder, too.
“Lucky is better than good,” she said. She fired up her phone for an internet search, and less than sixty seconds later, she said, “Guess what other business Bernie’s got going on?”
Gaspar said, “Tell me.”
“Privacy management.”
“Which is?”
“A euphemism for helping people disappear.”
“Enterprising guy. But apparently workaholism kills.”
“Tax records will confirm or deny, but I’m betting Bernie owns the mailbox place, too.”
“Because?”
“Because the bond on twelve counts of grand larceny and aggravated battery must have been pretty steep. Bernie could have gotten his money back, and he didn’t.”
“If he knew where to find the kid.”
“The kid wasn’t exactly hiding. He had his name hanging around his neck. He was a walking investment. In Bernie’s own business. The kid said he thought his outstanding warrants had been taken care of. He made a deal with Bernie. Who owns the mailbox store. It’s the only conclusion that fits the facts.”
He shrugged.
“Can’t you ever admit I’m right?”
He shrugged again. She went to punch him again, this time with feeling, but he caught her fist in his right hand and squeezed it. Briefly. Not too hard, but hard enough to hurt.
A whisper thin layer of civilization separates men from animals, her father had warned many times. When she let her guard down, she always regretted it.
Traffic snarls slowed them through two intersections. Gaspar said, “Bernie owning the place might mean there’s more dodgy customers. Agents are already on the way to the judge for warrants on the remaining mailboxes. Doubtful they’ll get a lead on Jimmy Hoffa, but you never know.”
She took his concession as an apology for hurting her hand. Welcome, but insufficient. No matter. She’d long ago learned to mask her heart effectively. Kim understood the game, and played it expertly, even when she didn’t feel like it. Nothing personal. Just business. Professionalism demanded no less.
She said, “The photo ID on 4719 is definitely Sylvia Black. But we won’t find any usable prints. She never touched any of that stuff in the boxes. Face recognition?”
“Already in process.”
“Maybe we’ll find something when we sort through the mail.”
Gaspar pulled the Crown Vic into a budget hotel driveway. They stacked a luggage cart with the contents of the trunk.
“I’ll check us in,” she said. She pulled the cart and left him to stow the car.
At the counter she used the first of the pre-paid gift cards to reserve a second floor room near the side exit for two nights. She used Sylvia Black’s name and address.