“He was also driving without a license and in possession of a fake driver’s license. Until I can confirm his true identity, he will have to remain here.” He must have seen her about to object again. “Under these odd circumstances, I have to be sure that there are no outstanding warrants for Mr. Hamilton’s arrest.” He said Kevin’s name with a slight, but detectable air of skepticism.
“Then, if he shows you some ID, he can go, too?”
“A picture ID is necessary. If he can produce that, then yes, he will be free to go.”
“OK. Where can I pick up my Honda?”
At the mention of her car, an embarrassed look crossed Brady’s face and he seemed reluctant to continue.
“It was taken to the stolen vehicle impound lot,” he said after a pause.
“So?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Of course there is,” Erica said, exasperated.
“I just talked to the lot. You can’t retrieve the car until tomorrow morning.”
“What!”
“I’m sorry, but with the state budget cuts, the lot’s only open until five o’clock. I tried to get them to make an exception, but they wouldn’t.”
Erica stood up without saying a word and walked to Officer Anson’s desk with Brady. Kevin looked as mad as she felt.
“What do I have to do to convince you that I’m not a criminal?” said Kevin, directing the question to both Anson and Brady.
“As I was telling Miss Jensen,” Brady said, “all we need is a picture ID. A copy can be faxed to us if it’s verified by another police authority.”
“And if I don’t produce one?”
“We can keep you here up to 24 hours for a misdemeanor. After that, we have to release you.”
Kevin looked at Erica, who knew what he was thinking. Every minute in the police station was dangerous. If the men after them could tap into police databases, they’d know where to find them. Not to mention that in half an hour, they’d lose the chance at getting a laser for the next several weeks.
“Erica can go, can’t she?”
“Of course,” Brady said. “She’s been cleared…”
Erica interrupted. “No, I can’t.” She told Kevin about the car.
Kevin fiddled with a paper clip from Officer Anson’s desk, staring at it as he did so with a look of desperation. Erica wanted to pluck the paper clip from his hand and make him look at her, but she knew it was his way of occupying his hands while he thought.
Just as Brady seemed to get tired of waiting, Kevin said, “All right.”
“What?” Erica said.
“There’s only one thing I can think of.”
“What?”
“Something I’d really rather not do.”
“Will you stop that and say something meaningful?” Erica said, irritated with his obtuseness.
“I have a passport at home. I got it about six years ago, but I never used it.”
“At home? You mean, in Houston.”
“No, my home here, in Dallas. I forgot to bring it with me to South Texas. I know exactly where it is. The top drawer in my old desk, unless my father threw it out.”
“You still have a house in Dallas?” This didn’t make any sense. Kevin’s parents were dead. Why would he still have a house here?
“Yes. It’s about twenty minutes from here.”
She didn’t have time to probe him about it. “We only have 30 minutes. How do I get there and get your passport?”
“You don’t have to. It’ll be faster if my father brings it.”
It was a flimsy profile of Murray Hamilton, but it was all Mitch Hornung could do on such short notice. David Lobec looked up from the file and buzzed the Gulfstream’s cockpit.
“What is our ETA?” he asked above the jet engine’s drone.
The intercom came to life. “It’s supposed to be thirty-three minutes until we touchdown, Mr. Lobec, but we may be delayed by a thunderstorm moving through the area.”
“Get us down as soon as you can. Make sure the car is ready for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lobec had chosen Love Field because it was fifteen minutes closer to Murray Hamilton’s home in eastern Dallas than DFW was. An inconspicuous Taurus would be waiting for them on the tarmac.
The closer proximity, however, was no longer a factor. Hank Vincent, the local contractor Lobec had hired to track Murray Hamilton, called 20 minutes ago to tell them that Hamilton had left his house and was heading toward southern Dallas. Lobec had instructed Vincent to follow at a discreet distance and to report back when Hamilton had reached his destination.
“Do you really think Hamilton’s father is going to know where he is?” Richard Bern said. “I mean, the guy has him listed as dead in his grad school records.” He sat across from Lobec, facing the other way. His feet were propped up on the leather upholstery, and he had the seat fully reclined. Besides them and the two crewmembers in the cockpit, the ten passenger jet was empty.
“I don’t know the reason for the Hamiltons’ estrangement, but I have learned that the first place people in trouble turn is to their families. Mr. Hamilton may believe we would not find out that his father is still alive.”
“Hamilton and his girlfriend could be in Guatemala for all we know. This is a shot in the dark.”
What Bern said was true. Lobec thought reporting the girl’s car as stolen might prove useful, but so far the car had not been found.
“If you have a better suggestion as to how we could use our time to search for Mr. Hamilton and Miss Jensen, I would appreciate enlightenment.”
Bern furrowed his brow, and Lobec could see him desperately trying to elicit a monumental plan. There would be none. Bern was a fairly capable assistant, but he would never command his own operations.
“In that case, Mr. Bern, we will continue with our present objective.” Lobec handed him the file. “You will see that the elder Hamilton is a member of the NRA and a card-carrying Republican. He is licensed by the state to carry a concealed weapon and regularly hunts deer and quail. What does this suggest to you regarding our approach to Mr. Hamilton?”
Bern skimmed the three page file and then held a picture of the subject up to the light. It was a driver’s license photo showing a man in his late fifties who did not carry his years well. Decades of smoking and drinking had left his cheeks and jowls sagging and wrinkled. Although he was not bald, the hair he did have was thinning, limp, and stringy. Nothing in the photo revealed that the man was actually 6’2” and weighed close to 230 pounds, which indicated to Lobec that most of the weight was muscle developed during his years as a construction worker.
Bern dropped the photo back into the folder and said, “I don’t know. But I bet this guy ain’t going to trust a couple of cops telling him his son’s wanted by the law.”
“Exactly, Mr. Bern. Very good. Therefore, we will need to take an entirely different approach. Your cover will be…”
The plane’s intercom buzzed. Lobec picked up the handset.
“Yes.”
“I have a Mr. Vincent on the line for you,” said the pilot.
“Put him through.”
After a click, the contractor tailing Murray Hamilton spoke from the other end, using a name Lobec had given him through their previous work together.
“Mr. Gale?” Vincent said, drawling the syllables together.
“You have something to report, Mr. Vincent?”
