Erin saved screenshots of the car and sat back from her computer. She’d been hoping to identify a parked car at the scene, and maybe be able to get vehicle registration and DNA samples from it, but this could be just as good. Now she had faces, a potential victim and a potential associate, and a car and license plate to go with them. She ran the plate and got a rental agency at JFK airport. She called them immediately. It was after midnight, but airport rentals were open twenty-four seven.
After another obligatory automated menu and few minutes on hold, the line was picked up by a guy. His voice was flat and hopeless. She’d heard livelier sounds coming out of the morgue.
“Speedy Rentals, Carl speaking. Do you have a reservation?”
“Hi, Carl,” Erin said brightly, trying to inject some energy into him. “My name’s Detective O’Reilly. I’m with NYPD Major Crimes. I need to ask you some questions about a rental.”
“What’s your reservation number, ma’am?” he droned on.
Erin stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “Carl!” she barked. “I’m Erin O’Reilly. I’m a cop. Major Crimes. I need you to wake up now.”
“Huh? Oh… yeah. Sorry. Look, uh… sir? Ma’am? What do I call you?”
“Detective will do fine.”
“Okay, yeah. Detective. Uh… I should get Mr. Talbot.”
“Who’s Mr. Talbot?”
“My manager.”
“Yeah, Carl, I think maybe you should.”
“Uh… here’s the thing. He’s… uh… not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Uh… he went on, like, a coffee break.”
“When do you think he’ll be back, Carl?”
“I dunno.”
Erin prayed to Saint Michael, patron of police, for patience. “When did he go on break?”
“Uh… about nine o’ clock.”
“Carl,” she said. “That was three hours ago. That’s a pretty long coffee break. I don’t think Mr. Talbot is coming back.”
“You think so?”
“I think it’s just you and me, Carl.”
She heard his nervous gulp even over the phone. “Okay,” he said. He now sounded completely awake, and like he’d rather be somewhere else. “Look, lady… Detective, I mean… I don’t wanna get in trouble here. I need this job.”
“No trouble, Carl,” she said, making her voice as soothing as she could. “I’ve got a license plate for a black Toyota 4Runner, plate number BPC 2987. I just need to know who rented it.”
“That’s personal information, Detective,” Carl said, and despite herself, Erin was a little impressed at the way he managed to put some backbone into his answer. “Look, I… like I said, I don’t wanna get in trouble, but I don’t know if you’re really a cop, okay? And even if you are, I can’t give you that without a court order.”
“Okay, Carl. How long is your shift?”
“I’m here until four.” He said it like a convict less than halfway into a long prison sentence.
“Okay, I’m going to e-mail you the document in a few minutes. Then I’m going to call you back.”
“Okay,” Carl said, sounding a little more cheerful.
“Carl,” Erin said, her police instincts tingling, “you’re going to answer the phone when I call back, right?”
“Uh… yeah. Of course.”
“You’re not going to go on a coffee break yourself, are you?”
“No.” But the spark had gone back out of his voice.
“Because we’ll come and get you if you go. You know how many cops there are in New York City? Think carefully.”
“I’ll be here.”
“That’s good, Carl.” Erin hung up and called Judge Ferris.
Police, as a general rule, distrusted judges. Erin’s dad liked to call them lawyers who played dress-up, and no good cop was keen on lawyers. But Ferris was a useful contact for law enforcement. No one knew just how old he was; seventy-five was Erin’s guess. He slept most of the afternoon, but tended to be up late. He was a judge who believed in law, order, and a good police force. He could be counted on to sign off on most warrants and court orders, as long as he was awake.
She was in luck. Ferris answered on the fourth ring. His voice was mellow, with the gravelly undertone of an old man who’d smoked a lot in his youth. It reminded her of the actor James Coburn.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Evening, Judge,” she said. “This is Detective O’Reilly.”
“Ah, the charming Miss O’Reilly. And how are you this fine evening, young lady?”
“I’m good. Say, I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“I’m just sitting here in my parlor with a few close and intimate friends, in front of a warm fire.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I call back later?”
“No, young lady, my friends are patient and reliable. Their names are Elijah Craig, Nat Sherman Sterling, Samuel Clemens, and Roy Bean.”
Erin tried to make sense of what he’d just said. Elijah Craig was a whiskey brand, and Samuel Clemens sounded familiar. The other two were strangers. Then she placed Clemens. “You’re reading Mark Twain and drinking bourbon,” she guessed.
“With a fine cigar and my loyal dog at my feet,” Ferris confirmed. “All that was missing for my contentment was the conversation of a fine young woman. Thanks to you, my evening is now complete. How may I be of service?”
She smiled. “I need a court order, Judge.”
“Would this pertain to that terrible business this afternoon?”
“It would. I got a rental car on traffic cams, driving past the crime scene and dropping off at least one passenger right before the shooting. I need an order to get the rental record.”
Ferris paused, and Erin could picture him taking a sip of his excellent top-shelf bourbon. “You think this information will be useful? Surely, if this vehicle was rented by an assassin, he would have taken pains to disguise his identity.”
“I think it’s one of the victims, not the killer.”
“Ah. That casts the issue in a different light. I shall be delighted to assist you.”
“I’ll send the info to you. Thanks.”
“I am, as ever, as your service. Have a very pleasant night, Miss
