“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.
Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.
One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.
“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”
I felt centipedes crawl my arms.
“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.
“He is her son.”
“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”
“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”
“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.
“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”
Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.
What?
“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.
Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.
I shot upright in my chair.
“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”
The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.
Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.
“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”
“You’re sure that’s what he said?”
“That was his statement verbatim.”
“What are the chances a witness would use the exact same words and phrasing so many years apart?” I was totally psyched.
Williams appeared to consider that. “You think Winge made up his story? Practiced it to be sure he’d get it right?”
“It would explain why the Mustang could never be traced. Think about it. A car that rare?”
“Why would Winge lie?”
No one had an answer.
“Slidell says Winge is as dumb as a bag of hammers,” Larabee offered.
“He’s not a smart man,” I agreed.
“Why tip you about Eli Hand?” Williams asked.
“Maybe Winge was involved in Hand’s death and is feeling guilty,” Larabee tossed out.
“After more than a decade?” Williams sounded skeptical.
“He claims to have found Jesus,” I said.
“You believe him?”
I shrugged. Who knows?
“Maybe Winge was involved in what happened to Gamble and Lovette.” Larabee was hitting his stride. “Maybe he killed them. Maybe he killed Wayne Gamble because the guy was figuring things out.”
We all went still, realizing the implications of that line of reasoning.
Might Winge think
“We’ve got Winge under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Williams said. “If he changes his socks, we’ll know about it.”
Williams stood.
Randall stood.
“Until this is resolved, I’m going to ask the CMPD to run units by your town house on an hourly basis.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Williams stuck out a hand. “Nice job on the Mustang catch.”
