“Just the Holy Grail, that’s all.” I hold up the paper.
She smiles and nods. “The Holy Grail looks different than I thought it would.”
“Yeah, yeah. Can you boop-boop Jimmy for me? He wandered off somewhere with the sheriff and I need him to interview Chas ASAP. I’m running to the copy room to burn a few million of these.” Pointing to the lobby, I add, “Don’t let him leave! I don’t care if you have to tase him and duct-tape him to a chair.”
“I don’t have a Taser.”
“You’ll think of something.”
“I’ll threaten him vigorously with my letter opener.”
“See?” I say with a grin. “That’s creative. I like that.”
As I head down the hall, Tami’s voice booms over the PA system requesting that Special Agent Donovan report to the front desk.
An hour later, we have everything we need, including Chas’s white 1992 Ford F-150 pickup, which is impounded pending a thorough sweep by at least two crime scene investigators. Chas is gracious enough to sign a consent form allowing a search, so we don’t need a warrant. It probably helped that Jimmy rented a new Mustang for him.
Jimmy has an expense account.
I don’t have an expense account.
I once asked why I don’t have an expense account and was told I don’t need one. I don’t need a pet whale, either, but it would be cool to have one.
Back in the conference room, Jimmy plops down in a deformed chair that looks like it fell out of a Salvador Dalí painting. When he turns to the left it thu-thu-thu-thu-thumps; when he turns to the right it squeaks like a miniature banshee; when he leans back it groans like some restless spirit with its finger in a vise.
I’m thinking Jimmy needs to take that expense account and buy the sheriff a new chair, one that’s not possessed. Better yet, a dozen chairs, that way they all match.
“So,” Jimmy says, “what are we thinking?”
I’m thinking I need a damn expense account.
I put the thought aside and say what Jimmy already knows. “He steals cars to commit the abduction and then returns them to the exact spot they were stolen from so the owner is none the wiser.”
“Chas was adamant that he never leaves his keys in the ignition,” Jimmy throws out, “and there was no evidence of tampering on the ignition—at least none I could see.”
“So he’s got some car skills,” I say, “or an assortment of shaved keys.”
A favorite among car thieves, shaved keys are nothing more than old car keys that have been ground down a bit. The locks and ignitions on older vehicles, like Chas’s truck, tend to wear down and loosen up over time so that even an inexperienced thief can often start the car in twenty or thirty seconds with a shaved key.
“An auto thief turned serial killer?” Jimmy wonders aloud.
“Or a serial killer turned auto thief.” I shrug when Jimmy looks up. “It’s not like he’s interested in the cars, right? He’s just covering his tracks. Actually, it’s pretty smart—and kind of scary. How else do you explain Chas’s death list? We know Sad Face didn’t toss it through the window as he strolled by; his shine was all over the interior.”
Jimmy leans forward, sips at his coffee, and thinks for a moment. “You’re certain the only other shine you recognized on Chas’s truck was Lauren’s? Not even a hint of Alison, or maybe—” He sees the look on my face and quickly holds up his hand. “Right, right. Sorry. It’s just that Chas’s truck looks a lot like the one in the Walmart surveillance video. It’s even the right color.”
“White’s a popular color for trucks.”
“It’s not just that. You said it yourself, that he’s probably using a shaved key. Doesn’t a shaved key have to have started as the same make: a shaved Honda key to steal a Honda, Chevy for Chevy—”
“Ford for Ford.” I see where he’s going with this. “So maybe he only has one shaved key and has to keep stealing the same type of truck?”
Jimmy taps his nose with his index finger.
“That helps a little, but not much,” I say. “The Ford F-150 is a popular rig.”
“Yeah, but ask yourself this: Why that type of vehicle?” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a wallet that looks like a booster seat, and extracts a $50 bill with his thumb and index finger. Dangling it in the air a moment, he places it gently on the table, slides the booster seat back into his pocket, and says. “Fifty bucks says that’s the same make and model he owns. Probably had a copy of his own key made and then shaved it down.”
I don’t have a $50 bill in my wallet. I have a debit card, my driver’s license, and a punch card for the place where I get my hair cut (three more punches and I get one free). No $50 bill, though. If I had a $50 bill it would probably elope with the expense account I don’t have.
“I’d take that bet,” I say boldly, for a guy with no $50 bill in his wallet, “but I think you’re probably right.” Then, in a somber voice, “I also think Chas’s aptly named death list is exactly that. And based on what he wrote down, it looks like Sad Face preselects his victims well in advance.” I hold a facsimile of the list up, but Jimmy only glances at it. I’m sure he already has it memorized. “The check next to each name indicates he’s kidnapped them. Then, when he kills them, he draws a line through the name. So the last time he touched this note was right after he killed Alison Lister and abducted Lauren Brouwer.”