Ben woke, confused by his surroundings. He saw his son sleeping on the cot in the corner and stacks of logbooks at his feet. He remembered. He looked at his watch; he’d dozed off for twenty or thirty minutes.
Jake’s face was relaxed in sleep, but Ben remembered his expression when he said, “You ruined our lives.”
The words still stung. The truth has a way of doing that.
You and your lousy temper. What did you think would happen?
Ben slapped his own face as he forced himself awake. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. He reached for the next book—from seventeen years ago. Jesus, he thought. We’ve spent hours on this and we’re barely halfway through the collection. Stupid idea. Hopeless.
Ben opened the book and began a rapid scan. To be safe, he finger-traced each page twice. No doubt about it, Lars had been diligent in his record keeping. The man must have noted every traffic stop. Ben had figured out that arrests were designated by stars. One star for a misdemeanor, two for a felony. Ben looked closest at the two-star notations. He didn’t ignore the misdemeanors, but he figured that whatever it was they were looking for had to be something fairly serious.
Or maybe this bullshit is just a complete waste of time.
His finger glided down page after page after page. He forced himself to be patient, combating Just get through this shit with Slow down, goddamn it, and look at each entry.
Page after page. The names slipped by.
Hang on.
He’d already reached the bottom and turned the page before his mind caught up with his finger. He turned back and there it was again. A name with a one-star notation.
Traffic Stop/Car Search. Lee, Harlan. Arrested. Possession of Stolen Property.
Lee, Harlan. Harlan Lee. Harley. Harlan Lee.
Could it be? It made a kind of sense. Harley could be Har-lee, which could be Harlan Lee. A traffic stop over seventeen years ago that led to an arrest.
But come on, Ben thought. Possession of stolen property? You’re going to come back after seventeen years to even the score for a misdemeanor arrest?
It didn’t fit, but Ben couldn’t deny the feeling that had come over him when he’d seen the name. A sixth sense kicked in as he looked at the words written with black ink in neat block letters: Harlan Lee. Seventeen years ago according to Lars’s notes. The date and time of arrest were listed and, most important, Lars had written down the Newberg PD case number. The record of an incident from that long ago would be stored in the warehouse across the street from the PD. The warehouse for which he still had a key.