Bell walked into the captain’s office and sat down. Gardner was reading something in the newspaper. It could have been police-related or it could have been an opinion piece about the Jets being one and seven on the season. Bell waited until Gardner set the paper aside and looked over at him.
“Detective Bell. Spending your vacation here at work, I see.”
Bell told him about his road trip to Greenfield and Elmira and Hershey. He told him about the woman. He told him his theory about the market at Williamsburg.
“We need to go over the street videos again from that day. I have a rough description of the truck.”
“Where are we going to get the manpower for that?” the captain asked. “You know how much work that is.”
“Well, I’m here,” Bell said.
“Yeah, and I also know that the union’s going to squawk if they hear you’re working your vacation.”
“Then I’ll end my vacation.”
“That’s fine,” the captain said. “Then I’ll remind you that you’re off the case. Why not just drop this in the FBI’s lap? They have more money than we do. They have more of everything.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You not getting along with the feds?”
“We have philosophical differences.”
“Get past them. We need to cooperate. You need to cooperate.”
“Right.”
“Now go fishing or something,” Gardner said. “You’re on holidays, for fucksakes.”
When Bell left the precinct, he realized he hadn’t eaten since getting up that morning. He went to McGee’s for a steak sandwich and a beer. It was mid-afternoon and the place was largely empty. Two middle-aged men, both sporting huge bellies, shot pool on a coin table in the back. Bell thought about the limo driver McIlroy and his buddy, the fictional Bill Driscoll, shooting pool across town. That’s how it all had started. A chance meeting that was anything but that.
He drank his beer and went back through his notes while he waited for the sandwich. His phone rang as he was eating. It was Agent Dugan.
“Rumor has it you need some help.”
“Rumor has it my captain has a big mouth,” Bell replied.
“We need to see what you have,” Dugan said. “You’ve ID’d a truck?”
“I have a lead on a truck,” Bell said. “I don’t have an ID on a truck.”
“I need to see whatever you have,” Dugan said. “We’re at Jackson’s house. Get your ass over here.”
“I’m having a beer.”
“Drink it and get over here.”
“I’m pretty thirsty,” Bell said. “I might have two beers.”
“Don’t make me send a couple agents after you.”
“I guess I can relax,” Bell told him. “I’ve seen how good you are at finding people.”
He hung up and ordered another beer and went back to his notes. He read what he had written the day he’d visited the Williamsburg market. Afterward he’d called the guy in Connecticut who made the furniture and ruled him out as a suspect. Further down the page he’d written the word “pictures” with a question mark. Now he picked up his phone and called the market manager, the woman with the dolphin on her arm. When she answered he reminded her who he was.
“You said you were going to check to see if anybody had any cellphone pics from the market that day.”
“Right.” She paused. “You know, I couldn’t find anything. Sorry.”
The pause suggested to Bell that she hadn’t followed up. “Well, keep asking. Maybe do another round of the regulars?”
“I will,” the woman said. “Absolutely.”
“Sure you will,” Bell said when he hung up. He found the number of the artist named Lily and called it. She answered on the first ring.
“Lily Walker.”
Bell told her why he was calling.
“Oh, I found some pics but nothing that can help, I’m afraid,” she said.
“None of the woman?”
“I have a couple but you can’t see her face. One is where she’s lifting a hamper of something from the back of the truck. Her head is turned. And I think there’s one more but I cut her head off completely. You can see her torso. Does that help?”
Probably not, Bell thought. “I’ll come by and have a look. It’ll be in a couple of hours. I have another stop first.”