After being Mirandized, Stoller had made one phone call. Within twenty minutes of the call, a lawyer named Perez from the respected Jacksonville firm of Zacarias Perez was in attendance, and within a further ten minutes Stoller had been released. From being flagged down to walking out with the lawyer, fifty-five minutes had elapsed.
`Interesting,’ Finlay said. `The guy’s three hundred miles from home, it’s midnight, and he gets lawyered up within twenty minutes? With a partner from a respected firm? Stoller was some kind of a truck driver, that’s for sure.’
`You recognize his address?’ I asked Roscoe. She shook her head.
`Not really,’ she said. `But I could find it.’
The door cracked open and Baker stuck his head in again.
`State police on the line,’ he said. `Sounds like they got a car for you.’
Finlay checked his watch. Decided there was time before Teale got back.
`OK,’ he said. `Punch it through here, Baker.’
Finlay picked up the phone on the big desk and listened. Scribbled some notes and grunted a thankyou. Hung the phone up and got out of his chair.
`OK,’ he said. `Let’s go take a look.’
We all three filed out quickly. We needed to be well clear before Teale got back and started asking questions. Baker watched us go. Called out after us.
`What should I tell Teale?’ he said.
`Tell him we traced the car,’ Finlay said. `The one the crazy ex-con used to get down to Morrison’s place. Tell him we’re making some real progress, OK?’
This time Finlay drove. He was using an unmarked Chevy, identical to Roscoe’s issue. He bounced it out of the lot and turned south. Accelerated through the little town. The first few miles I recognized as the route down toward Yellow Springs, but then we swung off onto a track which struck out due east. It led out toward the highway and ended up in a kind of maintenance area, right below the roadway. There were piles of asphalt and tar barrels lying around. And a car. It had been rolled off the highway and it was lying on its roof. And it was burned out.
`They noticed it Friday morning,’ Finlay said. `Wasn’t here Thursday, they’re sure about that. It could have been Joe’s.’
We looked it over very carefully. Wasn’t much left to see. It was totally burned out. Everything that wasn’t steel had gone. We couldn’t even tell what make it had been. By the shape, Finlay thought it had been a General Motors product, but we couldn’t tell which division. It had been a midsize sedan, and once the plastic trim has gone, you can’t tell a Buick from a Chevy from a Pontiac.
I got Finlay to support the front fender and I crawled under the upside-down hood. Looked for the number they stamp on the scuttle. I had to scrape off some scorched flakes, but I found the little aluminium strip and got most of the number. Crawled out again and recited it to Roscoe. She wrote it down.
`So what do you think?’ Finlay asked.
`Could be the one,’ I said. `Say he rented it Thursday evening up at the airport in Atlanta, full tank of gas. Drove it to the warehouses at the Margrave cloverleaf, then somebody drove it on down here afterward. Couple of gallons gone, maybe two and a half. Plenty left to burn.’
Finlay nodded.
`Makes sense,’ he said. `But they’d have to be local guys. This is a great spot to dump a car, right? Pull onto the shoulder up there, wheels in the dirt, push the car off the edge, scramble down and torch it, then jump in with your buddy who’s already down here in his own car waiting for you, and you’re away. But only if you knew about this little maintenance track. And only a local guy would know about this little maintenance track, right?’
We left the wreck there. Drove back up to the station house. The desk sergeant was waiting for Finlay.
`Teale wants you in the office,’ he said.
Finlay grunted and was heading back there, but I caught his arm.
`Keep him talking a while,’ I said. `Give Roscoe a chance to phone in that number from the car.’