Free Judged by E. H. Reinhard

phone number?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    I wrote that down.
    “Would you be willing to meet with us and look through some photos of vans so we can make sure we’re looking for the right one?”
    “I don’t think I’d want to do that. I don’t know if it is even related.”
    “It may really help us,” I said.
    “No. I can’t. I don’t want to be involved.”
    “Can I get your name?”
    I got a dial tone in my ear. “Shit.” I finished writing down everything the woman had said and dialed Beth.
    “Hank,” she answered.
    “I just got an anonymous call. The caller, a woman, said that she had been seeing a van parked in the neighborhood of the scene we just came from. It didn’t belong to anyone local, and the driver would just sit inside—possibly watching our most recent victim.”
    “What kind of van?” Beth asked.
    I looked over the description she’d given me. “She just said newer, dark windows, low to the ground on the sides. She said it had some numbers on the back glass window and it was shaped differently.”
    “Full-size van?” Beth asked.
    “She couldn’t decipher that question. That’s where I got the ‘it was shaped weird’ response.”
    “Numbers on the windows could have been something for hire,” Beth said.
    “Could be.”
    “Okay. I’ll see if we can do anything with it. Maybe cross-check our possibles with having vans registered to them. You said it was an anonymous call?”
    “She blocked the caller ID and hung up on me after I asked for her name.”
    “We could always get who called from your phone records if needed.”
    “That’s kind of what I was thinking.” I stuffed my notepad back into my inner suit pocket.
    “All right, we’ll get to work on it. Are you coming back here after the dealership?”
    “I’m planning on it,” I said.
    “Okay. I’ll call you if we leave the office.”
    “Sounds good. See you in a bit.” I clicked off, waited for a gap in the interstate’s traffic and merged back on.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    I pulled into a parking space in front of the Miami Acura dealership that Scobee worked at and grumbled. A man in a dress shirt and tie spotted me through the glass of the front of the building. He spun from his desk before I put the car in park. I stepped out and swung the driver’s door shut. The same guy that spotted me pulling up was already walking quickly toward me from the front doors of the dealership.
    He stopped and held out his hand for a shake. The guy looked as though he was in his early twenties and was drowning in his purple dress shirt. He flashed me a giant grin. “Welcome, sir. How can I help you out today? Looking to trade up? What is that, a 2015?”
    I shook the guy’s hand—it almost seemed more awkward not to. “Not here for a vehicle, but maybe you can help me out anyway.”
    He looked like I’d just backed my car over his dog. His shoulders sank. “Um, yeah, what can I help you with?”
    “I’m looking to speak with someone about Glen Scobee.”
    “Are you a police officer or something?” he asked. “I just mean that I heard what happened.”
    “I’m with the FBI,” I said.
    “Oh, okay. You probably want to talk to Kevin Prassey. Here, follow me to the front desk. They’ll get him paged for you.”
    “Sure,” I said.
    I followed him inside to a large circular front desk with two women seated behind it.
    “This gentleman would like to speak with Kevin Prassey,” the guy said. “Could we get him paged?”
    The dark-haired girl sitting nearer to us picked up her phone without responding. She paged Mr. Prassey over the intercom and clicked her phone back down. “Should be just a minute,” she said.
    I turned to thank the salesman, but he’d already left my side. He was back at the front door, standing in front of an older couple with his hand extended for another handshake. I turned my back to the desk and looked over at the vehicles located on the sales floor—a couple sedans and two SUVs. At my