Free R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning by R.S. Guthrie Page B

this one.”
     

     
    It was after we were seated in Lieutenant Elias Shackleford’s office that I realized I’d not yet sprung the “Spencer Grant” appearance on him either, as I had promised to do with all bravado in front of my partner. Well, might as well put my young partner’s “got your back” creed to the test.
    “What do you have?” Shackleford asked and began moving things around on his desk. The lieutenant was easily the neatest man I’d ever known and the few objects on his desk—a picture of his wife and children, a golf bag pen-holder, a Post-it container, and an obsidian paperweight—had never changed position or moved at all as long as he’d been my boss. But he moved them out of position and back like a three card monte dealer with OCD. Still, any lack of eye contact with Elias Shackleford was a small blessing.
    “I have a theory, L-T,” I said. “Actually, I received a rather, uh, let’s refer to it as strange and fortuitous phone call the other day.”
    “Mmm-hmm,” Shackleford mumbled.
    “The caller was Spencer Grant.”
    The lieutenant froze. He peered up. He didn’t seem pleased (although I am not sure what ‘pleased’ looked like on my boss). “You’re telling me the caller claimed to be Grant?”
     “I am telling you it was him. I know his voice.”
    “Trace on the phone that called you?”
    “A burner. In fact, we were at 7-11 getting tape—I mean capture—from the security camera there because we were lucky to track down the purchase location of the cell that called our pizza delivery guy to the Hailey Carpenter scene.”
    “So he was following you. Or knew you’d trace the phone—or both,” Shackleford said.
    “Likely a yes to all,” I said. “Manny was able to put a pretty good match in build to Grant entering the 7-11, buying a batch of phones, and leaving. He had a hoodie hiding his face, but I know it was him.”
    “How so?” Shackleford said.
    “He waved at the closest camera as he walked by,” Manny said.
    “Probably doesn’t want to give away his disguise,” I said.
    “Any of the other burners been used?”
    “No,” Manny said.
    “What else. You said ‘theory’, Mac, not perp identification.”
    Oh, boy. This was where the road split and I was afraid of the path less-traveled.
    “Were you a big math guy, sir?”
    “Come again?”
    “Look, I am going to cut to the chase. You will or won’t like it: the mean average, median, and mode of our victims’ ages is nineteen.”
    “Interesting,” Shackleford said, intertwining his long fingers and looking speculative. “Mean and average are repetitive, though. Same thing.”
    “Yes, sir. I’m aware.”
    Then, out of left field, from the cheap seats, a hundred mile an hour spit ball:
    “Good detective work, Mac. This is the kind of strange shit that solves cases.”
    For the moment, I was stunned into silence.
    “There’s more,” I said, glancing at Manny, a bit confused.
    “September twentieth is Melissa Grant’s nineteenth birthday,” said the boss.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Which means his daughter is with him in Denver and it’s likely we have a month to find this psychotic bastard.”
    “That’s the best—our best—theory, Lieutenant.” I said.
    “I concur. But stay alert, men. There are still a lot of days for this turd to chalk up another nine killed and make his own daughter number nineteen.”
    “Agreed,” I said.
    Manny nodded, and we left.
    “There’s more,” I whispered as we returned to our freshly installed, seven-foot cubicle walls. Manny waited until we were seated and gave me his undivided attention. “This story I need to tell you should be done somewhere other than here.”
    “What about Deb’s ?”
    “Too many cops. We need to talk openly. You’re also probably going to need a drink or two for this and we’re on duty.”
    “I know a ‘Rican spot that’s perfect. Well, I wouldn’t send you down there alone, but with me, you are en buenas manos .