“Mr. Shaw’s found her.”
Relief edged into his face. “So all is good.”
“No, not good,” she said. “They’ve vanished again. They were in Marshall County but went north. The last we knew they were right near the border, so we think they’re in Everett now. I want to get some deputies involved, looking for them. Will you help me with that?”
Never say: I hope you can help. Never ask: Can you help? Always hit them with a direct question: Will you? No way to wiggle out. Either agree or refuse.
She could have phoned Kemp, of course, but Sonja Nilsson had learned an in-person visit by a six-foot blonde, built like the soldier that she’d been, fixing the subject with her piercing green eyes, usually got better results.
“Fact is... I’m pretty busy here.”
She just looked at him. This technique worked too.
Kemp’s expression finally limped to: I guess. He picked up the phone. He wasn’t disgruntled, she sensed, he wasn’t irritated or resentful. He was just damn tired.
Welcome to the club.
Was it good for you?
Thinking of Colter Shaw.
Thinking of the kiss.
She forced herself to put that memory aside. Not easy.
As he was bounced around, telephonically, from one office of the Everett County Sheriff’s Department to another, Nilsson looked around the office. How many cases was he juggling? Dozens, at least. She noted a memo about the Street Cleaner, a briefing from last year. Was the poor detective on that one too? After all this time, it fell into the category of cold case, the hardest to solve.
The detective turned back to her, hand over the mouthpiece of the landline. “I’ve got a Corporal Shepherd on the line.”
She held her hand out and took the phone. Nilsson identified herself and explained briefly about the situation: A former cop had been released from prison after a domestic battery and was pursuing his wife. Two men were helping him. There’s already one homicide. The wife and daughter and a couple of others with them have disappeared. “And we’re dark on coms.”
“Ah. I see.”
She’d used the military expression, thinking he might be a vet himself; many sheriff’s deputies were. His reaction suggested this was the case, and therefore more inclined to help her.
“The latest is they probably crossed into your county in the last few hours. Probably on Fifty-five or Eighty-four, maybe a smaller road. Any cameras up that way?”
“None of ours. Maybe a town or two have one for speeding. We’re not linked into that. Let me ask, Miss Nilsson, what’s Ferrington PD doing, or Trevor County? Or Marshall?”
“You know how it is, fugitives out of their jurisdiction. Not that motivated. And they’re slammed to start. Will you get it out and free up a car to search?”
“Give me the particulars.”
“You’re looking for a Winnebago camper, beige and brown. A silver Mercedes SUV and a gold Kia.” She gave him the tags for the first two. She had none for Allison’s rental. “The suspects’re in a white Ford Transit. No known tag number. And they’re armed.”
“This’s a kettle of fish,” he said, sighing. “I’ll send it out on thewire. Now, as for a cruiser, I can assign one, but we’re a big county. Can you narrow it down?”
“Hold on.”
There was a map of this quadrant of the state on Kemp’s wall, partially obscured by folders. To the detective she said, “I’m moving these.” She gave him the phone and then removed the folders and set them on the floor.
Nilsson took the handset back. “I’m looking at a map. You have one?”
Shepherd chuckled. “I live here, miss. Forty-six years.”
She scanned the map. From Frank Villaine’s there were two towns they might go to, northwest to Millton, or due east to Stanton.
She mentioned these options to the deputy.