Going Twice. Sharon Sala
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was average height, maybe five-ten, but for sure not six feet. His clothes were plastered to his body from the rain, so you could see his build. He had what you call a barrel chest. Oh, and he was bowlegged, and he had a small black pack slung over one shoulder.”
Cameron was certain now that the guy had seen Hershel Inman, and that ended the slim possibility of a copycat killer.
“Did you happen to see him get into a vehicle or notice him leaving in any specific direction?” he asked.
“No. We just passed him and kept going. I never looked back. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. Your information has been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of?”
Coyle Hardison frowned. “No, but I hope you catch the bastard and fry his ass. Mr. Atwood was a really nice old guy. I used to mow his yard when I was a kid, and his wife would give me cookies and lemonade after I was done. He was really sad after she died, and I’d say Mr. Atwood is probably the only one who doesn’t regret dying, because now he’s with his wife.”
Cameron got up and turned off the camera.
“Thank you for coming in. You’ve been very helpful.”
Hardison nodded and left the room.
Cameron packed up his stuff, thanked the police for their assistance and then headed for the parking lot. The heat and humidity hit him like a slap in the face, adding to the chaos in the city as he walked out of the building. He saw the line of thunderheads building back to the south and hoped they weren’t in for another round of storms. By the time he loaded his things in the back of his rental car and got inside, he was sweating. He turned on the air conditioner and then called Tate.
* * *
The local newspaper, the Tulsa World, had run a picture of Hershel Inman alongside a brief backstory of the Stormchaser’s murder spree last year in Louisiana, and then connected it to the ongoing investigation. The FBI had also given them an artist’s rendering of what Hershel Inman might look like now with burn scars on his face. They’d known it would set off a firestorm of sightings that would most likely lead nowhere, but there was always the chance that one of them would pan out.
The Tulsa Police Department had their own detectives running down the leads, and funneling the more promising ones to the FBI agents, who interviewed the witnesses further. So far nothing had clicked.
It was late in the afternoon, and Wade and Tate had stopped at a Quik Stop. Tate was pumping gas, and Wade had gone inside to get cold drinks and snacks, when Tate’s phone began to ring. When he saw it was Cameron, he walked away from the pump to answer.
“This is Tate. What did you find out?”
“The witness definitely saw Inman. He described a middle-aged man, average height, barrel chest and bow legs. And the guy was dressed in dark clothing with a hoodie pulled up over his head. He only got a brief look as lightning flashed, but he thinks the guy had some kind of scars on one side of his face.”
Tate sighed. “Well, it’s confirmation we’re dealing with Inman again, although after we got that text, we pretty much knew it. I don’t suppose we hit the jackpot and got a vehicle description or anything specific to go on?”
“No. The guy was with a friend and didn’t even put two and two together until he found out James Atwood was one of the victims. They had lived in the same neighborhood, and that’s the area where the witness ran into Inman. So what do you want me to do?” Cameron asked.
“Head to Tulsa in the morning. I’ll text you the info on where we’re staying.”
“Okay.”
“Drive safe,” Tate added, then hung up and finished refueling the car.
Wade came back carrying cold bottles of Pepsi and a couple of candy bars, handed a pop to Tate, then offered the candy bars and waited for him to choose. Tate chose the Snickers.
Wade frowned. “I was gonna eat that one,” he said.
Tate shrugged, handed it back and took the other one.
“I was gonna eat that one, too,” Wade said, and then grinned at the confused look on his partner’s face. “Just kidding. Take both of them if you want. I have three more.”
Tate grinned, took the candy bars and got back into the car. He opened the cold bottle of Pepsi and took a big drink, grateful for the cool liquid as it went down. As soon as Wade was inside, they drove away.
All of the tornado damage had been on the far northwest side of the city, and the people displaced by the storm had booked up a large number of available hotel rooms. They finally found a suite at the Hyatt Regency on 2nd Street, which provided amenities they didn’t have the time or inclination to check out.
Tate pulled into the underground parking garage beneath a security light and in plain view of multiple cameras. They headed into the hotel, each man lost in his own set of thoughts. Out of habit, Tate paused at the front desk to check for messages.
“Anything for Tate Benton or Wade Luckett?”
One of the clerks spoke up.
“Yes, sir. Something arrived for Mr. Benton about an hour ago. One moment, please.”
She went into a back room and came out carrying a manila envelope.
Tate frowned as he took it from her. There was no return address or postage mark and nothing to indicate it had come from a courier service. All it had was his name on the front. He looked inside as he was walking away, and then made an abrupt U-turn and went back to the front desk.
“Excuse me. Who received this?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I can check.”
“Thank you,” Tate said.
Wade followed him back. “What’s wrong? What’s in it?” he asked, and opened the flap as Tate handed over the envelope.
When he saw the photos of him and Tate taken earlier that day at one of the crime scenes, the hair rose on the back of his neck.
“Son of a bitch! He’s here!”
Wade pivoted toward the open lobby, eyeing everyone within sight. Behind him, he could hear the desk clerk telling Tate that a bellhop brought the envelope in from outside.
“Is he still here?” Tate asked.
The clerk pointed to the bell stand and a tall, slim man with red hair and glasses. “His name is Rob.”
“Thank you,” Tate said, and headed across the lobby.
“I’m going outside,” Wade said, and bolted toward the front entrance and then straight to the valet stand. He flashed his badge, then pulled Inman’s picture up on his phone and started showing it around to the hotel employees who were coming and going parking cars.
“Look close,” he said. “It’s important. Did any of you see this man? He won’t look exactly like this now, because we believe one or both sides of his face will have burn scars. He gave an envelope to a bellhop named Rob. Did you see him? He might have been wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.”
“I just came on duty,” one valet said.
“I was parking cars all afternoon. All I saw were car keys coming at me,” another said.
“Who was manning this stand?” Wade asked. “Who was in charge?”
“Mario.”
“Where is he? I need to talk to him,” Wade said.
“He went home. He’s off duty now,”
A valet came running up from the parking garage, and turned in the ticket and keys of the car he’d just parked.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Wade flashed the picture