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Jalbert lies in his bed, ramrod straight, listening to a prairie wind blowing outside, thinking about the next day’s interrogation. He doesn’t want to think about it, he needs his sleep so he can be fresh in the morning. Coughlin is the one who should lie sleepless tonight, tossing and turning.
But sometimes you can’t turn off the machine.
He swings his legs out of bed, grabs his phone, and calls George Gibson, who’s been heading the KBI forensics unit for the last seven years. Gibson flew in from Wichita as soon as the judge signed off on the search warrants, and was ready to start work as soon as Coughlin’s truck was delivered. Calling him is a mistake, Gibson will call him if he has something, but Jalbert can’t help himself. Sometimes—like now, for instance—he knows how junkies feel.
“George, it’s Frank. Have you got anything? Any sign at all that the girl was in his truck?”
“Nothing yet,” Gibson says, “but we’re still working.”
“I’m going to leave my phone on. Call me if you get something definitive. It doesn’t matter how late.”
“I will. Now may I go back to work?”
“Yes. Sorry. It’s just… we’re working for the girl, George. For Miss Yvonne. We’re her—”
“Advocates. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Sorry. Sorry. Go back to work.”
Jalbert ends the call and lies down. He begins counting and adding. One and two makes three, three more is six, four more is ten, five more is fifteen. By the time he gets to seventeen is a hundred and fifty-three, he has finally begun to relax. By the time he gets to twenty-eight is four hundred and six, he’s drifting into sleep.
18
At two o’clock his phone wakes him. It’s Gibson.
“Give me some good news, George.”
“I would if I could.” Gibson sounds beat. “The truck is clean. I’m going home while I can still keep my eyes open.”
Jalbert is sitting bolt upright in bed. “Nothing? Are you kidding?”
“I never kid after midnight.”
“Did you put it on the lift? Did you check the undercarriage?”
“Don’t tell your granny how to suck eggs, Frank.”
Gibson sounds on the verge of losing his temper. Jalbert should stop. He can’t stop.
“He washed it, didn’t he? Son of a bitch washed it and probably had it detailed.”
“Not lately, he didn’t. There’s still plenty of dirt on it from his trip out to Gunnel. No traces of bleach in the cab or the truck bed, either.”
Jalbert expected more. He expected something. He really did.
Gibson says, “Finding fingerprints, hair, an item of her clothing… that would’ve been ideal, the gold standard, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t have her. He either did an ace cleaning job inside or—”
“Or she was never in the truck at all.” Jalbert is hatching a headache and getting back to sleep is probably going to be out of the question. “He could have used some other vehicle to transport her. He’s got a girlfriend in that trailer park. Maybe he used her car. If he doesn’t confess, we may have to—”
“There’s a third possibility,” Gibson says.
“What?” Jalbert snaps.
“He could be innocent.”
Jalbert is amazed to silence for a few seconds. Then he laughs.
19
