I paged back through my six-by-nine notebook. “The lady at the apartment complex where Christian Pelo’s skeleton was found. She said Hartley comes by with a muscular blond guy. His right-hand guy. She said he had an odd nickname. ‘Iron,’ she thought.”

Or Steele.

Remy sat up. “So Steele’s known Hartley for fifteen years then?”

“And he was working with Hartley in 2017 when Pelo’s body was buried,” I said. “According to Maria, the apartment manager, Steele was the one who wheelbarrowed all the dirt into that basement to cover up Pelo’s body.”

“So if we’re thinking John Adrian killed Christian Pelo two Christmases ago,” Remy said, “Steele may have done Hartley’s dirty work and killed John Adrian last night.”

I flipped my chair backward and sat down, leaning over the back and thinking this over.

“It’s a unique name,” Remy said, her eyes on her phone and her thumbs moving fast.

Remy handed her cell to me. On it was Steele Vankle’s Instagram page.

I flicked through the images. He was midthirties like we thought. White and handsome, with blue eyes and blondish-red hair that fell to his shoulders.

Half of the pictures were of him, training at a gym. The cowbell thing. The big rope. There was also a low-quality video from 2005 of Vankle wrestling in some homemade octagon. It was in the shape of an old four-by-three TV screen. Must’ve been uploaded to Instagram years later.

In the last shot, Steele Vankle stood in front of a red Camaro from the ’80s. I stared at the caption below the photo. Always wanted one of these since my bro let me drive his to the prom, it read. Vintage and cherry red. The post was from eighteen months ago.

I zoomed in on the license plate.

“Well, we got a plate,” I said. “If we run it, we’ll have an address.”

“Sure,” Remy said. “But then Hartley might know you’re coming again. What you need is a way to find this Steele Vankle guy. But off the books. A hundred percent off the books.”

“I got an idea,” I said.

48

I was back at the precinct in fifteen minutes, but entered the building through the mod yard and took the elevator down to the bowels of the place. Threading my way through a series of corridors, I got to a small glassed-in office with the words “Data Collection” stenciled in white type on the window.

D.C. was a group that had begun last year with two employees, both named Joan, each of whose title was “police records specialist.” Their current job was to assist patrol and detectives with data-based research. To enter warrants into the system and help with protection orders and other paperwork that kept cops sitting behind a desk instead of out on the street.

“Hello, Joans,” I said, entering the office.

Both women were blond with brown streaks in their hair. One was in her early thirties and donned a conservative pantsuit and blouse, while the other was late forties with spiky hair and a lot of handmade jewelry. Remy constantly accused me of not knowing which one was Joan Snow and which was Joan Reinhardt. Until I confessed that my partner was right, Remy wasn’t giving up the answer.