Brent took a seat beside the sofa, leaving Jeremy bookended by his parents. Colin claimed a side chair that would allow him to observe but was close enough for him to jump in if he chose.

“Jeremy, your mom told us you saw a man today who may be someone we want to question. Can you tell us why you noticed him?”

“Sure.” The boy proceeded to repeat the story his mother had relayed during the conference call she and her husband had placed to him two hours ago, ending with the comment about the man’s gait—a distinctive identifying characteristic that would be gold in any investigation . . . if it was accurate.

In this case it was, according to one of the detectives he’d spoken with who’d done a shift tailing Jackson. He was the only one who’d noted the very slight hitch in the man’s walk—making this kid more observant than most of the highly trained surveillance experts who’d been on the job.

And there was an explanation for Jackson’s gait.

After Jeremy’s mother had passed on her son’s observation, it hadn’t taken long to dig into Jackson’s background and discover a football injury to his ankle that had ended his high school varsity career but wasn’t otherwise debilitating.

“What did the man do that day after he left the FedEx box?” Brent kept his posture relaxed and open.

“He looked around—kinda like he was worried someone was watching him—then walked real fast back down the street, right past our car. But he didn’t see me, ’cause I was in the backseat. I thought it was weird he didn’t have a truck. I was gonna ask my mom when she got back, but she was talking on her phone and I forgot about it—until I saw the guy again. Did he do something bad?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Brent opened his small portfolio and extracted the five headshots he’d printed off—including one of Steve. He spread them on the coffee table. “Are any of these people the man you saw at the house that day, and in the parking lot this afternoon?”

The boy wiggled to the edge of the couch and gave the photos a fast sweep. “That one.” He pointed at Jackson’s photo.

Brent glanced at the boy’s mother.

“That’s the man we saw today,” she confirmed.

The boy leaned closer to study the image. “See how his eyebrows are kinda crooked? I noticed that about him too.” He leaned back again. “And I saw stuff that’s not in the picture. Like, the day he walked by the car, after he left the box? He was sweating real bad. And he kept scratching his arm. I thought he had a mosquito bite, but it was more than that ’cause he kept doing it.”