Peter watched them go. He knew Campbell and the rest of the DCI were highly motivated, because this happened to their people in their backyard. But Roy and his crew had been active in at least eight or nine states. He could be headed anywhere now. And the people who would be chasing down Campbell’s leads in rural Oregon or Montana wouldn’t have the same level of motivation. They already had their own cases to work and not enough time to do it.

When the sound of their engines died away, June put her hand on Peter’s forehead, checking his temperature. “You’re not quitting,” she said.

Peter looked at her helplessly. “I can’t.”

“I know.” She reached for her bag. “I have a couple hours’ lead on Campbell and his people. Let me tell you what I found.”

Lewis rubbed his hands together, then went into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.

53

First things first,” June said. “I ran Roy Wiley through my subscription databases and found almost nothing. Two bank accounts with less than a thousand dollars combined. A loan on a four-year-old pickup that’ll be paid off in August. He owns that Nebraska property outright, and credit reports show he’s never had a mortgage. Like Campbell said, no criminal record.”

They’d moved to the kitchen table. “That’s it?” Peter was at the stove, grilling turkey and Swiss sandwiches. He was going to have to buy Bobbie some groceries. She was still outside somewhere, working through her grief as best she could.

June looked from her laptop to her notepad. “He owns a business called Midwest Services, probably to help launder his cash, but I can’t find any account in that name. Helene said he showed her a box filled with money, and that he claimed to have a couple of million put away, but if it’s overseas, in the Caymans or someplace, it could take years to find. The only phone I’ve got is a landline at that same property, but it’s no longer in service. If he had an electronic account with the auto loan or bank or phone company, he’d have to provide an email, but he must have kept it all on paper, because I’ve got nothing. And no social media, either, not even tagged on someone else’s.”

“Never?” Lewis sat balanced on a high wooden stool. He’d stripped off his starched blue button-down, exposing a white silk undershirt. The articulated muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and moved under the thin fabric like pinions of a dark machine, restless for work.

June tapped her pen on the pad. “Not fucking ever.”

“Is that a surprise?” Peter flipped the sandwiches. The cheese bubbled on the hot pan.