Page 144 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Skin cells.” O’Reilly snapped a two-finger salute.
“Cross-check anything even hints of a tie to Lakin.”
Ryan, Slidell, and Henry left to help search for Olivia. I stayed in case questions arose with regard to my old files.
Papadopoulos, Roosevelt, and I booted computers. Save for an occasional question, the only sounds in the room were the clicking of keys, the rustling of paper, the squeak of a metal chair, the ringing of a phone.
Calls came in with regularity, some rolled from the main number, some direct to our dedicated line. Olivia was on a train heading for New York. In a shed behind a home on Radcliffe Avenue. At an urgent care center in Indian Trail. On a spaceship zooming toward Venus.
Every time my mobile buzzed, my pulse went stratospheric. I snatched it up, hoping for one of two things. The child had been found. Katy was safe. No such call.
People think police investigations proceed at breakneck speed, with car chases, and takedowns, and gun battles in the street. Not so. Most of the work is tedious and involves plowing through records, phone logs, and surveillance tapes.
Three hours later, we were still eyeballing screens and perusing hard-copy files when Papadopoulos broke the silence.
“I’ve been playing around, poking at this guy Kramden.”
“The prepper,” I said, glancing up from my screen.
“Yeah. He owns the land where he’s burying the buses.”
Slidell had already learned that. I didn’t say it.
“He drives a 2010 Ford Fusion registered to a Charlotte address. I found a deed says Kramden owns the property. It may not have come up in previous records searches because the deed’s under the name B. K. Kramdan. I’m guessing that’s a typo.”
Not particularly exciting. But his next words were.
“The address is on Sharon Hills Road.” He read off a number. “That puts it six doors down from the Lakin home.”
“That can’t be coincidence!” Too loud. I knew it could be just that. Or that the misspelled name might not be an error. Still, I was totally jazzed.
“Good catch,” I said, grabbing my phone.
Slidell answered on the third ring.
“Yo.”
“Any news?” I asked.
“No.”
I told him what Papadopoulos had discovered.
“Sonofabitch,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Enough to get a warrant?”
“Enough to try.”
Forty minutes later he called back, sounding sufficiently irked to eat his own dog.
“The idiot judge says she needs more.”
“Jesus. The guy is fixated on murder, knows how to butcher animals, was associated with Frank Boldonado, and lives down the street from the missing child.”
“Can’t mention that we know about Kramden’s little hobby. We entered his bus without paper.”
