But one thing was certain: UnSubs usually had a lot more trouble in their family histories than Tate Lorenzon and Derek Morgan.
And as they wove through traffic, Morgan couldn’t help but wonder what kind of home life Jake Denson had had.
Chapter Six
July 30 Chicago, Illinois
Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner had his back to the laptop screen when Garcia’s voice behind him called, "Sir?"
Hotchner turned to the flat screen, and for one odd moment he recalled watching the old I Dream of Jeannieshow on TV as a child—their computer tech’s pleasant, pretty face on a laptop screen somehow made her the BAU’s resident genie, capable of modern magic.
“You have something, Garcia?”
“Yes, sir. I think I found Bobby Edels’s car.”
“Where?”
“There’s a navy blue 1995 Honda Civic,” Garcia said, “with a vehicle identification number matching Edels’s in a lot owned by a towing company in Lincoln Park.”
“And where is that?”
“It’s an area of the city that runs from Lincoln Park Zoo on the east to Clybourn on the west, from Diversey Parkway on the north to, fittingly enough, North Avenue on the south.”
Hotchner couldn’t help but smile; Garcia always overdid it a little with him, and was more formal than with anyone else on the team, since she’d embarrassed herself in front of him, a few times, with her chummy, even flirty relationship with Derek Morgan.
“I’m sorry, Garcia. I meant where’s the towing company?”
“Oh. Sorry, sir. On Lincoln Avenue between Armitage and Dickens.”
“Do we know how the car got there? And how it escaped notice of the local police?”
Garcia brightened. “Yes, sir. It took a little digging, but I tracked that down.”
“And?”
“Bobby Edels disappeared on March twenty-first. The North Barrington police ran his plates the next day and came up empty. The car disappeared until this morning, when the company, Buccaneer Towing, filed to get the title of the car, so they could sell it. That’s how I found it. And that’s where it’s sitting— in Buccaneer Towing’s lot.”
“How could they file for title? What’s that about?”
“That means the vehicle has gone unclaimed for one-hundred-twenty days. And that gives Buccaneer the right to file title claim.”
“They’re an aptly named company.”
Her face on the screen froze a little; he could almost see a dozen quips passing behind those eyes, but because it was Hotchner, she wouldn’t share an “Aye aye, matey” or “Arrrrrr” with him. He was tempted to share one with her, but, truth be told, he preferred her in this more businesslike mode.
So he just told her, “Good job,” and signed off.
The area detectives were out in the field with Rossi, Reid and Morgan, running down leads. Jareau was upstairs with SAIC Raymond Himes going over logistical matters. That left only Prentiss, hard at work on the victimology of the crimes, in the conference room with Hotchner. He considered not bothering her and going upstairs to request an agent from the local office, but talked himself out of it.
Turning to Prentiss, who was hunkered over her laptop computer, Hotchner asked, “Interested in taking a break?”
Prentiss stretched. “When the boss suggests I take a break, I take a break. What did you have in mind?”
“How about taking a ride?”
Prentiss displayed her dazzling smile and said, “Let me guess—this is not an invitation to enjoy a gently breezy day in the Windy City. You have somewhere you want to go, and you don’t know your way around the city.”
Shrugging, Hotchner said, “It still qualifies as a break.”
“A break, or work away from this conference room,” Prentiss said. “Either way, I’m in.”
“Do you know where Lincoln Park is?”
“Yes, sir. Piece of cake.”
An hour later, they’d made the jog up Lincoln Avenue, past the Lincoln Park Zoo, and the legendary Second City comedy club just off Lincoln on Wells. Cruising northwest now, as they passed Armitage, Prentiss started looking for a parking place.
They were a block up and around a corner before she found one. The Buccaneer Towing lot would have been hard to miss, with its sign painted on the side of a junked car sitting atop a twenty-foot-high steel pole. The lot was surrounded by a seven-foot cyclone fence with canvas attached on the inside, in an effort not to be a neighborhood eyesore— meaning, someone figured a square block of seven-foot green canvas was somehow less of a blight than a lot full of parked cars.
A mobile home next to the lot’s front gate served as the office of Buccaneer Towing. Hotchner held the glass door open for Prentiss, then followed her in.
The interior design was 1980s metal desk chic. They stood temporary sentinel between the front door and a twelve-inch color TV and a coffee urn that were perched on a table against the back wall. Louvered windows were just clean enough to let in light but little more.
The desk on the left, nearer the door, was occupied by an Hispanic woman in her early twenties, her long, black hair pulled up in a bun; she had the high cheekbones of a model and the world-weary smile of not a model, and wore a black sleeveless button-down blouse and jeans. One the desk itself were a huge logbook, a telephone with five lines, a computer keyboard and monitor. The computer tower resided on the floor next to the desk, a mouse on the pull-out leaf.
The desk at right was recessed a foot or two from its twin and Hotchner’s reading of the setup was that the woman had secretary/receptionist duties, while the male occupant of this other desk actually ran the place. The male’s desk had a stacked in-and-out box, a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle, a pen next to it, and a phone. On the back wall, a two-way radio perched on a shelf.
The boss, maybe fifty and balding, had a squat, troll-like look, as if he’d hopped off a tall building, landed on his feet and compacted himself. He wore a white short-sleeve shirt and what was probably a clip-on tie, red-and-blue stripes.
Prentiss showed her credentials to the probable receptionist, who immediately glanced over at the boss.
“That’s okay,” Hotchner said to her with a trace of a smile. “We’ll introduce ourselves.”
Turning to the heavyset man behind the other desk, Hotchner again displayed his credentials.
“FBI—Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Aaron Hotchner and Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss.”
The squat little man made no move to stand or to offer a handshake. His eyes held a cold but unconcerned suspicion. In an undistinguished second tenor, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
Putting away his credentials, Hotchner said, “To start with, what’s your name?”
The troll shot a look at his secretary/receptionist, then said, “Jake Guzik.”
Hotchner nodded. “Any relation to Jake ‘Greasy Thumb’ Guzik, the mobster who died in 1956? Sharing a name with a felon is no crime, of course, but maybe we should take you down to the field office, so we can fingerprint you just as a precaution.”
Prentiss was smiling just a little.
The guy patted the air in front of him. “Whoa, whoa, I was just havin’ some fun with you guys.”
Prentiss said, “Do we look like we stopped by for the matinee?”
“Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. Stupid joke. We don’t get the FBI around that often.”
Hotchner arched an eyebrow and asked, “But sometimes you do?”
Now their host wasworried. “I was just kidding around. I am glad to help you people. What do you need?”
The secretary turned away, possibly stifling a laugh, albeit probably not the laugh her boss had hoped to get out of her.
“Let’s start again,” Hotchner said. “Name?”
“Marshall—Art Marshall.”