Patriot games - Tom Clancy [169]
"What did he wear?"
"Jeans and a brown leather jacket, I think. You know, like a construction worker."
"Shoes or boots?" the Major asked.
"Never did see that," the clerk said after a moment.
"How about jewelry, T-shirt with a pattern, anything special or different about him?"
"No, nothin' I remember."
"What did he do here?"
"He always bought a six-pack of Coke Classic. Once or twice he got some Twinkies, but he always got hisself the Cokes."
"What did he sound like? Anything special?"
The clerk shook her head. "Nah, just a dude, y'know?"
"Do you think you could recognize him again?" Capitano asked.
"Maybe-we get a lot of folks through here, lotta regulars, lotta strangers, y'know?"
"Would you mind looking through some pictures?" the agent went on.
"Gotta clear it with the boss. I mean, I need the job, but you say this chump tried to kill a little girl-yeah, sure, I'll help ya."
"We'll clear it with the boss," the Major assured her. "You won't lose pay over it."
"Gloves," she said, looking up. "Forgot to say that. He wore work gloves. Leather ones, I think." Gloves, both men wrote in their notebooks.
"Thank you, ma'am. We'll call you tonight. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning so you can look at some pictures for us," the FBI agent said.
"Pick me up?" The clerk was surprised.
"You bet." Manpower was not a factor on this case. The agent who picked her up would pick her brain again on the drive into D.C. The two investigators left. The Major drove his unmarked State Police car.
Capitano checked his notes. This wasn't bad for a first interview. He, the Major, and fifteen others had spent the day interviewing people in stores and shops up and down five miles of Ritchie Highway. Four people thought they remembered the van, but this was the first person who had seen one of its occupants closely enough for a description. It wasn't much, but it was a start. They already had the shooter ID'd. Cathy Ryan had recognized Sean Miller's face-thought she did, the agent corrected himself. If it had been Miller, he had a beard now, on the brown side of black and neatly trimmed. An artist would try to re-create that.
Twenty more agents and detectives had spent their day at the three local airports, showing photos to every ticket agent and gate clerk. They'd come up blank, but they hadn't had a description of Miller then. Tomorrow they would try again. A computer check was being made of international flights that connected to flights to Ireland, and domestic flights that connected to international ones. Capitano was happy that he didn't have to run all of those down. It would take weeks, and the chance of getting an ID from an airport worker diminished measurably every hour.
The van had been identified for more than a day, off the FBI's computer. It had been stolen a month before in New York City, repainted-professionally, by the look of it-and given new tags. Several sets of them, since the handicap tags found on it yesterday had been stolen less than two days before from a nursing home's van in Hagerstown, Maryland, a hundred miles away. Everything about the crime said it was a professional job from start to finish. Switching cars at the shopping center had been a brilliant finale to a perfectly planned and executed operation. Capitano and the Major were able to restrain their admiration, but they had to make an objective assessment of the people they were after. These weren't common thugs. They were professionals in every perverted sense of the word.
"You suppose they got the van themselves?" Capitano asked the Major.
The State Police investigator grunted. "There's some outfit in Pennsylvania that steals them from all over the Northeast, paints them, reworks the interior, and sells 'em. You guys are looking for them, remember?"
"I've heard a few things about the investigation, but that's not my territory. It's being looked at. Personally, I think they did it themselves. Why risk a connection with somebody else?"
"Yeah," the Major agreed reluctantly.