Committed by E. H. Reinhard Page B

my notepad from my pocket and jotted down the tag number. “You guys finish watching that and see if there is anything else useful and then find out who that vehicle is registered to. I’m going to go get the tag number to Scott so he can get it out across the wire. He was just calling everyone with the vehicle description. We need this tag number added to that right away.”
    “I’ll call back to Manassas,” Bill said. “Marcus and Lewis should be able to get everything and hopefully get us a location from the guy’s cell phone.”
    I turned and left the security office and found Scott still with the truck driver.
    “We got a tag,” I said from twenty feet away as I tapped the front of my open notepad.
    He left the man at the side of the semi and walked to me. “You have them on video?”
    “Yeah, I just watched it. Let’s get this tag number distributed.”
    Scott held out his hand for my notepad, and I handed it off.

CHAPTER NINE
    We’d had the BOLO out on the car for the better part of three hours, and we’d expanded it to neighboring states. The helicopters covering the grid spotted four vehicles matching the description from the air. Local sheriff’s deputies had pulled over each vehicle even though none of the tags were a match. We weren’t taking any chances since they could have swapped plates. As it turned out, none of the stopped vehicles had our couple. Agents Makara and Gents waited at the rest stop—they were going to get the RV towed back to Omaha and have their forensics unit go over the vehicle with a fine-toothed comb.
    Scott had gotten word that the helicopters had to suspend the search due to darkness. The tech twins back in Manassas got nothing on the man’s phone. The last cell-tower ping would have put him somewhere in the area, but the phone was off, and they couldn’t get a GPS signal for it. As far as finding the vehicle or its occupants, we didn’t get anywhere. We did, however, get all the information on the man, who we hoped wouldn’t become Nick Frane and Molly McCoy’s next victim. The man’s name was Lindsay Dunbar. He was sixty-four years old, listed as single, from Lexington, Kentucky. What he was doing around Omaha, we didn’t know. Ball was trying to get a hold of some of the man’s family to get more information.
    Beth waited to make a left into the hotel’s parking structure. Bill and Scott were directly ahead of us, waiting to do the same. We figured we’d need a point as a home base until the case took us elsewhere. Jim, back in Manassas, had booked us a handful of rooms at The Residence Inn, located in downtown Omaha. He said the hotel was centrally located, allowing us easy access to just about any major interstate out of the area, and the Omaha branch of the Bureau was just a ten-minute drive away. Bill and Scott turned left into the parking structure, and we followed. We found two spots together a few levels up, grabbed our things, and headed down. The four of us hit the sidewalk out front, wheeling our suitcases toward our hotel on the corner of the block.
    I glanced at my watch as we walked. The time was a bit after six thirty, and from the color of the sky, I could tell the sun would be down within minutes.
    “Wonder what this building used to be,” Beth said. She nodded toward the words United States of America carved above the entrance.
    “Jim said it was the old federal office building,” Bill said. “They turned it into a hotel a few years back, I guess. Well, at least that’s what Jim said.”
    I took a moment to look up. Below the words Beth had mentioned, and directly above the entrance doors, was an eagle, with shields carved into the stone to the bird’s sides. The first three stories of the building that included the carvings were tan. Above the first three floors were another ten stories of gray brick. It was a good-looking old building, and if it had been federal at one time, I guessed it made a good fit for us.
    We walked under the