Heat by Stuart Woods

things bothered him: his driver’s license was new, and so was the truck, both acquired about the same time. Still, Barron had said he had the license renewed, and the sheriff had said that he had left Toccoa on a bus. It made sense that in a wreck that had killed three people, Barron’s car would have been totaled. “Hang on a minute,” Casey said.
    He turned back to the computer and spent a minute and a half getting connected to the Georgia Motor Vehicles Bureau in Atlanta. In another moment, he had the driver’s license he had just seen up on his screen. He printed that out, then moved down a couple of screens to the historical record. It showed that Barron’s old license would have expired before the month was out. He went into vehicle registration and found that two pickup trucks were currently registered to Barron, the one at the motel and another, larger truck, the kind with a back seat. That would have been the one in the wreck, he thought. Nobody had canceled the registration yet. He printed out the record.
    â€œJim, anything strike you as odd about this man’s stuff? Anything at all?”
    Jim shook his head. “Looked real ordinary to me, Chief. Except—”
    â€œExcept what?”
    â€œWell, it’s a little thing, but the tapes in his glove compartment—”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œThey were classical stuff. You know, symphonies, and like that?”
    Casey nodded. “You’d think a guy in a pickup would be listening to country music, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œYessir, I guess I would.”
    â€œWell,” Casey said, “it takes all kinds, I guess.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œThanks, Jim, that’ll be all for now.”
    The officer left, and Casey sat and thought about what he had on Jesse Barron. He had been expecting another undercover man from the ATF for weeks and, after what had happened to the last two, he expected one with a good cover. Still, Barron’s background seemed too good to be just cover. It was the sheriff who had made the difference. He’d gotten the information, one cop to another, and that made it right.
    Casey heard the fax machine ring in the outer office. He got up and walked to the machine and waited. A moment later it disgorged a sheet of paper. Casey picked it up and looked at the photograph. He was four or five years younger, dressed in a business suit, hair neatly cropped and combed; the hairline hadn’t yet started to recede. He looked a lot less beat up than the man Casey had just met, but he was the same man, no doubt about it. The picture was clipped from some sort of business directory. Underneath it, set in type, were a few lines of copy:
    Jesse A. Barron, president, Barron Construction, specialists in additions, renovations and remodeling. Mr. Barron takes pride in finishing jobs on time and on budget. Free Estimates. Member of the Chamber since 1981.
    Casey walked back to his desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHi, it’s Pat. I don’t think he’s who we’re expecting.”
    â€œWhat makes you so sure?”
    â€œHe checks out to a tee—background, paperwork, everything.” Casey told him about Barron’s history.
    â€œWouldn’t you expect him to check out?”
    â€œYeah, but it’s more than that. First of all, I talked to a local sheriff in Georgia who’s known him since he was a boy. It was all good, and get this—as a kid he got arrested for trying to run some niggers out of his neighborhood. I checked the back newspaper editions and found a confirming story.”
    â€œHow do you know this guy is the guy the sheriff is talking about?”
    â€œHe faxed me a photograph. It’s the same man.”
    â€œI don’t know…”
    â€œOne more thing: I’ve known a lot of cops, and I can usually spot ’em a mile away. This guy is less like a cop than anybody I