Cereal Killer

received the much-anticipated call from Ryan and John.
    “The digital enhancement worked,” were Ryan’s opening words. “And we have a plate number for you.”
    “Hallelujah!” Savannah exclaimed, reaching over and slapping Dirk on the thigh. “Spit it out, my friend.”
    She jotted down the numbers and letters in her notebook, then thanked him profusely before saying goodbye.
    “We’ve got it!” she told Dirk. “Phone it in to the station and have them run it. And this time... use some of that scintillating charm of yours so that we’ll get it sometime this month, huh?”
     
    Having postponed their visit to the Wills household, they went instead to the address given to them by the department of Motor Vehicles. The house on the corner of Meadowbrook Road and Bellmore Avenue was easy enough to find. It was the owner, a fellow named James Lee Oates, who was difficult to locate.
    “Jim’s gone,” a neighbor told Savannah. She and Dirk had split up and were canvassing both sides of the street. This was the first person she had found at home. “Gone? Gone where?”
    “Las Vegas,” the elderly woman said, a bright, excited look on her face. “I gave him ten dollars’ worth of quarters to play the slots for me. We’re gonna split whatever he wins. I can’t wait for him to get back in town, so I can find out how much we won. I need a new recliner and maybe even a new car if he did good enough.”
    “I see,” Savannah replied. What she could see was a sweet lady who needed a realistic plan for replacing that aged recliner. “How long has Jim been out of town?”
    “Nine days. He stopped in along the way to visit some girl that he’s sweet on, and he’s been in Vegas for the past three days. I haven’t heard a word from him. I’m hoping that’s not bad news. Do you think he would have called me if we’d hit a big one?”
    Savannah shrugged and stifled a grin. “I have no idea, ma’am.” She glanced across the street at Oates’s house with its empty driveway. “Does Jim drive a white van with a rack on top?” she asked.
    “Oh, that monstrosity of his. It’s an eyesore, I tell you. That’s another reason why I hope he wins a big jackpot in Vegas. He needs a new van worse than I need another car. That thing’s going to break down someday and leave him on the side of the road.”
    “So, he drove the van to Las Vegas?” Savannah asked, her mental wheels whirring as she evaluated the possibility that ol’ Jim had lied to this dear lady, stayed in town, and murdered some women in his spare time.
    “Heavens, no. He wouldn’t drive that thing to Los Angeles, let alone Vegas. I’m telling you, it’s a heap of junk. He took his other car—his Toyota. He just uses the van for his work. He’s a painter, you know. Not the artist kind, the house and wall kind.”
    “Wait a minute,” Savannah said, confused. When she and Dirk had arrived at Oates’s house, they had looked through the garage window and found the garage empty, except for a mountain of painting supplies. “If he didn’t take the van with him and it isn’t in the garage, where is it?”
    The old lady smiled, happy to supply the answer. “Oh, that’s because Charlotte has it. She borrows it sometimes when he’s out of town... you know... when she’s got some furniture to haul or something like that.”
    “Charlotte?” Savannah felt a prickle of anticipation. “Who’s Charlotte?”
    “Charlotte Murray, his sister. Such a sweet girl. I’ve always really liked Charlotte. Looks just like her brother. Maybe if we win big, we can give her enough money to buy a van for herself, or at least a bigger car. You know, she can’t haul a decent bill of groceries in that little Honda of hers. Why, she...”
     
    Savannah waved to Dirk, who was halfway down the block, looking dejected as he left one house and headed for another. Seeing her beckoning him, he perked up and joined her beside the Buick.
    “Get in,” she said.
    Once inside the car, she turned to him and said, “Charlotte Murray.”
    “What about Charlotte Murray? I already talked to her.”
    Savannah shook her head. ‘What? You already know about Charlotte Murray?”
    “Yeah, I told you. I questioned her already.”
    “About what? Who is she?”
    “She works at the hospital. She’s a head nurse, Kevin Connor’s supervisor.”
    Savannah felt a rush similar to the one provided by a hot, strong Irish coffee. It flowed through her body, making her tingle to