Rescue

is.“
    “What?“
    “This is a New Hampshire tag, all right, but you’re not even close.“
    I walked over to him. He was right. SLH-237.
    I said, “I don’t get it.“
    Guinness said, “I do. You been jerking me around on this from the word go. And I’m pissed, Cuddy, very fucking pissed.“
    “I’m not jerking you around.“ I bent down. There were fresh nicks on the screws holding the plate on, and some mud around the edges of it. “This plate’s been changed.“
    “Yeah, right.“
    I moved to the front of the Dodge. “This one, too.“
    “In your dreams, Cuddy.“
    “Guinness, look. I’m telling you, this is the car, but the guy in the pickup must have switched plates.“
    “With what?“
    “Maybe his own track. His plates had mud covering them, and there’s some on these.“
    “Oh, so he commits a fucking murder, then takes the time to switch his own plates for the ones on the murdered
    girl’s car?“
    “Maybe the plates on his were stolen already.“
    “Yeah, or maybe he just keeps a couple sets in inventory, in his toolbox there for whenever he needs them.“
    “Guinness, all I know—“
    “Why does the guy leave the fucking car here at all, huh?“
    “Why?“
    “Yeah. Why doesn’t he drive it the fuck away from where he kills the girl or at least dumps her?“
    “He was alone. Or he didn’t have time. Or Eddie was giving him—“
    “Or the Easter Bunny was hopping along Summer Street after playing tennis with Santa Claus at the Boston Athletic Club, and the guy didn’t want his boyhood idols to think
    less of him.“
    “Guinness, don’t you see it? The guy in the pickup was trying to throw you off.“
    “Yeah, well, he did a helluva good job of it, Cuddy. A helluva good job. Because I’m thrown off like I went over a fucking cliff. Now take me back to the office.“
    “We’re here, can’t we at least go through the car?“
    “On what ground? The doors are unlocked, feel free to come back and fucking browse. But all’s I see in there in plain view is a couple of candy wrappers. And I get no smell of decaying flesh from the trunk and no fucking grounds to pop it, especially if the owner just happens to stroll over from Anthony’s or Jimmy’s picking the remains of a lobster roll out of his teeth and asks me what the fuck I’m doing van dalizing his vehicle.“
    I looked into the car through the driver’s side window. The blanket I’d used from the backseat was gone, along with the knapsack Melinda had lifted off it.
    “Will you at least run the plates for me?“ I said.
    Guinness exploded. “No! What I will do is take out this fucking Clock cannon the commissioner made us all learn how to fire and blow a fucking hole through you unless we’re in your Japmobile in the next ten fucking seconds.“
    I looked at him for five of those seconds, then shook my head and started back for the Prelude.

4

    G uinness had me drop him off at a coffee shop two blocks from the Homicide Unit on West Broadway. He didn’t bother saying good-bye.
    I found a parking space down another block and a pay phone that was working. Dialing directory assistance for New Hampshire , I got four numbers for the Division of Motor Vehicles there. The first woman who answered bounced me to a second, who bounced me to a guy in the Information Office.
    “I’m a private investigator in Boston , and I need to run the registration for a couple of your vehicles.“
    “No problem. They’re public records up here.“
    “Great.“
    “Just come to our counter, 10 Hazen Drive in Concord , between 8:15 and 4:15 any weekday. If you’re going to want information on more than one registration, it’s five dollars per vehicle, and be sure to get here by four.“
    I didn’t have to look at my watch to know I wouldn’t make it. “Any other way besides being there in person?“
    “By mail, but it takes longer, on account of your request has to arrive here, go down to the mail room, and then out to the division and eventually the unit involved.“
    “How about accessing your computer from down here?“
    “Sure, but only through NLETS.“
    “What’s that?“
    “ ‘National Law Enforcement Teletype’—or is it ‘Telecommunications’? I can never keep it straight, I’m one of the dinosaurs goes back to the real teletypes, you know? Anyway, National Law Enforcement Teletype or Telecommunications System. Any police department down by you can access NLETS and NCIC at the same time.“
    “For any