man say to her left.
She pivoted in his direction and immediately spotted him. His eyes were wide with electricity and his face was that of a schoolboy who knew the answer to the teacher’s question.
Pick me! Pick me! it conveyed.
“And you are?”
“J.J. Monteleone.”
“And you saw this vehicle?”
“Yeah, it was parked on Elm Avenue.”
Now this was something interesting, Jennifer thought.
“Was there anyone in it at the time you saw it parked?”
“A man. I saw a white man sitting behind the wheel.”
“What about the woman? Was she in the car?”
“No, only the man.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“Not really. He had the visor down and was wearing sunglasses. I really only glimpsed him as I crossed the street,” the man said, almost apologetically.
“And what time was this?” Jennifer asked as she wrote down the information.
“I guess around 6:45 or so.”
“Was there anything about this Volvo you can recall—some distinguishing marks, scrapes, cracked windshield—that kind of thing?”
“There was one thing. I think it was a rental or used to be a rental.”
“Why do you say that?” Jennifer asked, about to jump out of her skin with delirium.
Eat your heart out, Orr.
“Well . . . I worked at a rental place for a while and all the companies put their logos on the front bumper. Extra advertising, you know. Then the vehicles were targeted by carjackers who saw the rental sticker and assumed the occupants were tourists.”
“I remember that,” someone beside him said.
“Anyway, when the Governor changed the law last year, we had to scrape all the stickers off.”
“Are you saying this car still had a sticker on the bumper?”
“A partial one really—you know, a corner piece.”
Please have the answer to this next question. Pretty please with a cherry on top.
“And do you remember what colour?” Jennifer asked calmly.
“A reddish-orange.”
Reddish-orange. Which company had those colours?
Jennifer’s mind began to mentally picture the logos of the well known rental companies, only to draw a blank.
“You wouldn’t possibly know which company used a reddish-orange logo, would you?” Jennifer held her breath as she watched Monteleone begin to roll his eyes, obviously a side-effect brought on by deep thinking.
“Queen City’s logo has a reddish-orange tinge to it.”
Jennifer was staring so intently at Monteleone that when the answer to her question came, she was briefly mystified how he’d said the words without moving his lips.
“Miss, I said that Queen City has a reddish-orange logo.”
Jennifer snapped back to attention and realized the speaker was an old Italian gentleman standing six feet away from her.
This is like playing Jeopardy with a thousand people—not all of whom have a buzzer, Jennifer thought.
“Are you sure?” she asked as she faced the gentleman.
“They might have changed it.”
Jennifer heard a woman gasp to her right. She turned to see the coroner load the dead man into a body bag.
“Did he die instantly?” Jennifer asked the men zipping the bag closed.
“Quicker,” the older of the two said.
“No comment,” bellowed Detective Speers, who had come up behind them.
Barry Kendall was standing alone watching the body placed into the coroner’s vehicle.
It’s now or never, Jennifer thought, noting Speers had re-entered the NCN building.
With the dexterity of a prize fighter climbing through the ropes into the ring, Jennifer ducked under the two rows of police tape and was quickly at Kendall’s side.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” she said, as a startled Kendall became aware of her presence.
“No comment.”
“To my statement or to any questions I’m planning to pose to you?”
“Both.”
“I need a name.”
“I need the shooter.”
“The car is or was a rental.”
“What?” Kendall asked, a shocked look on his face.
“The getaway car is a rental or was at one time.”
“And how did—”
“A guy in the crowd said it was parked on Elm Avenue at 6:45 with a white man behind the wheel, trying to remain inconspicuous.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“His name is J.J. Monteleone.”
“The driver?”
“No—the witness, you idiot.” She pointed Monteleone out to him. “The guy with the blue blazer.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“What’s the dead guy’s name? I know you have it.”
Kendall looked around to see if he was being watched.
“Not a word of this to anyone, not even your editor, until Speers confirms it. Are we understood?”
“Understood. Now what’s his name?”
“Robert Barker.”
“Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Think pharmaceuticals.”
“Kendall!”
Speers’ voice sliced through the air as he came upon them with a look of fire in his eyes.
“What
