Ten
I hadn’t even gotten to the expressway when my phone rang. I pulled off to the side of the road and looked at the phone. Langley.
“Don,” I said. “What’d you learn?”
“Good morning to you, too, sister,” he said. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Guy owns the Impala is Mitchell Peterson out of Tennessee. Nothing on him. Doesn’t have a record. Not even a sealed record. Works as a used car broker, in Nashville. Not married, no kids, as far as I can tell. I got no pings on any of the other cars in the parking lot.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Far as I can tell,” he said. “The guy is in his forties. A little late to be starting a life of crime.”
“Gotta start sometime,” I murmured. “What about Maggie Green?”
Don made a noise.
“Too many Maggie Greens?”
“You have no idea,” he said. “And wi
