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  “Kind of.” He handed the disc over. “There’s about thirty seconds of it. The camera from their front door is focused straight out. You can see the other side of the street alright, but it gets pretty dark and grainy over at the park. We could kind of see the person put her on the bench, but it’s just shadows. You’d never be able to make any kind identification from it.”

  “Anything of the person coming or going?” Hank asked.

  Donner shook his head. “Nah. Jones pretty much nailed it. If you didn’t radio us a specific time to look for, we wouldn’t have noticed it at all.”

  “Alright. We’ve got footage of our guy leaving the scene on foot down North Tampa.” I pointed up the street. “You guys split up and head down the block. Jones, Donner, you guys take the east side of the street—Telwan, Henry, you guys the west. I want you guys to do the same thing as you just did, stop into the businesses and look for surveillance footage. Hit every dumpster, garbage can and alley on the way and give them a good once over. Hank, I want you to get in by Rick and get an update. I’m going to take these videos in to the guys in Tech and have them get started. Everyone, give me a ring with any news.”

  The group disbanded. Hank and I headed back across the park for the station. News vans still reported from the north side of the park. We walked into the station on ground level and split up. I headed to the Tech Department at the end of the hall. Hank walked off to the Forensics lab.

  Our Tech Department consisted of two to four men, shift depending. The back wall was lined with video equipment and monitors. Two men, Greenway and Westbrook were viewing video footage. The left side of the room contained a giant whiteboard with what they were working. Park video was written in giant red letters. The right side held Terry Murphy’s office—the lead of the department. He sat at his desk focused on his computer screen. I gave the door a rap and walked in.

  “Terry, got more video for you.” I sat the two discs on his desk.

  He pulled his eyes away from the monitor and scooped them up. “Good. The guys are working on what the station’s cameras captured now. So far, not much of anything.”

  “Got the guy on the blue disc there entering and exiting the park. Footage is pretty decent. That second disc I haven’t looked at but the detectives told me the quality wasn’t too hot.”

  “I’ll have the guys try to clean it up a little. If we can get something distinguishable, I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good. Call me on my cell. I might be out of the station.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant.”

  I left his office and made my way over to the Forensics lab to see if Hank was having better luck. Our Forensics department had been re-designed and updated just last year, it was now one of the most advanced in the state. Through the doorway the room spread out fifty feet to the left and right—everything was either stainless steel, black or glass. Straight down the center were three rows of black topped work stations, stainless sinks and miscellaneous equipment that I couldn’t identify. Each station had an employee wearing a white lab coat plugging away at whatever they were working on. To the left sat the glass offices of the department leads. The right side of the room had four different clean rooms. The back wall held the ballistics area and blood spatter analysis center. A shop area with a garage door to the outside sat behind that if they needed to process a vehicle. Rick’s office door to my left was open. Hank sat inside. I headed in.

  “Hey Lieutenant, I was just going over what we had with the sergeant here.”

  “Bring me up to speed.” I sat next to Hank.

  “Well, I left a message on your voicemail upstairs about the tire marks, but we can just go over it here. I just got something back on the trace that was on the victim’s clothing as well.” He slid two sheets of paper over to me. “Tires first.”

  I picked it up and looked it over. The first sheet of paper had bar graphs on it. I assumed it was some kind of chemical compound results from the rubber left at the scene. The second sheet had two photos of tire tread. “What am I looking at here, Rick?”

  “The chemical makeup of the tires and tread pattern match. The tires came as original equipment on a 2006 Chevy Express van. About a ninety-nine percent chance that is going to be the van you’re looking for.”

  “How are you so sure of that?” I asked. “I’d think that if they were original equipment they would have been replaced two or three times by now. Maybe even more if it was used for business.”

  “Who’s to say someone didn’t buy them from a tire shop for a different van?” Hank asked.

  “Hold on fellas.” Rick smiled. “Original equipment sent straight to the manufacturer in 2005 to be used on the 2006 vans. They were never for sale to the public. On top of that, they had a recall half way through the production year for a manufacturer’s defect. The dealers were ordered to pull the old tires and replace. Pretty good chance you are looking for a low mileage, 2006 van. It would be built early in the model year and never had the recall performed.”

  Hank looked to me. “I’m convinced.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty air tight.” I wrote down 2006 Chevy Express van in my notepad. “Give me one second here, Rick.”

  I dialed up Timmons in patrol to get the BOLO for the van narrowed down. The conversation was short and to the point. I hung up and looked back to Rick. “OK, what about the trace you found?”

  He flipped open a folder in front of him. “It was a dark blue paste. Here’s the chemical breakdown.” He slid the sheet over. “It’s thread sealant.”

  “Thread sealant?” Hank asked.

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “It’s standard stuff in the plumbing industry. It could be a couple different brands though. They’re all made of the same stuff. My guess is that our guy is a plumber. It may have been transferred from the floor or a shelf in his van to her clothing.”

  I wrote plumber and plumbing van down. “What about Pax out in the park. Did he come up with anything?”

  “Last I talked to him, he hadn’t found anything.”

  “We saw Rob dusting the shopping cart for prints on our way back. What about that? Anything?” Hank asked.

  “He called over a few minutes ago. He lifted a bunch of smudges and partials. I wouldn’t hold my breath for something there. That’s all I have for you guys right now. If we come up with anything else, I’ll let you guys know.”

  “Thanks Rick. Are these sheets mine?”

  “Yup. Those are for you.” He slid me the folder.

  I stuffed the papers back inside and headed out. I wanted to get a hold of the guys out searching for video and see what they had found.

  Chapter 22

  I walked out of the lunch room when my cell buzzed in my pocket. I switched hands with the coffee and dug out my phone. The caller I.D. said it came from a restricted number. I had a pretty good hunch at who it was. I hit talk.

  “Lieutenant Kane.”

  “It’s Faust.”

  “Hey. How are my background checks coming? Did anything pop on the Millers?”

  “Well, you might say that. We have a football field sized red flag here.”

  I walked through my office door and took a seat at my desk. “I’m listening. Let’s have it.”

  “Well, let’s get the big one out of the way first. Do you have any clue where they came up with just under ten grand cash to deposit into their joint bank account every month?”

  “I spoke with the adult son of Margaret Miller. He said that they had hit the lotto.”

  “Might have been their story, but it didn’t happen. We’d have state and federal records of it. There’s nothing.”

  “So where does the cash come from?”

  “Good question. They were up to their eyeballs in debt before the deposits started.”

  “How bad?”

  “They had a combined debt of over seventy-five thousand. Lots of credit cards with a few high interest loans sprinkled in—all of which were behind on payments.�
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  “And now?”

  “Everything got paid off in full during the same month—December of last year.”

  “I’m guessing that we can rule out a rich dead uncle.”

  “No inheritance. No trust.”

  “So where does the cash come from? Drugs maybe? These two came up pretty clean when I looked into them though. What did you come up with?”

  “Here is what I got. These two both had regular jobs. James Miller worked as a mechanic at a local garage. Margaret Miller waited tables. They both up and quit last December—no notice, no nothing, just quit. A couple days later they started depositing large sums of money in their bank accounts—yet, never enough for a form 8300. Every month since, they deposit just under ten grand cash—no more, no less. Nothing about them tells me drugs, but the dollar amount is questionable for sure. Anything over ten thousand and you have to fill out the form.”

  “You have a hunch where it could come from?”

  “Don’t know, but I doubt it’s legit. The phone records are still in the process. I’ll make sure they go back before the money starts rolling. You should have them soon.”

  “I appreciate it. I have one more thing to ask. This one is a little out of our scope.”

  “OK.”

  “Is there a way to get a list of all the murdered women named Claire for the last ten years.”

  “Claire? Is that state or nationwide?”

  “I’d say state. All of our victims are local.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No sweat Kane. We’ll talk soon.” He hung up.

  I grabbed the Miller’s file from inside my desk and wrote mystery money on the cover. I flipped through my notes. A few pieces were starting to come together. The Millers had the words justice and for carved into their heads. With the words murdering and Claire coming next on Jessica and Jake, I had a feeling the money being received by the Millers had something to do with a dead woman named Claire. On top of the money trail, it appeared that our perp was driving around a 2006 Chevy van and could have worked as a plumber.

  Captain Bostok knocked on my door and walked in.

  “News?” he asked.

  “Hey Cap. Faust got some red flags on the Miller’s bank accounts—lots of money coming in with no employment to account for it.”

  “What does he think?”

  “Something illegal.”

  “What do you think?”

  I rolled my shoulders. “Payoff for something maybe.”

  The captain scratched at his mustache. “Where do you want to go with it?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anywhere to go. They were all cash deposits. All their bills got paid off, and they started depositing money.”

  “How much?”

  “A little less than ten grand a month so it wouldn’t require the federal forms.”

  “Who has that kind of money that’s involved with this?”

  “Casey?” I asked. I thought about the gun in his waistline.

  Captain Bostok pulled a breath through clenched teeth. “That’s a big accusation, and something that we can’t just toss around. Let’s let that simmer for a second until we find out more.”

  “What about the gun he had?” I asked.

  “Let me handle it, Kane.”

  “How did he find out about his daughter in the park so fast anyway?”

  “He said someone from the press called him.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t say who.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  The captain held out his hand for me to leave it. “I dropped him at his house after he was through at the medical examiner’s office. Just let me deal with that aspect. I want to talk with the major before we start digging in there.”

  I understood the captain’s situation. It could be career suicide to throw any kind of accusation at a judge if it wasn’t a hundred percent solid.

  “We got a little news on Jake,” Bostok said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Made contact with his parents. His father called me a little earlier. He said they were on a cruise in the Caribbean which is why no one could get a hold of them. They got back last night. I told them what happened and where we were at. They’re at the hospital with him now.”

  “No changes in Jake’s condition though?” I asked.

  “No. No changes yet.”

  “Alright. Well, at least his parents are there for him now.”

  The captain nodded his head. “So we got some video of the park?” Bostok asked.

  “Yeah, took it down to the boys in Tech to see if they could do anything with it. I still have Jones, Donner and two uniforms out looking for more now.”

  Hank poked his head into my office. “Hey, Patrol got us a van. No plates. They brought him in.”

  “The van an 06?”

  “Don’t know. The guy is on ice in box number one.” Hank held up a soda and a bag of chips. It was his standard offering for anyone who we questioned.

  We headed for our interview rooms. Detective Tanner from our drug task force stood outside the door.

  “What’s the story with this guy in the box? Who brought him in?” I asked.

  “I did. It was strange how it happened. I came out from a restaurant and hopped in my car. The news for an updated BOLO came over the radio as soon as I dropped it down into reverse. Well, I check the rear-view mirror to back up, and a van matching the BOLO drives behind my car in the restaurant’s parking lot. I waited for him to park and then pulled in behind him. The van didn’t have plates on it. I gave the guy’s window a knock to check him out. The driver said he just bought it and didn’t have his driver’s license on him. When he produced the title, it was dated as being sold a couple weeks prior. There were just too many iffy things going on so I decided to bring him in so you could have a talk with him.”

  “What year is the van?”

  He thumbed through the folder in his hand. “2006.”

  Hank smiled. “Same year as Rick said.”

  “Here you guys go.” He handed me the folder. The guy’s name was Daniel Lilke. He was a single, thirty-six year old from Lake Magdalene—a northern suburb of Tampa. The copy of his license said he was five foot eight. It didn’t line up with our witness accounts, but from experience witnesses weren’t always that accurate on height. I pointed toward the door. “Ready, Hank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be watching from next door,” the captain said.

  Hank twisted the knob and entered, I followed him in. I closed the door behind me, walked over to the table and took a seat. “Mister Lilke, I’m Lieutenant Carl Kane. This is Sergeant Hank Rawlings.”

  Hank sat the bag of chips and soda in front of him.

  “Whoa. You’re the guys from the TV, but in real life.”

  “Pardon me,” I asked.

  “Yeah. They COP Channel had the Bob Cross case on the other night. You are the guys who got him.” He leaned closer to Hank and I. “Whoa, is that where he shot you in the head?” He pointed at the scar over my ear.

  “Mister Lilke, what can you tell us about the van you were driving?” I asked.

  “Not much. I had it for ten minutes before I got stopped while I was trying to grab something to eat. I just bought it—paid the guy six grand in cash.” He slouched back in his chair. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “Too good to be true?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the guy wanted three thousand less than it was worth. The thing has thirty thousand original miles. Is it stolen or something?”

  “Not that we know of,” Hank said.

  “Well, what’s the problem? I was on my way to get it registered.”

  “The sale date on the title of the van was a few weeks ago,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” He shrugged. “I didn’t look.”

  “Well, that’s where the problem lays. The van you were driving could have been used in a nu
mber of crimes. These crimes were committed within the last week. We pulled you over driving the van with a title that says it was sold to you a few weeks ago. See the dilemma here?”

  “I told you I just came from buying it. Check with my bank, I pulled out the cash this morning. I had to call ahead to make sure they had the cash on hand.”

  He was casual. He was either a complete psychopath or innocent. The low mileage and year of the van fit. We needed to see if the guy did.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Working.”

  “At?”

  “The airport. I work the graveyard shift out on the tarmac directing traffic in and out of the gates. The guy with the orange cone flashlights—that’s me.”

  “And someone can verify that?” Hank asked.

  “Fifty or more people. I work every night 10:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m.”

  His alibi would be easy enough to verify. I was betting that the captain was already on the phone with someone over at the airport as we spoke.

  “What was the name of the person you purchased the van from?” Hank asked.

  Lilke shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know what the guy’s name was. The title had a business name on it. I remember that. I think it was some kind of plumbing business. The guy said he was the owner.”

  “Do you have the title on you?”

  “No. The cop took it.”

  Hank excused himself from the interview to go find it.

  “So, Mister Lilke, tell me about the man you purchased the van from.”

  “The man? I don’t know. Taller, a little over six feet.”

  “Continue. Weight, hair color?” I asked.

  “Average weight for his height, I guess. Red hair.”

  “Beard? Facial hair?”

  “No.”

  “Glasses?”

  “No.”

  “Any other physical attributes?”

  “He had a bunch of scars on his head. Kind of like the one you got there, but more.” He rubbed the top of his head. “They showed through his hair.”

  “Notice any tattoos?”

  “Nah, didn’t see anything.”

  “And the place you bought it from?”

  “Warehouse filled with plumbing stuff over in Ybor.”