Chapter 35

Sharon Chapin let Lewis know that she had been hired to sell Davids’ house, and told him that Davids had left town. Lewis was as disappointed as Chapin to hear that Davids had gotten away before they proved that he killed Sharon’s daughter; on the ride to Davids’ house two hours later, they agreed be up front and tell Russ Kirvin what Davids did and who they were, in hopes that he would give them all the information he had about Davids. The only people who were going to bring Davids to justice were them. Maybe Kirvin had a heart and would help them.

Kirvin selected Chapin to be his agent because everyone in town knew about Chapin’s daughter being killed in a hit and run accident. He knew that the family was wealthy; it was a stroke of good fortune that she was a realtor and their paths would now cross. He thought it unlikely Chapin was going to find Davids but he was going to help her any way he could. For a price.

“You’re right, the house is ready to be shown. You’ve done a nice job fixing it up,” Chapin told Kirvin after the three of them took a tour through it.

“Yeah, thanks. Say, aren’t you the mother of that young woman who was killed by that hit and run driver? Now that I see you in person you look like the woman I saw on TV. Plus, you have the same last name. That was a real shame.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for saying so, but it’s much more than that. It’s a crime done by a coward, and I, we, Mr. Lewis and I, won’t rest until the killer is found.”

“I don’t think I can get in trouble for telling you, but the police were here asking questions about the owner of this place, Mr. Davids, in regards to your daughter’s death. I told them I knew nothing about that.”

Lewis and Chapin both knew what he was getting at. It was Chapin who said it. “We need your help finding Mr. Davids. I’ll pay you for anything you can tell us that will do that.” Then she threw him a curve, one that she and Lewis hoped would appeal to his ego. “Unless you want to come with us and find him. There will be a lot of news coverage for whoever does—the type of coverage that is worth much more than I can pay you.”

“If I go and we don’t find him, do I get paid?”

“It depends.”

“If I don’t go, I want $5,000 for my information.”

“Don’t think about not going. I’ll give you $2,000 if you go, but only $200 up front. If you help us find him, you get the remaining $1,800.”

“I thought I’d get a lot of money if I told you.”

Lewis was unable to contain his contempt. “Most people would give the information freely, to us and the police. We’re talking about a despicable coward who killed someone. You know, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to say the hell with you, we’ll find him on our own.”

“I can’t help the cops, and no you won’t.”

“What’s your answer?” Chapin asked. She knew he was right; they wouldn’t find him on their own.

“Who’s going to sell the house?”

“I’ll put a lockbox on the door so any realtor can show it.”

Beats working for a living.

“When we leaving?”

“In two hours. We’re going in your truck. Go get it gassed up,” Chapin said, handing him $100. “I’ll pay the travel expenses.”

Davids was back on the road, heading north to Burlington, Vermont and from there to Montreal. The ride up route 89 was likely going to be boring, but it looked to be the most direct. Two things kept him feeling a little jittery. One was the black car that seemed to have been following him since he got back on the road after lunch; the second was would the border agents recognize him?

For the first problem, he slowed down from 85 mph to 65 and the car blew past him; for the second, nobody in the restaurant spotted him. He was confident that no one would recognize him at the border crossing either, his fake license was that good. He lit a joint, opened a window, and set his cruise control to 65. He’d be at the border in less than an hour.

“We might be wasting time and money, but we don’t have much of a choice,” Chapin was saying to Lewis.

“No, we don’t. The odds of finding Davids by ourselves are poor, and maybe not a lot better with him. He is shifty, at best. Don’t let him get you alone. Want to know something? I should have let Davids call the police when I stopped at his place—I think the Mustang was there.”

“Don’t torture yourself. All the police could have done then, if they believed you, was ask Davids to let them look around. He would have said no, and that would have ended it.”

“Maybe they could have gotten a search warrant before he got rid of the car.”

Chapin smiled the soothing smile mothers make when they reassure their child that, in spite of mistakes made, things will be all right.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Chapin watched as a friend of hers drove her car away. Turning, she saw the two men waiting by the truck. Kirvin appeared flustered. Lewis explained that they had a conversation and he was certain that Kirvin understood that any holding back of information or any foot-dragging on the way would be most unwelcome. When Lewis showed Chapin the handgun he was carrying, she nodded in understanding but kept her feeling of uneasiness to herself.

“I think he’s headed to Canada,” Kirvin said. “He left in a van and must be worried someone will spot him, so he’s moving fast. I was the only one who knew he’s in a van; now you do. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going, just somewhere no one knows him.”

Kirvin seemed to have given them valuable information.

“Find the most direct highway route to Montreal on the GPS. Based on what you said, we don’t think Davids will travel the more direct local roads because of the longer time it takes. We have three drivers, so we can be on the move while he’s forced to rest once in a while. What color is the van?” Lewis asked.

“White. It’s a 2015 Ford Transit. Nothing on it to make it stand out. It’s loaded down with all his stuff so if he took the back roads that would slow him down more.”

“Do you know the license plate number?”

“Yeah.”

“Stanley, I think we should contact the police.”

Lewis looked at Kirvin, who put up both hands, palms facing Lewis, and said,

“Hey, I haven’t held anything back since we got on the road. Yeah, I know what he looks like, what he’s driving—hell, I bought it for him—the license plate number, all kinds of stuff. And, like I said, he’s loaded his stuff on the van, including all his car painting stuff. Maybe he’ll drive straight through to where he’s going or maybe he’ll pull off somewhere and paint the van a different color. So if you’re gonna call the cops, tell them that the van was white but might be any color by now. My guess is black.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna call the cops,” mimicked a sarcastic Lewis. “They can access closed-circuit TV recordings along the route we think Davids is taking to see if a vehicle matching his has passed by. If one did, they can look closer to see the license plate number and the driver. What’s the name of the policemen who visited you?”

“Mercher and Jamieson.”

“Jamieson, the father of that little girl?”

“Yes.”