“Here.” Jack separated the duck from the rest of puppy things he’d brought in with him, and tossed the duck across the floor. Seeing a new target, and one that was evidently running from him, Midas abandoned Morrison’s shoes and bounced after the duck. When he captured the escapee, he gave it a hard shake, then tossed it over his head and pounced again.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy apologized. “I just got him yesterday, and he’s only six weeks old, so I couldn’t leave him alone, especially not knowing if whoever was looking for me might hurt Midas if he couldn’t find me.”
“Yes, ma’am, some folks are mean,” the detective agreed. “It’s best to be safe. Tell you what; since you have the puppy, I’ll bring the mug shots in here for you to look at. That way he won’t get too excited, seeing a lot of people at once.”
“That’s a real good idea,” Jack said, grabbing the duck before Midas could get to it, and tossing it again. His black eyes bright with glee, Midas bounced and pounced, then dragged the duck back to Jack and dropped it at his feet.
“Well, look at that,” said Morrison, marveling. “Didn’t take him long to catch on, did it?”
Jack was still throwing the duck when the detective came back, his arms laden with pages of mugshots. Entranced with the game, Midas ignored Morrison’s return.
Daisy settled at the desk with the photographs in front her, for the first time realizing the enormity of the task. This wasn’t a matter of looking at fifty pictures, or even a few hundred. There had to be thousands of them, and the photographer seemed to be particularly unskilled, because the photographs could scarcely have been more unflattering to the subjects.
She closed her eyes and pictured the three men she’d seen, then picked out the most distinctive face: long, narrow, with prominent brow ridges. He’d had long, dirty blond hair and long sideburns, a distinctly unappealing style. Hair could be changed, though—she was an expert on that—so she disregarded that and concentrated on face shapes. She could also automatically disregard anyone in a minority. By adapting the system she’d learned in a speed-reading course, she began skimming pages and turning them at a faster clip, occasionally pausing to study a face and then move on.
After fifteen minutes, Midas lay down on her feet to take a nap. Daisy stopped to glance down at him, and Jack used the opportunity to ask, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? A soft drink?”
“I don’t recommend the coffee,” said Morrison.
Daisy shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Morrison said, “Then I’ll leave you to it. I have some calls to make, so I’ll borrow an office and check back when I’m finished.”
Minutes ticked by, marked only by the soft swish of the pages as she turned them. Midas eventually roused, and Jack took him outside. When he came back, with the puppy prancing on the end of the leash as if he’d done something wonderful, Jack said, “It’s time for lunch. You need to take a break.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said absently.
“I am.”
She looked up in amusement. “You ate four times what I did at breakfast.”
“Which is why you need to eat. If I’m hungry, you have to be.”
“In a little while.” She turned her attention back to the pages, blinked, put her finger on a photo, and said in a positive tone, “That’s one of the men.”
The man’s hair was shorter in the photo, but his sleazy sideburns were still long, the color was still dirty blond, and the Neanderthal brow ridges hadn’t changed.
Jack briefly studied the photograph, said, “I’ll get Morrison,” and disappeared out the door.
Daisy sighed and gently rubbed her eyes. One down and two to go. The other two wouldn’t be as easy as this one, either, since he was the most distinctive of the three.
Morrison came back on the double and looked at the photograph Daisy pointed out. “George ‘Buddy’ Lemmons. I know this joker. We’ve had him on B and E, assault, robbery, vandalism. He’s another bottom-feeder. He usually pairs with . . . ah, hell, what’s his name?” He went out of the office and they heard him call down the hall, “Hey, Banjo, you remember Buddy Lemmons? We got him for wrecking that old lady’s house over on Bob Wallace last year. What was the name of the other perp?”
“Calvin . . . something Calvin.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Morrison came back into the office muttering, “Calvin, Calvin.” He sat down at his computer and typed in the name. “Here he is. Dwight Calvin. Is he one of the other men?”
Daisy went around and looked at the photograph on the computer screen. “Yes,” she said positively, studying the slight, dark-haired, big-nosed man.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I haven’t seen anyone who looks like the third man, though.”
“It would help if we had Sykes’s first name, but we’ll pick up these two birds and my guess is they’ll start singing. Buddy and Dwight aren’t big on taking the fall for anyone else. In the meantime, Miss Minor, where will you be?”
“At home,” she began, but Jack shook his head.
“Until this is settled, I’m checking her into a hotel, and I’m not telling anyone where she is—not even you, Morrison. If you want to get in touch with her, call my cell phone, because that will be the only contact.”
TWENTY-TWO
Just where are you planning on stashing me?” Daisy asked when they were in the car. “I have the puppy with me, remember?”