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can to a Camaro parked on the street, shoves the TV in the back seat, gets in the passenger seat and the car squeals off.”
    “He get the plate?”
    She shook her head. “Just the color and that there was a dent in the rear bumper. So the witness goes into the house and sees the TV missing and some things tossed around. He waits for his friend, the victim, to get home. When the victim gets home an ho ur later, they both hop in the victim’s car and start driving around looking for this dark blue Camaro.”
    “So?” I asked.
    She smiled. “So, they found it.”
    “No way.”
    She nodded firmly. “Yes, they did. They started driving around to all the pawn shops and right there on Monroe Street, the witness spots the Camaro pulling out of the parking lot of one.”
    “How’s he know it’s the same car?”
    “Same color,” she said. “Same guy in the passenger seat. And when they start chasing the car, same dented bumper.”
    I considered that. “Pretty solid ID in my book.”
    She agreed. “They chase the guy, calling 9-1-1 and racing all over the north side until they lose him. But this time, they got the license plate.”
    “Good plate?”
    “Came back on a 1987 Chevy Camaro, dark blue in color. Registered to Tony McDonald, right here in River City.”
    I sipped the coffee. “You talk to him?”
    “I called him up and he didn’t know a thing.”
    “Why didn’t you bring him in?”
    “He works construction in Wenatchee. Only comes home a couple times a month.”
    “On the weekend?”
    “Right. So I put a little pressure on him. I told him that his car was involved in a burglary and I needed to find out how. He stammers a bit and then tells me this tale about loaning his car to some guy.”
    “How convenient.”
    “I thought so, too. He says he was visiting his friend over at White Oaks apartments when some guy asked him to borrow his car to go get milk for his family. He’s such a giving guy that he just tossed this total stranger the keys to his Camaro.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “The guy took the car and was gone for several hours. He didn’t notice anything strange about the car or the guy when he eventually brought it back.”
    “Did you find out who his mysterious friend was that he was visiting?”
    “I did. Dennis Kroft.”
    “He’s a real person?”
    “Yeah, he is. I looked him up in the computer. He’s had a couple of misdemeanor pops, but nothing serious. And he does live at the White Oaks.”
    “Did he alibi up McDonald?”
    She nodded.
    “Backed up McDonald’s story?”
    “Backed it up exactly.”
    “Exactly?” I raised my eyebrow at her.
    “Exactly. Not one variation. Even gave the same vague description of the guy who borrowed the car.”
    “So they talked.”
    “Pretty sure of it.”
    I rubbed my chin briefly and realized I hadn’t shaved that morning. I’d have to avoid Crawford as much as possible.
    “You’ve got to break his alibi,” I thought out loud.
    “I’ve got zero leverage on him,” she said.
    “You’ll have to bluff him a little.”
    Katie grimaced. “I don’t like to bluff.”
    “It’s really all you’ve got. I mean, you could sit around and hope to get a hit on the TV, but I doubt that’ll happen. And if you don’t have a lever of some kind when you interview McDonald, he’ll never roll on whoever his buddy was.”
    “Probably not.” She smiled and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
    “Any time. Nice to work for a few minutes on something where nobody died.”
    Katie chuckled and walked away. “Enjoy your coffee.”
    I shook the paper cup. It was almost empty.

Tuesday, April 13th
Davenport Hotel Lobby, Early Afternoon
VIRGIL
     
    I found a pay phone in the lobby of the Davenport and used a pre-paid card to make the call. It was answered on the second ring.
    “Bobo’s House of Chicken,” the thick voice said.
    “Jay, its Virgil. Tell the old man to call me back.”
    “Alright,” Jay said. “What’s