Truman studied the picture of the car Claber had taken on his digital camera. A red Ferrari, 2007. Silver pinstriping. But it wasn’t the car that held his attention. It was the license plate number. “Did you have any difficulties getting the address?”
Claber gave a quick shake of his head. “No. The police department in Montreal was happy to help us.”
Truman nodded. He kept most of his agents spread out, but Montreal was a big city, and it was right next to Victoriaville. He practically ran the Montreal police force. “And my flyer?”
“Printed in the Toronto Star.” Claber dropped a half-sized sheet of paper in front of Truman.
He scanned it. “Who's number is this?”
Claber grinned. “Officer Fayande.”
Truman recognized the name of the officer who had been to the house the day before. Fair enough. Truman put down the flyer. “Are the police going to the address right now?”
“Two of our own agents are going.”
“Excellent.” Truman stared at the door to his study. The barren walls mocked him. Nothing. Nothing to show for his life. He felt hollow and empty. Empty, like the safe downstairs. Well, that was only half-empty. He needed to start planning his next raid. But he couldn’t focus. He needed to find those girls. Sara. That necklace. The Carnicero’s daughter. The freedom they would bring him.
The phone rang and he snatched it up before it finished. “Yes?”
“Truman? Officer Fayande speaking.”
The man’s thick French accent slurred his words. Truman considered offering to speak in French, then decided against it. Let the other man trouble himself. “Did you find the residence?”
“Yes. The vehicle belongs to Christophe Coton. We found him at home, just returning from work.”
Truman glanced at his desk clock. Ten forty-five blinked at him in digital lines. Christophe must work at night. “And the car? The girls? Were they there?”
“No, sir. He borrowed the car to his girl, Nathalie. We got her address. He also had her cell phone.” A smug note entered Fayande’s voice. “We’re tapping it now.”
“Of course.” Truman didn’t congratulate him. He trained his men. If they entered a house, they bugged the phones. If they got a cell phone number, they intercepted the calls. He had an agent who owned a call center in Alberta. All of the tapped lines were digitally recorded and emailed to Truman on the hour. Something this urgent would be sent every ten minutes. “Are you on your way to Nathalie’s house?”
“Yes. We will be there in twenty minutes.”
“If she’s not there, find out where she took those girls.”
“Hopefully to the police,” Fayande said, and he and his partner laughed loudly across the phone lines.
Truman waited. Their laughter faded off. “Keep me informed.”