by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Eighteen
I LEFT MY truck parked next to my parents’ garage and took the 300. Dad’s navigation system helped me make it to Lee’s apartment in record time. Before I could get out, my phone vibrated. It was vibrating almost continually at that point. I may as well have kept it in front of my face. Screening wasn’t working out for me.
“Hello,” I said.
“I got a bead on that guy,” said Uncle Morty. “Name’s Emil Roberts.”
“Already? That was fast even for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want the info or what?”
“Did you get his address?”
“I got his home and work addresses. No connection to Lincoln, but he has a record. A harassment charge five years ago. Pled out with community service and he had an indecency charge in the eighties. He got a couple of months for that one.”
“The eighties? How old is he?”
“Forty.”
“That’s a juvie record. Wasn’t it sealed?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Never mind. Roberts sounds promising. What do you think?”
“Worth an interview,” Uncle Morty said, just before he hung up on me.
Worth an interview? Definitely.
