"Pruitt? Got your bulletin. Your green stripe."
Wade sat up. "Yes sir."
"Storage lot off I-10 in Moss Point. Manager read your sheet and remembered a fella rented one of their big outdoor bays four days ago, cash, said he had a bass boat. Manager walked down there this afternoon. It ain't a bass boat." The sergeant sounded like he was enjoying himself. "White skiff, green stripe. Paint's still tacky in the sun, you can smell it from the road. Somebody scratched it with a key or something by the console, and guess what's under there."
"Navy," Wade said.
"Navy blue. Ninety on the back with the serial ground off, but they never get all of it. Trailer's galvanized. Got two empty paint cans in the bow with some writing on the lids, looks like Chinese or something."
"Vietnamese," Wade said. "It's the owner's name. The man they took it from."
"Huh. I thought the owner was a Vance."
"Different owner," said Wade. "Different theft. Who rented the bay?"
The sergeant rustled paper. "Name on the agreement's 'John Smith,' which, you know. Manager says young white guy, skinny, twenties, ball cap, kept rubbing the back of his neck. Paid for a month in cash. Gave a phone number that's the same prepaid as your tip line, if you want to know the truly stupid part." He paused. "Gate's got a keypad that logs every code. Same code came in at 2:10 this morning and went out at 2:35. Like somebody came by to check on his paint job."
Wade wrote it down. His hand was perfectly steady. He watched it write as if it belonged to someone else.
"You know who it is," the sergeant said. It was not a question. Twenty-some years of police work had gone into the way he didn't ask it.
"Yes sir. I think I do."
"Want us to sit on the bay?"