“The glove box,” Darren said.
“Yes, and under the seat, behind the seat. Think about your own car and all the crap that falls through the cracks. Gloves anyone?” She reached into her purse and removed plastic gloves. They dutifully put them on.
“I’m going in,” Jeri said. “Darren, you check the back. Lacy, see if you can look behind the seat on the other side.”
“Watch for snakes,” Darren said, and the women almost shrieked.
Half the bench seat was crushed and mangled, and the passenger door was hanging by a thread. Lacy stepped through weeds and managed to get it open. Its side pocket was empty. She saw nothing of interest on the passenger’s side. Jeri gently scraped glass from the driver’s seat and sat at the wheel. She reached over and tried to open the glove box, but it was jammed tight.
Their first pass produced nothing. Jeri said, “We need to open the glove box. If we’re in luck there’s an owner’s manual and assorted paperwork, same as in every car, right?”
Lacy asked, “What’s an owner’s manual?”
“Typical,” mumbled Darren.
Lacy was suddenly hit with a memory and her knees went weak. She gasped and bent over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.
“Are you okay?” Jeri asked, touching her shoulder.
“No. Sorry. Just give me a moment.”
Darren looked at Jeri and said, “It’s her car wreck, the one where Hugo was killed. Not that long ago.”
Jeri said, “I’m so sorry, Lacy. I just wasn’t thinking.”
She stood and took a deep breath.
“We should’ve brought some water,” Jeri said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine now. Let’s get out of here and report this to the FBI. They can handle the search.”
Jeri said, “Okay, but first I want to see what’s in that glove box.”
Parked five feet away was a large Ford with a crushed roof. Darren poked around it and found a torn piece of the left door rocker panel. He twisted it free and eased into the seat of the gray Chevy truck. He jammed his new tool into the damaged glove box but it would not open. He pried, shoved, dug, jammed again and again, but its door would not open. The glove box was partially crushed and locked tight.
“I thought you were stronger than that,” Lacy observed as she and Jeri watched every move.
Darren glared at her, took a deep breath, wiped his forehead, and attacked the glove box again. He finally pried open a narrow gap and managed to snap off the door.
He grinned at Lacy and Jeri and tossed his tool into the weeds. He pulled his gloves tight, then slowly removed a plastic bifold; a brochure for tire warranties; a receipt for an oil change, charged to a Mr. Robert Trager; a AAA solicitation of some variety; and two rusted screwdrivers.
He handed the bifold to Jeri and got out of the truck. The three of them stared at their loot. “Should we open it?” Lacy asked.
Jeri held it with both hands and said, “Odds are Bannick touched this at some time. Odds are he didn’t wipe it down, couldn’t have really, at least not in the past month when he was scrubbing everything else.”
Lacy said, “Let’s play it safe and take it to the FBI.”
“Yes, absolutely. But let’s have a peek first.” She slowly opened the bifold and removed the owner’s manual. Stuffed inside it were extended warranty papers, an old Florida registration card issued to Robert Trager, and two receipts from an auto parts store.
A card fell out and floated to the ground. Lacy picked it up, read it, smiled, and said, “Bingo.”
It was a State Farm insurance card issued to Waveland Shores, one of Bannick’s fronts. It covered the six-month period from January to July of 2013, and listed the policy number, limits of coverage, VIN, and agent’s name. On the back side were instructions on what to do in case of an accident. She showed it to Jeri and Darren, who were afraid to touch it, then placed it back in the owner’s manual.
Jeri said, “I like our odds right now.”
“I’m calling Clay Vidovich,” Lacy said as she pulled out her phone.
They hiked for ten minutes until they saw Herman in his golf cart. He drove them to the front where they checked in with Ernie, who, of course, wanted $10 for the owner’s manual. Lacy bargained him down to $5, to be covered by the taxpayers of Florida, and they left Dusty’s.
An hour later, they were in downtown Pensacola having a soda in the conference room with Vidovich and Agents Neff and Suarez. As they detailed their adventure, two technicians were poring over the manual, insurance card, and other items from the glove box.