“Maybe fourteen miles, I guess,” he said.
Finlay nodded gently. “Before that?”
“For sure,” he said. “Get your ass up to Beckman. Right now. Stay there. I’ll organize Picard. You don’t leave until he shows up, OK?”
“A guitar player who died sixty years ago? Why? Are you a guitar player?”
“He seems to,” she said. “Finlay’s got him acting as a kind of a lookout. Should we get him involved?”
“Could be the one,” I said. “Say he rented it Thursday evening up at the airport in Atlanta, full tank of gas. Drove it to the warehouses at the Margrave cloverleaf, then somebody drove it on down here afterward. Couple of gallons gone, maybe two and a half. Plenty left to burn.”