A Tooth for a Tooth

by Ben Rehder

  Table of Contents

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  © 2018 by Ben Rehder.

  Cover art and digital design © 2018 by Bijou Graphics & Design.

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This one is for Martha Lind,

  a sweet friend and avid reader who will be missed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m lucky to have the best editing and proofreading team in the business, along with friends and family members who provide expert-level input on a variety of topics. Much appreciation to Tommy Blackwell, Becky Rehder, Helen Haught Fanick, Mary Summerall, Marsha Moyer, Stacia Miller, Linda Biel, Leo Bricker, Kathy Carrasco, Naomi West, Martin Grantham, John Strauss, Betty Blackwell, and Tony Turpin. All errors are my own.

  1

  People were stupid. No question about that. What kind of idiot leaves his car door unlocked all night in his driveway? A frigging retard, that’s who.

  Lennox had no qualms about stealing all their shit. They deserved it, basically. It would teach them a lesson, if they had any brains at all. Lock your damn doors. That was the lesson. Don’t be a retard.

  He was using the same method tonight that he always used. Drive out to one of the decent neighborhoods west of Austin—out near Driftwood or Dripping Springs or Spicewood—where each home sat on a couple acres of land. Because the houses were spread out, the neighbors couldn’t really see what was going on next door. Especially when it was two in the morning, when all the idiots and retards were sleeping.

  This particular neighborhood was called Sunrise Vista Estates. How stupid. Marketing bullshit. Lennox had driven around the neighborhood a few days earlier and scoped it out. His ancient Honda Prelude didn’t fit in too well with the newer cars parked in front of the homes, but that was fine. Anyone seeing him drive around at the time probably thought he was there to fix a sink or deliver a pizza. Morons.

  Now, in the darkness, he killed the headlights and continued slowly down a long, straight road, using only the moonlight to guide him. He coasted to a stop on the shoulder beside a vacant lot, tapping the brakes for only a few seconds.

  Then he sat in the Prelude quietly and waited. It was harder than hell, sitting there all fidgety and jittery, but he had to do it. If anyone had seen him pulling over and wondered what the hell he was doing—and then decided they’d come out and investigate, like some kind of neighborhood badass enforcer—they would likely do it pretty quickly.

  Ten minutes passed. The street remained dark.

  Twenty minutes. He wasn’t concerned about the cops. If someone called the sheriff’s office about a strange car in the neighborhood, it wasn’t like a deputy would rush over to check it out. That kind of call was low-priority bullshit. A deputy might not show until morning, or maybe not at all. The sheriff would simply log the call and forget about it unless there was a repeat call about the same car.

  At the thirty-minute mark, Lennox was satisfied that everything was cool.

  He opened his door—still in darkness, because he’d disabled the interior dome light—and stepped out. Closed the door quietly with a gentle push.

  Then he set out on foot, taking quick but light steps on the asphalt. He was wearing dark clothes. Not using a flashlight.

  Most of the homes were cloaked in near-total darkness. No porch lights burning. No lights illuminating the vehicles in the driveways. Perfect, but Jesus, how stupid could you be? Lennox knew for a fact that lights kept people like him away, but some of the retards out here in the boonies were too concerned about “light pollution,” or a high energy bill, or annoying the neighbors, or whatever.

  Lennox had two ground rules. First, he didn’t break into vehicles. The door had to be unlocked. And second, he didn’t mess around with any vehicle that was parked more than forty or fifty feet from the street. That way he could check the doors and get back on the street real quick. Less risk. Easier to haul ass if he had to. Lennox figured some angry homeowner would be less likely to shoot him once he’d reached the street. That was his theory, anyway. Nobody wanted to shoot a prowler and have him die on the street, because you could supposedly get in trouble for that shit.

  Lennox stopped for a moment near a circular driveway in front of a large home built of sandstone. Parked right out front was a white Land Rover SUV. He didn’t know what model it was. He didn’t care. Why the hell would he care? What difference did it make?

  He waited again. Just listening for any noise that might indicate someone was awake inside the home, or in any of the nearby homes.

  But there was nothing. Just the sound of crickets or frogs or whatever that noise was.

  Without wasting any more time, he followed the driveway around to the SUV and went to the driver’s-side door—the side closest to the street—and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. Frigging owner was a retard. Lennox quickly climbed into the SUV and closed the door behind him, to kill the interior lights.

  Now he used the muted light from the screen of his phone to take a closer look around inside the SUV—and he immediately saw some high-dollar equipment. Like a GPS navigation unit mounted on the left side of the dash. He pulled it loose and stuck it inside a plastic grocery sack. Then he grabbed a nice dash cam that was suction-cupped to the inside of the windshield.

  He looked inside the center console and found a wallet. What an enormous idiot. Lennox took a quick glance inside and saw several hundred dollars in tens and twenties. He stuffed the cash into the sack. Left the rest.

  In the passenger seat, underneath a gym bag, was an iPad. Now it was his. He made sure it was powered off and stuffed it into the sack.

  He popped the glove compartment and saw a small silver handgun inside a holster. Lennox paused for a moment. He wasn’t into guns, and in fact he was a little bit scared of them. He’d stolen a couple, but he’d never fired one. This one was probably worth several hundred dollars.

  Just as he reached for it, the porch light of the house popped on.

  Lennox laid his phone flat against his thigh, killing the light, and froze.

  Nothing happened for a full minute. Maybe the person inside was looking out the window, too scared to come outside.

  Then the front door of the house slowly swung open.

  Jesus frigging Christ. Lennox had never been caught before. Not for burglary. Should he jump from the SUV and try to run? If the owner of the SUV had a gun in his car, he probably
had several more inside the house, right?

  After what seemed a very long time, a man appeared in the doorway. Middle-aged dude. Thin brown hair and a paunch. Wearing a blue T-shirt and sweatpants.

  And holding a shotgun loosely in his left hand.

  Lennox didn’t dare move. Despite the porch light, the interior of the SUV remained bathed in shadows. The man with the shotgun probably couldn’t see Lennox. He stood in the doorway for thirty seconds, then raised his right hand and pointed it at the SUV.

  Lennox jumped ever so slightly when the doors locked and the hazard lights flashed once.

  Now his heart was galloping and his palms were beginning to sweat. The gun was right there in the glove compartment if he needed it. Could he do it? Could he shoot someone? He had no idea.

  The man in the sweatpants turned and went back inside.

  The porch light went out.

  Lennox exhaled.

  The hazard lights had flashed just once. He was pretty sure that meant he could unlock the doors from the inside without triggering the alarm.

  He let some time pass. He wasn’t sure how much—at least fifteen or twenty minutes. It was surprising how difficult it was to remain still that long.

  Time to bail. He grabbed the gun from the glove compartment and stuffed it into the sack.

  Took one more deep breath, then unlocked the doors. No alarm—thank God.

  He opened the driver’s door, hopped out, and hit the ground running.

  NINE WEEKS LATER

  2

  I was seated in the waiting room at my doctor’s office—listening to one elderly woman tell another elderly woman in graphic detail about the constipation she’d been experiencing recently—when I received a text from Jonathan, one of my biggest clients. Also one of my favorites. Young guy, but thoroughly competent and detail-oriented. Had a sense of humor, which was a bonus.

  Got time for a case? he asked. He worked in the fraud unit inside one of the largest insurance companies in the world. His job, unlike mine, primarily took place behind a desk. Poor guy.

  You bet, I replied.

  Talk now? he asked.

  I went to the reception desk and let the harried young woman behind the counter know I would be just outside the front door. Could she wave at me if my name was called? The waiting room was nearly full and she didn’t appear too happy to accommodate this special request, but my charm won her over.

  I stepped outside to a gorgeous November day and Jonathan answered on the first ring.

  “If it isn’t the groom-to-be,” he said. “Getting the jitters yet?”

  “My only jitter is that she might come to her senses before then.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t rule that out,” he said.

  “I appreciate the support.”

  “Happy to help. Let me tell you about this case.”

  “Please do.”

  “Okay, back in September, one of our customers hit a pedestrian with his car, and at first it looked pretty cut and dried, but not when I dug deeper. Right now, we have no plans to pay any of the medical bills.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “Something isn’t quite right. The claimant has a colorful history—couple of drug charges, passed some bad checks, had one count of credit card fraud, and—wait for it—he tried to pull a slip-and-fall routine in a grocery store about six years ago. Took several hours to find that one, but, fortunately, I’m damn good at my job.”

  “Despite what everyone says.”

  “That sparkling wit. No wonder Mia loves you.”

  “Indeed. But don’t let me sidetrack you.”

  “Okay, what we’re thinking is that this guy was trying to get hit, and he’s either faking his injuries or he got hit harder than he intended and really did get hurt.”

  “Either way, it’s on him,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said.

  “What injuries is he claiming?”

  “It’s almost all soft tissue stuff—ligament and cartilage damage in his back and hips. Stuff that’s hard to disprove. He did break his right arm, and I would guess that was unintentional, but that’s already healed.”

  “I worked a case where a guy fractured his arm falling off a ladder at home, and he didn’t have insurance, so he went into a Blockbuster and pretended to trip over a loose video on the floor that his wife put there five minutes earlier. Trying to get them to cover his bills. Might’ve worked if the store hadn’t had a good camera system.”

  “What kind of store?”

  “A Blockbuster.” There was a brief silence. “Good God, do you really not know what a Blockbuster was? How young are you exactly?”

  “I think I sort of remember them,” he said.

  A man who appeared to be in his fifties walked past me, coughing from deep in his chest, and entered the doctor’s office. I could smell cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

  “Any chance it happened just like he said?” I said. “Dude was walking down the street, minding his own business, and your guy creamed him?”

  “If that’s the conclusion you reach, then we’ll reconsider.”

  “No pressure, though,” I said. “How’s your guy’s driving record?”

  “Average.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Around nine in the evening. The claimant was jaywalking across Exposition Boulevard.”

  Which was a fairly busy street that ran north-south for about a mile through west Austin.

  “Any witnesses?” I asked.

  I was looking through a window into the waiting room. I couldn’t see the door the nurses opened to call the next patient’s name, but I was keeping my eye on the young woman behind the reception desk and she hadn’t even glanced this way. As far as I could tell, all of the same patients were still waiting. Good thing I’d blocked out the morning. I’d told Mia, who was out of town, that I was getting the tires on my van aligned.

  “One, but she didn’t see much,” Jonathan said. “She looked up right after it happened. Wanna hear something ironic?”

  “It’s what I live for.”

  “This particular customer used to have a dash cam in his SUV, except his vehicle was burglarized about a week before the incident and the camera was stolen. He hadn’t bought a new one yet.”

  “Sucky timing,” I said.

  “Indeed. Would’ve been nice to have video. Anyway, I’ll send you the file, and just let me know if you have any questions. It’s pretty detailed, and if anything important is missing, I know you’ll find it online somewhere in about five minutes.”

  “That’s flattering, but sometimes it takes six.”

  “Anything else you need from me right now?”

  “What’s your customer’s name?”

  “Joseph Jankowski.”

  That name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe I was mistaken. “Okay if I contact him?”

  “Yep. I already told him you might, but be warned that he isn’t the friendliest guy you’ll ever meet.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jonathan lowered his voice. “Dude has a stick up his butt, big time.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” I said. “He should have that removed.”

  “I think it’s permanent,” Jonathan said. “Anyway, his contact information is in the file.”

  “What’s the alleged victim’s name?” I said.

  “Armbruster,” Jonathan said. “Lennox Armbruster.”

  I went back inside and sat down. Ten seconds later a text arrived from Mia. A photograph. She and three of her friends were standing on the beach in bikinis, skin golden, facing the camera, the Atlantic Ocean behind them, shimmering in the sunlight. They were all laughing, and one of the women, Karen, was cover
ing her mouth, as if somebody had just said something entirely inappropriate. Or maybe I was projecting.

  I see three nines and a ten, I replied. Then I added, If I were the type to objectify women in that fashion, which I’m not.

  She didn’t reply right away. Had probably already put her phone away and gone back to her fun—a girls’ getaway to Miami Beach for a week. She’d only been gone for two days, but I missed her so much that I literally felt an ache in my chest.

  How had I gotten so lucky?

  It wasn’t a simple story, but it wasn’t that complicated, either. See, once upon a time, there was this gorgeous woman named Mia Madison who worked as a bartender at a tavern I frequented on North Lamar Boulevard. I suspect some customers stopped in solely because they were smitten with her. Couldn’t really blame them. Mia stood five foot ten in flats. She had lustrous red hair that cascaded to her shoulders and dimples that could make your knees buckle. And to top it off, she was intelligent and witty. Quite a combination.

  Occasionally I would pay Mia a reasonable amount to encourage men—and some women—to lift items they shouldn’t be able to lift, because they were claiming to be injured. Like, say, she might follow a subject to a home improvement store and ask him to lift a bag of concrete. Or wait outside his apartment and ask him to load a bookcase into the back of my van. Worked like a charm ninety-nine percent of the time, and I would surreptitiously record the action on camera, which was usually enough for that person to drop the insurance claim in an effort to avoid criminal charges.

  Of course, all along I knew that Mia was more than a head-turning fraud-buster. She also had the brains and the savvy and the creativity to make a great business partner. So I mulled that over for a while—did I really want a partner?—and when I decided the answer was yes, I ran the idea past her. Despite some initial trepidation, she eventually went for it.

  Did I mention that, by that point, I knew I was in love with her? Head over heels. Lock, stock, and barrel. Plus other clichés. Not just a crush, either. Hopelessly in love. The kind where you don’t realize a traffic light has turned green because you’re lost in thought. Took me a long time to admit it to myself, and just as long to tell her.