Thief

by Annie Reed

  She couldn't have. Neither could any other woman whose purse he'd stolen.

  "I'm sorry," she said, surprised her voice actually worked. "I thought you were someone else."

  He leaned into her harder. The corners of her Sociology text were digging into her back even through her backpack's padding. "Why don't I believe you?"

  His lips lifted away from his teeth in a sneer -- he was actually sneering at her! -- and she caught a good look at his teeth about the same time the smell hit her. This guy hadn't seen the business end of a toothbrush in far too long. She might not be able to describe his face, but she'd have no trouble describing his breath.

  Provided she got out of here in one piece.

  Why couldn't she just have let it go? She wasn't cut out for this kind of thing, not if the way her legs were threatening to give out from under her was any indication.

  "Please," she said. "I don't know what you thought, and I'm sorry if I--"

  He leaned in closer like he was going to kiss her, and instinct took over. The last thing in the world Abby wanted was his mouth on hers. She squealed and pushed at him with her arms, turning her face away, but he was strong and he had a good grip on both her shoulders. She dropped her hands to the waistband of his jeans, got a good grip, and then held him in place while she rammed one knee up directly into his crotch.

  He cursed her as he dropped to his knees. As soon as his hands were off her shoulders, Abby ran out from behind the bush. She almost collided with Ryan, who'd been running top speed around the side of the Humanities building.

  "It's him," Abby said, pointed at the man writhing on the ground, clutching his crotch. "I still couldn't pick him out of a line up, but I know it's him."

  She said the same thing first to campus security, and then to a Reno Police Department detective by the name of Ed Hastings. Neither of them quite believed her until they found Abby's Walkman in one pocket of the thief's jacket. Abby's mother had had the Walkman engraved with Abby's name and a good luck wish.

  After Detective Hastings had handcuffed the thief and deposited him in the back of a patrol car, he took Abby aside. "I'm going to need you to make a formal statement, but one thing I'm curious about."

  They were sitting on a bench by herself off to one side of the Humanities building. Ryan and Jimmy had both gone on to their next classes only after repeated assurances from campus security that an officer would walk Abby back to her dorm room after the police were done with her.

  "How did you know it was this guy?" Hastings asked. "Out of all the kids up here, you tail someone you admit you never got a good look at, and it turns out to be the right guy."

  Abby explained her theory about the lack of a backpack or books. "I just got lucky." Or unlucky. Her knees were still shaking, and she wanted to swallow about a gallon of mouthwash. For the first time in her life, she was glad her nose was mostly stuffed up from a cold.

  Hastings shook his head. "No, you were good. Not everybody would have put all that together. You might make a good detective, you work at developing that talent you got."

  Abby shook her head. The only abnormal behavior she ever wanted to deal with ever again were the boring case studies in her Sociology textbook. She hadn't decided what she'd major in yet, but she doubted it would be criminal justice. Ryan was one of those people who knew in high school what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, but Abby figured she had plenty of time to figure that out.

  "I don't think so," she said. "I'm not the confrontational type. Today was enough to last me for a long time."

  Hastings shrugged. "Suit yourself. Not all detectives chase down scumbags like that guy. There's all sorts of crooks. Some of 'em wear suits and ties, and the trail's made of paper." He took a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Abby. It had the Reno Police Department logo on it along with Hastings' name and phone number. "You change your mind after things cool down, you let me know."

  She stared at the card. Chasing down a paper trail. She'd never thought about all the different kinds of work police detectives did. She supposed she got all her understanding of the way cops worked from televisions shows, just like Jimmy Fisher. Still, she couldn't see herself in a police uniform.

  She made arrangements to go to the police station to give a formal statement the next day. She said goodbye to Detective Hastings and watched him drive away.

  The campus security officer was the only person left at the scene besides Abby, and he was beginning to look impatient. The students who'd milled around, trying to get a good look at what was going on, had all gone back to their lives. That's what Abby needed to do. Get back to her life. Her twenty dollars and her I.D. were gone, but Detective Hastings said she'd get her Walkman back after the thief's trial. If he went to trial. Hastings said most guys like the purse snatcher took a plea deal. Chances were she wouldn't even have to testify.

  She got up off the bench, nodded at the campus security guard, and headed toward her dorm. The security guard fell into step beside her.

  When they passed a trash bin at the front of the student union, Abby almost pitched Detective Hastings' card in with the rest of the trash, but something made her stop. She shoved the card in the front pocket of her jeans.

  She still had no intention of joining the police force, but you never knew. It might not hurt to have a friend who was a police detective.

  Who knew? Someday it might even come in handy.

  # # #

  SPECIAL BONUS MATERIAL

  An excerpt from the Abby Maxon novel

  PRETTY LITTLE HORSES

  Chapter 1

  The worst part about being a private investigator is learning things I'd rather not know about the people in my life.

  Take Jimmy Fisher. Husband, father, part-time soccer coach. All around nice guy.

  Or so I thought.

  I've known Jimmy since we were both students at the University of Nevada in Reno more years ago than I care to remember. He was really my ex-husband Ryan's friend, not mine, but in the years since graduation, we'd all stayed in town and stayed in touch.

  Reno used to be a small place where you might run into a half dozen people you knew at the mall, an old high school teacher at the grocery store, or an old friend like Jimmy at the movies. Not so much anymore, thanks to the nearly unchecked urban sprawl that saw the town fill the valley and invade the foothills back in the days before the economy went bust. These days, I might run into Jimmy at my daughter's school functions or a soccer tournament. To say I was surprised when he called me out of the blue was an understatement.

  Two weeks before Christmas, I had other things I needed to do rather than meet with an old college friend for drinks, but Jimmy wouldn't take no for an answer. He practically begged. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never heard Jimmy beg for anything.

  I showed up at Currier's Bar and Grill ten minutes late. Traffic in south Reno this time of year was a bitch. Currier's was a stone's throw from one of the biggest malls in town, and Jimmy wanted to meet at five-thirty. I'd been stuck in stop and go traffic with half the valley. By the time I found a parking spot in Currier's lot, I had the beginning of a decent tension headache. Merry ho ho ho. Maybe I should put a sleigh and flying reindeer on my Christmas list.

  Currier's was an upscale, strip mall version of a British pub. Walls paneled in dark walnut, sturdy booths upholstered in burgundy leather, and a long, dark wood bar polished to a mirrored finish. The clientele were mostly young professionals. By the time I got there, the booths and bar stools were filling up with the end of the work day crowd. I guessed not everyone was in the mood for full-body contact Christmas shopping. Either that, or they needed a little fortification before they faced the crowds.

  A flat-screen television behind the bar was tuned to ESPN when I walked in. College football. This time of the year, a Wednesday night game meant it had to be an early bowl game named after some corporate sponsor. I didn't look at the teams or the score. I quit following football the day
Ryan and I split up. I told myself I didn't miss it.

  Jimmy sat hunched in a corner booth nursing a beer. I slid into the booth across from him. I barely said hello before a waitress appeared to take my order.

  "Ice tea, no lemon," I said out of habit.

  July or December, I ordered ice tea without a second thought. Ryan drank, so I didn't. One of those husband and wife compromise things. Even though my eighteen-year marriage was over, I hadn't quite come to terms with the idea that I didn't have to plan my life around his anymore.

  I declined anything off the Happy Hour menu. This wasn't a social visit. I don't conduct business over a plate of nachos or mozzarella sticks.

  Jimmy had peeled most of the label off his bottle of beer while he waited for me. He'd also ignored the chilled glass mug and was drinking directly from the bottle. More than half the beer was gone.

  I didn't wait for my ice tea to get down to business. I was tired and my head hurt, and all I really wanted to do was get home to my daughter.

  "So," I said. "Want to tell me what's so important we had to meet in person?" I'd wanted to discuss whatever had Jimmy tied in knots over the phone, but he'd refused.

  Now that I was here, Jimmy wouldn't meet my eyes. He's a big guy, six four easy -- a full foot taller than I am. Like me, he's in his early forties. His sandy blonde hair was starting to thin at the top, his hairline receding beneath a shaggy haircut that hung over his forehead. He was dressed in work casual -- a forest green sweater over a lighter green silk polo. A sport coat that looked like tan suede but wasn't hung on the hook at the side of the booth. Jimmy worked in commercial real estate sales, but he wasn't a glad-hander like a lot of salespeople I knew. When Jimmy smiled at you, it was with genuine pleasure, and when he shook your hand, it was with a firm grip. Right now he looked like he wanted to fade into the woodwork and disappear.

  "I'm in trouble, Abby," he said.

  That much was obvious. I could have asked what kind of trouble, but I've learned over the years that people need to tell their stories their own way and in their own sweet time.

  Listening was half of what my business was about. Most people would tell you about themselves if you gave them half a chance. Or they'd tell me anyway. Strangers struck up conversations with me in a grocery store or in line waiting for an open teller window at the bank. Ryan used to tell me it was because I had a non-threatening look. I thought it was because I couldn't tell people no. Abby Maxon, woman of marshmallow.

  The waitress brought my tea. I stirred in a packet of the blue stuff, and Jimmy started talking again.

  "You heard about the girl who disappeared, right?" Jimmy said.

  It wasn't really a question. I tasted the tea, grimaced, and ripped open another packet of fake sugar. My spoon clinked against the glass and ice cubes as I stirred.

  "Rachel." Jimmy swallowed hard around her name. "Rachel Ellison."

  I'd heard about Rachel. The local news had carried the story for the last two days. She'd disappeared on Monday. According to the broadcasts, Rachel didn't show when her mother went to pick her up after school. When Rachel didn't come home that night, her mother reported her missing.

  As a mother of a teenage daughter, I paid attention whenever a teenager turned up missing. Kind of like passing a wreck on the freeway and thanking your lucky stars it wasn't you, and hoping like hell it wasn't someone you knew.

  "I knew Rachel as Ellie Mack," Jimmy said.

  He knew her? "Was she one of the kids you coached?"

  Jimmy destroyed the rest of the label off his beer instead of answering me.

  A loud group of business suit types poured themselves into the booth behind Jimmy. Men in their mid-twenties, clean-cut in uniform white shirts and expensive ties, their conversation pegged them as lawyers. Probably associates at one of the large law firms downtown. I didn't recognize any of them.

  Most of my workload involved accident investigations for lawyers and insurance companies. Sometimes I did a little process service or tracked down deadbeat judgment debtors. The work wasn't glamorous or exciting, but I was good at it. It paid the mortgage on the house Samantha and I still lived in, and the rent on the small office I shared with a freelance writer in one of the renovated mansions downtown near the Truckee River. The writer worked nights; I worked days. We rarely saw each other, which worked out just fine. Both our jobs were solitary professions.

  Jimmy glanced over his shoulder at the young lawyers. When he looked back at me, he seemed to hunch in on himself. He lowered his voice so only I could hear him. "The cops are going to come after me," he said.

  I quit stirring my tea. "You have something to do with her disappearance?"

  "No!" Jimmy looked around to see if anyone had heard him besides me, then he lowered his voice again. "No, I don't. But they're going to think I did."

  I got a heavy feeling in my belly to go along with the headache. He was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear. The last time I'd felt this way was when Ryan told me he wanted out of our marriage. When he told me he'd been sleeping with someone else, and this time it was serious.

  I took a sip of tea I didn't really want anymore. The second packet of the blue stuff made the tea too sweet. The lawyers next to us ordered a couple of pitchers of beer, and someone at the other end of the bar shouted at the television.

  Jimmy couldn't seem to look me in the eye. He stared at the pile of shredded label, but I didn't think he was really seeing it. His face had taken on a hollow, haunted look.

  "You have to understand," Jimmy said. "Ellie -- Rachel -- whatever she called herself--" He took a deep breath, seemed to try to fortify himself. "I just wanted to be with her, you know?" He raised his head. It looked painful, like he was making himself look at me even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. "But I swear to you, Abby, on my daughter's life, I didn't know she was only fifteen."

  Chapter 2

  Jimmy and my ex met in college. High school jocks, both of them. Neither one was good enough to last long playing college football, but that didn't stop them from playing everything else. From throwing a Frisbee on the quad between classes to softball in the nighttime leagues sponsored by Reno Parks and Recreation, Ryan and Jimmy played them all. They snow skied at Mt. Rose in the winter and water skied on Lake Tahoe in the summer. They played touch football with the frat boys. They golfed when they could afford it and played tennis or basketball on the university's courts when they couldn't.

  Me? I went along for the ride. I had fun watching the boys enjoy themselves, and besides, Ryan looked damn fine in tennis shorts Good old Abby, Ryan used to say. What a good sport. And I had been where Ryan was concerned, back then.

  When Ryan left me last spring for a younger, more athletic girlfriend who just happened to work in his building, Jimmy was one of the very few of Ryan's friends who didn't treat me like a pariah the next time he saw me. The memory of that kept me from walking out on him now.

  Barely.

  "Fifteen?" I said. Jesus. "What the hell were you thinking?" Was he even thinking? My own daughter was fifteen years old. The mere idea that someone Jimmy's age wanted -- what? sex? -- with a fifteen-year-old girl made my stomach turn.

  "It's not like that," he said, his voice urgent. "I love her. I--"

  "Love? She's fifteen, Jimmy. Give me a break."

  "Wait." He started to reach across the table for my hand, but stopped halfway. If he had touched me at that moment, I think I would have slapped him. "You've got to hear me out," he said.

  "Give me a good reason."

  "Terri." Terri was Jimmy's thirteen-year-old daughter. "If this gets out, it's going to destroy her. I don't want her hurt like that. You know how kids are."

  How kids are. Yeah, Jimmy, I know. Do you? The irony of his remark seemed lost on him.

  "Maybe you should have thought of that sooner," I said.

  Bringing the issue around to Terri was the one thing he could say to get me to stay, and he knew it. Like any good salesman,
he knew what would close the deal, and he hadn't hesitated to use it.

  Thirteen-year old girls thought life was impossibly hard. I had gone through that phase with Samantha, although for her, it had been interrupted by a harsh dose of reality that showed all of us exactly how hard life could really be.

  "I was stupid, okay?" Jimmy said. "But it's not like that, not what you think. I never even met her in person."

  "What?"

  "On the Internet, I met her on the Internet." He dropped his gaze again. "We've been talking on the computer for months now."

  Good god. My own daughter had an Internet browser open on her computer every night while she did her homework. Her desk was in the family room where I could keep an eye on her. Or at least I thought I could. Was she having conversations with some guy like Jimmy, someone she thought was a kid like her?

  I turned away from Jimmy and looked out the plate glass windows at the front of the pub. Currier's had decorated for Christmas. Strings of colored lights blinked on and off around the windows to frame the world beyond the bar in Christmas cheer. The street was still clogged with traffic, red brake lights and bright headlights lighting up the night. A half hour ago I might have thought the decorations were cheery. I didn't now.

  Out there people were going on with their lives, heading toward the mall for a little Christmas shopping or just stuck in traffic on the way home to their families. I should be on the way home to my own daughter. What was Rachel Ellison's mother doing? Was she sitting at home waiting by her phone, scared and angry and frustrated with the need to do something to bring her daughter home? Or was she out there in the night, trying to find Rachel herself?

  I settled back in the booth and looked at Jimmy. I'd hear him out. Not for him, but for his daughter. For Rachel, and for her mother.

  Jimmy stopped the waitress and ordered another beer. While he drank the second one, he told me his story.