Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft

by Catherine Nelson

  “Please, don’t worry about me so much,” I whispered and stood up.

  “Could I talk you into coming back to bed?” he asked.

  “You’re half asleep, and I’d be poor company. Something’s bothering me; I need to do some digging.”

  “I’m willing to bet I could provide adequate distraction.”

  I was certain he could, and it sounded inviting, but if I got distracted, I might lose my current train of thought regarding Dillon. And time was running out.

  “Get some sleep,” I said again and left.

  I went into the office and switched on a lamp, then I pulled Dillon’s file out of my bag. I dropped it to the desk and sat down. For the first time since receiving it, I read the thing front to back. It didn’t really contain the details of Dillon’s life I was looking for. And it only listed the charges against her; it didn’t give details about the case.

  I used my laptop to log into Sideline’s database remotely, then I searched for Danielle Dillon’s case file. I found it and began reading. In May of this year, Dillon had been arrested for assault, battery, and property destruction. She’d gotten into a physical altercation with a man named Jeremiah Vandreen outside his place of business, First National Bank, on Harmony and Timberline. Vandreen reported she’d been waiting for him when he left work and began attacking him when he got to his car. After basically beating the snot out of him, she proceeded to damage the car, an expensive Porsche. She’d done several thousand dollars’ worth of damage by the time the police got there. She’d attempted to flee on foot but was apprehended within a few blocks.

  She didn’t say a word at any time upon being arrested. At twenty-eight, this arrest was her first as an adult. The report made mention of several arrests as a minor, but those records had been sealed when she turned eighteen. It would take a lot more digging to discover what those arrests had been about. And I wasn’t sure it was relevant.

  I ran a quick credit check on her, finding very little. There was a bank account, opened when she was seventeen, and while the account was still open, no transactions had been processed in several years. There was only one credit card to her name, but it had a zero balance and no charges had been made for almost four years. She didn’t own a home or a car, and she wasn’t listed on a lease anywhere, ever. Something I know about people is this: everyone lives somewhere and everyone spends money. The fact that I could find no traces of her doing either led me to one conclusion: she wasn’t going by the name “Danielle Dillon” at present. And if I had to guess, she hadn’t for quite some time.

  I opened Google and searched her name. Nothing of relevance came back, aside from a hit for the Fort Collins Coloradoan. I opened the article and read it. It gave the account of the arrest of Martha Porter, Danielle Dillon’s grandmother, after fatally shooting a man named Wayne Dillon sixteen years before. There weren’t many details. I searched the archives for the name Martha Porter and found additional articles, which reported Porter had been acquitted at trial. Very few details helped shed light on the circumstances of the murder or the reason for the acquittal. Also, I was unclear on her exact connection to Wayne Dillon, because the paper made no mention of their relationship.

  Back in the Sideline database, I searched both “Martha Porter” and “Wayne Dillon.” There were no results for either. But that only meant Sideline had never handled any of their bonds or investigations. It didn’t mean there was nothing to find.

  I’d lost track of time until Ellmann came into the office. A look at my watch told me I’d been working for several hours.

  Ellmann leaned over the chair behind me, his hands on the armrests, and kissed my neck.

  “How’s the digging coming?” he asked between kisses.

  “As usual, I only have more questions now.”

  “Is that something still bothering you?”

  “Yes.”

  But I didn’t care quite as much now. What he was doing to my neck caused little currents of excitement to shoot through my body. And it was hard to think straight.

  “That’s too bad,” he said, standing up. “Guess I’ll leave you to it.”

  I quickly stood and threw my pen on the desk.

  “It’s going to have to wait.”

  7

  The next morning, I was fixing myself a cup of coffee when Ellmann came downstairs. His hair was wet from the shower, and he smelled delicious. He walked over and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Want to have breakfast with me?” he asked as he trailed kisses down the side of my neck.

  My thoughts were momentarily hijacked, and it took a moment before I could get them back.

  “Uh, I wish I could. But Sam wants me to have another MRI. They were able to squeeze me in this morning.”

  “Perfect,” Ellmann said, getting a travel mug from the cupboard and pouring himself some coffee. “I’ll go with you. We can eat afterward.”

  I leaned a hip against the counter and looked up at him. “Not that I’m not interested, but don’t you need to get to work?”

  “There’s no rush.”

  “What about the task force? Are they just gonna wait for you?”

  “Maybe I’m not on the task force,” he said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Ellmann is an asset and they know it, even if they don’t always appreciate his antics. Unorthodoxy and occasional rule bending were a small price to pay for consistent results. And if this case was as big as it seemed to be, they needed all the results they could get.

  “If you piss off whoever’s in charge …” I watched his face carefully from behind the mug as he took a sip of steaming coffee. I saw something flash briefly in his eyes, and I smiled. “You sly dog. You’re in charge.”

  He was smiling as he set his mug down. “Technically I’m just lead coordinator. The FBI is in charge.”

  “Congratulations. I’m proud of you. And, it’s overdue.”

  “The captain only selected me because I caught the Caroline Marks case; no one else in the department was working any related cases. And he was clear that if I fuck it up, I’ll be back in uniform for a year.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Not a year, no. But long enough to make my life miserable.”

  “What a sweet guy, your captain.”

  “Anyway, I gave out assignments last night. With the FBI swarming, I’m in no hurry to get back.”

  We got into Ellmann’s navy blue Dodge Charger and motored over to the hospital on Lemay. It being eight a.m. on a Saturday morning, the parking lots were largely deserted, and the halls were tomb-like. Even some of the lights were off.

  Ten minutes after checking in, a pretty, sweet technologist came and fetched me from the lobby. And just in time. A family of four children, all under the age of six, was being inadequately supervised by an elderly woman in a wheelchair I assumed to be Grandma. The receptionist had even switched the TV to cartoons, but that only added to the noise.

  Mackenzie, I remembered, had done my first MRI. She’s five-five, and today she wore Rockies scrubs. She has blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair with blonde highlights. She smiles easily, laughs freely, and radiates kindness. I like her and think that, under different circumstances, we could be friends.

  “Welcome back,” she said with a grin when she arrived in the lobby. “Nice to see you, though I’m sorry it’s here. Oh, are you okay? What happened there?” she asked, indicating the bandage.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Just a couple scratches. Hey, how’s your son?” Better to change the subject than have to elaborate.

  “You remember that?” She laughed. “Oh, that flu bug was awful. Poor little guy was sick as a dog for a week. And my husband got it. They’re both fine now. Actually, my son just started walking.”

  “Wow. That’s exciting.”

  “Until he starts running away.” She laughed. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Better,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She looked around me when I stopped
next to her. “Would you like to come with us?” she asked Ellmann, who had remained seated.

  Two of the children streaked in front of him shrieking. He jumped up.

  “That’d be great,” he said.

  Mackenzie glanced over my paperwork as she led us down the hall.

  “Has anything changed since your last MRI?” she asked. “Have you had any surgeries or anything?”

  “Nothing’s changed. No surgeries.”

  “Great. Well, you probably remember, the machine is very loud. And it’s important to lie still, because the machine is very sensitive to motion. We’ll set you up with some music, and you’ll be done in about thirty minutes. Do you have any questions?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  She smiled then swiped her name badge in front of a keypad on the wall. The door at the end of the hall swung open, and we followed her in.

  An office stood in front of us, open on both sides with large windows overlooking the scan rooms as well as the tiny lobby we’d entered. On either side, a large door opened to a scan room, where the hulking machines were visible beyond. To the right, two chairs were available for those waiting—all that the space could afford. On the left were two dressing rooms.

  One of the dressing room doors opened and man stepped out. He had long white hair and a shaggy white beard. His gut hung over his belt, and he looked a lot like a trucker, whatever truckers look like. A tall blonde guy dressed in dark green scrubs emerged from the office.

  “All right,” the blonde said. “Are you ready?”

  “Think so,” the trucker answered.

  “Great. And everything’s out of your pockets, right? You took off all your metal?”

  The trucker patted his rear and nodded. “Yeah.”

  He walked toward the blonde and followed him into the scan room. I could distantly hear the blonde talking to him about his study.

  “All right,” Mackenzie said, pulling open the second dressing room door. “Come on in. You can put your stuff down in here. Are you wearing anything metal? Doesn’t look like it.”

  “No. I came prepared.”

  She laughed. “Great. Drop off your bag, and we’ll get started.”

  She moved toward the office then turned back to address Ellmann.

  “Go ahead and have a sea—”

  Suddenly there was a giant crack. It sounded a hell of a lot like a gunshot.

  Several things happened simultaneously.

  I immediately pulled the Sig Sauer 9mm out of my bag and hurried to the wall of the office. Ellmann drew his weapon. Mackenzie gave a small cry of surprise and confusion. And there was an audible grunt, as if from pain, from inside the scan room.

  “Out! Get me out!” A male voice. Slightly panicked.

  Ellmann was moving cautiously toward the scan room. I rounded the corner and grabbed Mackenzie, shoving her behind me.

  “How many people back here?” Ellmann asked her.

  I reached the office door and swung my weapon left. The office was empty. Through the window, I could see the other scan room was also empty. There wasn’t anyone else in the area.

  “Clear,” I reported.

  “Copy. How many people?”

  Mackenzie tried to answer, but it was just a croaking sound. I shot a glance at her over my shoulder as I fell in beside Ellmann again. She was too stunned to speak.

  “Everyone all right in there?” Ellmann called as we moved toward the scan room where the trucker and the blonde had gone. The shot had to have come from in there.

  When we got nearer to the doorway, the blonde suddenly caught sight of us out of the corner of his eye. He swung around and threw his hands up.

  “Whoa! What the hell? You can’t bring those in here!”

  The trucker was lying on the table. His upper body had been in the machine, but the table was sliding back out. Neither of them held a weapon, and neither of them appeared injured.

  “Get him up,” Ellmann said, his deep voice commanding.

  “Okay, okay,” the blonde said, his hands still up. “But you can’t bring those in here. The magne—”

  “Don’t worry,” Ellmann said, tipping his head at the open door. “I can read your little sign here.”

  A giant red sign affixed to the door read caution! the magnet is always on! It was kind of a no-brainer that magnets and guns didn’t mix. Which meant the sound we’d heard was likely not a gunshot at all.

  The table stopped, and the trucker sat up. He jumped when he saw Ellmann and me in the open doorway and threw his hands up.

  “I didn’t know!” he cried. “Don’t shoot! I didn’t know!”

  “Both of you, walk out here. Now.”

  Both men complied. (Ellmann had that effect.) A quick pat-down confirmed neither of them was packing a gun. Ellmann and I both relaxed.

  “What the hell was that?” Ellmann asked, slipping into don’t-lie-to-me cop mode.

  “I didn’t know!” the trucker cried again. “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Know what?” Ellmann asked.

  “He had something on his belt,” the blonde said. “Something metal. When he got up to the magnet, it pulled it in. It was something heavy; that’s why it was so loud.”

  “I didn’t know! It was a Leatherman. I carry it on my belt. How could I know that would happen?”

  “Did you think this was just decoration?” I snapped, smacking a hand against the sign. “Don’t you know how magnets work? Or were you confused when he asked you about removing your metal? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I did ask you to take off your belt,” the blonde said.

  “I didn’t think it mattered,” the trucker said. “It’s just a belt.”

  “What do you think now?” I asked. “Think it matters?”

  __________

  “You guys cops?”

  Mackenzie had found her voice again.

  “Yes,” I answered, pointing at Ellmann.

  “Close enough,” Ellmann answered, pointing at me.

  Mackenzie looked between us, eyes still slightly wide. “Right.”

  The trucker was moping in a chair beside the door. The blonde had called another man from the x-ray department, and the two were currently struggling to get the Leatherman free from the machine. Because the magnet was three times stronger than the ones used to pick up cars in junkyards, and because the Leatherman weighed infinitely less than a car, there was doubt about their success and a lot of swearing. Unfortunately, turning the magnet off wasn’t an option.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I grabbed you,” I said to Mackenzie. “I thought it was a gunshot, and you were totally exposed.”

  “It scared me,” she said. “That sound. I didn’t know what it was. I just froze.”

  “Scared me too.”

  She glanced at the trucker, but she just looked sorta sad for him. This was what made her such a nice person. When I looked at the trucker, it was not pity in my eyes.

  “You reacted so quickly,” she went on. “Both of you. That also surprised me.”

  “Reflexes,” Ellmann said gently.

  For him, that was true. Mine was instinct. I’d been shot at too many times to wait around for confirmation of a threat. And being so recently traumatized, my instincts were that much sharper at the moment. It was slightly embarrassing, knowing now it was a gross overreaction. But I’d take embarrassment over death any day. I could recover from that. I was less likely to recover from death.

  Mackenzie didn’t say much else, but by the time the exam was over, she was smiling again. The trucker was gone from the small lobby, and the door to the second scan room closed, the sound of the machine audible beyond. Apparently the Leatherman had been successfully removed, and the trucker was getting his MRI after all.

  Ellmann and I grabbed breakfast at Silver Grill Café and coffee from Dazbog on Cherry Street (my favorite Dazbog store) before he dropped me off back at home. He’d been overly curious about my plans for the day and asked me twi
ce to promise to check in with him frequently. Taking the path of least resistance, I promised.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, I set out again. But my morning didn’t get much better. Dix was at the top of my to-do list. So far, he’d cost me my cell phone, my favorite pair of jeans, a perfectly good pair of shoes, and embarrassment in front of my archnemesis. All for a lousy five hundred bucks. It was time to put an end to this thing with Dix.

  I envisioned an easy capture, preying on a hungover twenty-year-old college student on summer break at ten o’clock in the morning. With any luck, he’d still be in bed. I hoped to trap him in his bedroom. Of course, he did have a fondness for windows. Still, I liked my chances.

  What I found at Dix’s house was a far cry from a post-drunken stupor of a morning. I wasn’t sure why I continued trying to follow this plan. It hadn’t worked any better with Dix than it had with Dennison yesterday morning.

  Dix’s yard and the one next to it were full of swimsuit-clad bodies, lawn chairs, coolers, and a kiddie pool filled with what I could only identify as vegetable oil. Two girls in bikinis were in the pool, slipping and sliding with each other, while the others looked on, cheering. It was their home version of mud wrestling.

  I spotted Dix among the onlookers, a beer in his hand, cheering one of the girls. I parked the truck a block away and pocketed the cuffs and a canister of pepper spray. I have a stun gun my friend Sadie gave me after I’d been kidnapped and shot, but I don’t often carry it. In order to use it, I need to be within an arm’s reach. I’m already pretty good at defending myself within an arm’s reach. Amy had been teaching me karate since we were kids. She held several black belts, so I felt confident in my skill. And after what happened six weeks ago, I’d resumed our lessons.

  What I really needed was a tool I could use from a distance, and I thought I might get in trouble if I went around shooting people. Pepper spray was a good alternative. It had some distance to it, and it was usually pretty good at disorienting people long enough for me to catch up to them. There was always the risk of exposure when using pepper spray, but I’ve been in my fair share of trouble; I’d been sprayed more than once. It still stung like hell, but it wasn’t disorienting to me anymore. Fortunately, the air was still this morning.