Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  The area quickly became rural as it approached Jordan Lake, the road littered with dry pine needles and the spiky balls that fell from the Sweetgum trees. I rode as fast as I dared, knowing deer occasionally darted across the roadways here. A deer was dangerous enough to the occupants of a car, but a run-in could easily be deadly for someone on a motorcycle.

  I was passing the cutoff for Farrington Mill Road, when I glanced to the left and spotted the back bumper of the Barracuda disappear around a bend a quarter mile down. Once again I slowed and whipped a U-turn to continue my pursuit. Seconds later, I passed the sign marking the end of the the Durham city and county limits. I radioed my current position to dispatch. “Get me backup from Chatham County!” I was in the sheriff department’s territory now. It was only polite to invite them to the party.

  A minute later, a large white SUV approached from the other direction. The Chevy Tahoe sported black and burgundy stripes and the sheriff’s department gold star, the lights on top twirling and twinkling. Surely the deputy hadn’t inadvertently passed the Barracuda. The bright green paint job would be impossible to miss. Has the car turned off somewhere into the woods?

  I was slowing to rendezvous with the deputy when movement on the edge of the woods ahead caught my eye. An enormous buck strode out of the trees. The area’s deer had recently undergone their annual antler shedding, but this buck already sported a surprisingly well-developed set of new velvet-covered nubs. It looked as if two gnarled hands were reaching up from the top of his head, both of them extending the middle finger in a rude gesture. Buck you. The big beast would likely be a twelve-point buck come fall.

  I slowed a little to give him time to finish crossing the road. But instead, he stopped on the road, his long body blocking the entire lane. He turned his head to face me and raised his chin in challenge.

  NOOO!

  I braked as hard as I dared and whipped my handlebars. But I’d whipped them too far too fast. Physics kicked in, taking my bike down onto its side and pulling me with it. Momentum carried my motorcycle over the damp dead leaves and pine needles along the shoulder. As I slid along the shoulder, hanging onto my bike for dear life, I prayed I wouldn’t hit a tree and become road kill.

  Either the gods or my guardian angel must have been looking out for me. I slid to a stop, lying on my side atop the damp, natural debris that had broken my fall and absorbed my energy. My bike remained clenched between my thighs as my heart pounded like a piston in my chest and my blood roared in my ears like wild water rapids. The buck trotted safely across as the SUV rolled up on the opposite shoulder. The deer stopped at the edge of the woods and looked back at me as if to say These woods belong to me and don’t you forget it.

  A deputy leapt from the vehicle. He wore black pants and a tan shirt paired with a black tie and campaign hat. Leaving his door open, he rushed across the road, his face in shadow from both the shady woods and the brim of his hat. “Sweet Jesus! Are you all right?”

  By then, I was leveraging my bike to a stand. I toed the kick stand to hold it up and took stock of myself and my motorcycle. Miraculously, other than some smudges of moist dirt and leaves, neither seemed worse for the wear. Sliding across the ground had given me a minor wedgie, though. I glanced up at the deputy for the first time, and felt a hot buzz rocket through my system. Fortunately, this hot buzz was far more pleasant than the one I’d experienced during the police academy, when our training officer had given us a zap with a Taser so we could experience firsthand the power of the weapon. I reached up, pulled off my helmet, and shook out my hair. “I’m fine.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re a woman?”

  Clearly, he hadn’t gotten a good look at me before. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him, either. We’d both been too agitated, moving too fast. I removed my goggles and replied, “One-hundred-percent biker chick.”

  He stopped gaping and stood up taller. “Sorry. I’ve just never met a female motorcycle cop before.”

  The deputy had removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. Like the graceful yet homicidal deer, the officer had broad shoulders, long legs, and a natural athletic masculinity. He also had deep brown eyes with gorgeous bronze flecks. I could stare into these eyes forever. To his credit, his eyes were focused on my face, not my chest. Being a total hypocrite, I shifted my attention from his chiseled facial features to his firm pectoral muscles, which were at eye level with me. How tall is this guy? Six-feet-two? Three? The name tag positioned over his left pec read ARCHER. Lest my sudden surge of lust be obvious, I looked down again and brushed the dirt off my uniform. “Did you see the Barracuda, Deputy Archer?”

  “No,” he said. “It must have turned off somewhere before we met up. All I saw was that big buck until I saw you. Come fall, he’ll have quite a nice rack.”

  I’d been told more times than I could count what a nice rack I had. Seeming to realize he’d uttered an unintended sexual blunder, the deputy averted his eyes and pulled his radio from his belt to contact dispatch. “We need available units to scour the area around Farrington Mill and Farrington Point Roads,” he said. “Be on the lookout for the green Barracuda. Can we get a chopper in the air, too?”

  Dispatch came back a few seconds later. “The chopper’s on its way.”

  With any luck, the helicopter or one of the other deputies would spot the car and the driver would be taken into custody.

  Deputy Archer gestured to the shoulder beside us where I’d wiped out. “That was an impressive move. Did you slide like that on purpose?”

  I snorted. “Nobody lays their bike down on purpose, trust me. If they tell you they meant to do it, they’re lying.”

  He cocked his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “So I shouldn’t be impressed then?”

  “Oh, you should be impressed,” I said, brushing off my badge. “But not by that.”

  The grin spread his lips into a smile, and damn if it wasn’t a sexy one.

  I looked off down the road. “My captain told us in roll call that there’s been a rash of classic cars stolen in Durham and Raleigh recently.”

  The deputy’s head bobbed in acknowledgement. “Seems I heard something about that.”

  I thought aloud. “I wonder if the thieves have been taking these back roads on their way to South Carolina, or maybe even farther south to Florida or Georgia.”

  “Could be,” he agreed. “Cutting through here would be a good way to avoid the freeways and interstates where they’re more likely to get caught.”

  Automated license plate readers had been installed along many of the major arteries and were a useful tool for law enforcement in tracking vehicles, but the cost of the systems meant they couldn’t be put in place along all roadways. They were rarely used in rural areas.

  Still, while automated trackers were likely rare in Chatham County, the sheriff’s department would have plenty of officers on the roads who might have noticed something, including the deputy standing before me. “Have you noticed an unusual number of classic cars coming through the county recently?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Don’t recall any of the other deputies mentioning it, either.”

  I mulled things over some more. It was possible, maybe even likely, that the thief driving the Barracuda had come this way only because I was in pursuit and turning on Stagecoach Road had seemed to offer the best chance of escape. He could have ended up in Chatham County by pure happenstance, rather than because of a preconceived plan.

  A whup-whup-whup told us the helicopter was approaching. Our gazes shifted to watch the chopper as it stopped and hovered farther down the road, high enough that it should be able to see for a good distance on a clear day like today.

  A voice came over Deputy Archer’s radio, probably the chopper’s co-pilot as the pilot would be busy operating the aircraft. “We’re not seeing a green Barracuda. Which way did you say it went again?”

  “South, as far as we know,” the deputy replied.

  “Ten-four.”

  The
chopper made a small circle and banked to head in the other direction, gaining altitude as it went, probably to give the two men inside a wide view of the roads. We waited a minute or two in anticipation, expecting the pilot to report a sighting at any moment.

  When no word came in, Archer frowned and tried his radio again, speaking to the guys in the chopper. “You boys in the air got anything?”

  A voice came back. “Yeah. Squat.”

  The deputy exhaled sharply in frustration. “The thief couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.”

  Or could he? I glanced around at the thick woods, thinking how easy it would be to conceal a stolen car among the trees where even a helicopter or camera-mounted drone wouldn’t be able to see through the canopy of leaves. We’d assumed the car thief would still be on the move along one of the county roadways, but maybe we were wrong. “Maybe the thief ditched the car around here somewhere.”

  “If that’s the case,” Deputy Archer said, arching a brow and giving me a pointed look, “that means this is a matter for the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Not necessarily,” I countered. “We Durham cops gets dibs on anyone nabbed in a hot pursuit.”

  “True, but only if you catch them.” He rocked back on his heels and raised his hands palms up. “You didn’t catch anyone.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Touché.” Okay, so I wouldn’t get credit for an arrest made by the sheriff’s department. That was all right with me. I wasn’t in the law enforcement game for gold stars. I was in it to prevent people from doing other people wrong, and to make the bad guys pay when they did. I’d seen my mother done wrong, more than once and by more than one person. I’d do what I could to keep someone else from suffering the way she had.

  I gestured to his radio. “Ask if they see anyone walking on a roadside.” If the thief had ditched the car in the woods, it was possible he was making an escape on foot.

  Archer repeated my question over the airwaves. “See anyone walking on a roadside?”

  The voice from the chopper came back again. “All we see are some guys launching a fishing boat at the lake, golfers on the greens at the Governors Club, and trees, trees, and more trees.” In other words, the usual sights.

  Archer’s gaze assessed me as I clipped my helmet onto my bike and wrangled my loose locks back into submission in a messy bun. “You mentioned other stolen cars. What makes and models?”

  I racked my brain. “An Aston Martin, a Bel Air, and a Chevy Charger. Can’t remember what year models exactly, but all were before 1970.”

  He nodded. “I’ll spread the word, tell everyone to keep an eye out.”

  “We’d appreciate it.”

  “In the meantime,” he said, “I’ll escort you back to the Durham County Line.”

  I donned my goggles and helmet again, and slid him some side eye. “I can find it on my own.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “I just want to make sure you know your place.”

  Know my place? I was about to tell the guy off when I noticed the mischievous gleam in his eyes. He’s only teasing me. No need to get my panties in any more of a wad than they were already in.

  I climbed onto my bike. “Take care, Deputy Archer.”

  “You, too, Officer Sharpe.”

  A-ha! So he had looked at my chest. Or my nametag, at least.

  As Deputy Archer returned to his SUV and climbed inside, I started my motor and made a slow and careful turn to head back to Durham. True to his word, the deputy followed me back to the county line, giving me a short blast of his siren in goodbye. I returned the sentiment with a raised hand and a couple toots of my bike horn. Beep-beep!

  Chapter Four

  Victim Statement

  I checked with dispatch and got the phone number for the car’s owner so I could meet up with them and take a statement to include in my report.

  A woman answered when I called. I explained who I was, and asked, “Are you back at home?”

  “No,” she said. “We’ve been waiting at the medical center. We hoped y’all would catch the thief and bring our car back to us.”

  I cringed. Victims sometimes expected quick resolutions, but real-life law enforcement moved much slower than in TV and movies. “We did our best,” I told her. I’d risked my life, in fact. But no sense whining about it. “The car seems to have disappeared in the woods. Even the chopper couldn’t spot it.”

  “Y’all sent a helicopter up?”

  “We did.” I didn’t mention that it was a Chatham County Sheriff’s Department chopper. They’d likely be stealing credit for busting the car thief soon enough, despite the fact that I’d chased him into their hands. Why not let my department enjoy some credit? “Can I come get a statement from you?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We’re on the bench by the doors.”

  “I’ll head right over.”

  A few minutes later, I pulled my motorcycle into the medical center parking lot. An elderly black man and woman sat on a bench by the automatic doors that led into the building. The man wore khaki pants and a T-shirt bearing the U.S. Marine Corps logo. His face sagged. Ditto for his wife’s. She wore slacks and a pink sweater set and clutched a small purse in her hands. Twin walkers stood in front of them.

  I parked my bike in an empty spot and approached them, extending my hand. “Good morning. I’m Officer Shae Sharpe.”

  They stood and shook my hand.

  “Jerry Beaumont,” the man said by way of introduction.

  “I’m Gilda,” the woman added.

  I whipped out my note pad and took a seat on the bench beside them. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Gilda glanced at her husband and patted his hand. “I’ll tell her, dear.” She faced me, her forehead lined with worry. “We just had a visit with his cardiologist. It’s best if he stays calm.”

  Jerry chuffed. “Someone stole my car and I’m supposed to stay calm?”

  Gilda cast an anxious glance at her husband before turning back to me. “That car was his baby.”

  “Bought it brand new,” Jerry added proudly, staring off in the distance as if visualizing the moment he’d purchased the car all those years ago. “Right off the showroom floor. We’d scrimped and saved for years to get it. I’ll never forget the feeling when that salesman put the keys in my hand. I kept it in pristine condition, too. Washed and waxed it regular, kept the chrome shined. When the upholstery showed signs of wear and tear, I had the seats recovered. Same for the dashboard. The interior was immaculate.”

  “He even found a lime-green tire gauge that matched the paint.” Gilda glanced over at her husband and offered a sad smile. “We had to sell the car in ninety-two. Jerry came back from Desert Storm with a bum leg and two bullets in him. The bullets were too close to his organs for the surgeons to safely remove them. He got a medical discharge from the Marine Corps, but it took a while for the disability benefits to kick in, and they weren’t nearly as much as he was earning beforehand. I had to take time off from my job to care for Jerry while he went through physical therapy and recovered. The only way we could make ends meet was to sell the Barracuda.”

  Jerry shook his head. “Worst day of my life.”

  That was saying a lot considering he’d been shot and rendered lame in a war.

  Gilda patted his hand again before returning her attention to me. “Eventually, when things settled down and we got our finances sorted out, we contacted the car collector we’d sold it to. Once we’d told him our story, he agreed to sell it back to us.”

  “For three grand more than he’d paid us for it,” Jerry muttered. “He’d put a bunch more miles on it, too.”

  “Look on the bright side, honey,” she told him. “At least the Barracuda was ours again.”

  He threw up his hands. “And now it’s gone! Who knows if we’ll ever find it.”

  Gilda slumped, defeated. Tears filled her eyes and her lips quivered. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. We just got some ba
d news from the doctor. The lead from the bullets are causing some trouble, and Jerry’s ticker’s getting worse.”

  He looked at me, his eyes dark with despair. “I probably won’t see that car again before I die. The odds aren’t good, are they?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I didn’t want to lie to the man, but I didn’t want to give him false hope, either. The other stolen classics hadn’t been located, and we had no real leads other than the location where the Barracuda had last been seen. My heart twisted inside my chest. The car thief hadn’t just taken a piece of property, he’d taken Jerry’s sense of self worth, a primary source of pride and joy for a sick man whose remaining days on earth could be numbered. I’ll find the missing Barracuda if it’s the last thing I do. “I can’t promise we’ll find your car, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen. Okay?”

  He nodded and his wife offered a weak smile. “That’s all we can ask.”

  I readied my pen. “What time did y’all arrive here?”

  “Jerry’s appointment was at ten-thirty,” Gilda said. “We got here about fifteen minutes early.”

  I jotted the time on my pad. “Any idea who might have taken the car?”

  The two shook their heads. “No idea at all,” Jerry said.

  “Does anyone else have keys to the vehicle?”

  “No.” Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring, holding it up for me to see. “I’ve got my key here and Gilda’s got the only spare.”

  His wife reached into her purse and pulled out her keys, holding them up as well. Looked like I could rule out stolen keys.

  “Where do you normally park your car at your house?” I asked. “In the garage, driveway, or street?”

  “In the garage,” Jerry said. “Covered by a custom tarp.”