Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  That car really is his baby. “So the car’s not normally outside at your house where people can see it.”

  “No.”

  I mused aloud. “Since you kept the car out of sight and not easily accessible at your house, I’m thinking whoever targeted the car must have first seen it when you had it out in public. They might have been keeping an eye on your place and followed you here where they could take it without having to break into your garage to get it.”

  The couple exchanged nervous glances before Gilda looked back at me. “You think someone’s been watching us? Watching our house?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” I said. “I’m just saying it’s possible. It’s also possible the car thief is an opportunist who drives around parking lots looking for targets. There’s been five other classic cars stolen in the area recently. It might be a ring.”

  “Goodness!” Gilda said. “I wish we’d known. We would’ve driven my Chrysler here instead of the Barracuda.”

  “Two of the car thefts were in Raleigh,” I said. “We’re just now piecing things together.” Unfortunately, law enforcement only became aware of trends once enough victims had surfaced that the trend could be identified. “Did you notice anyone who seemed to be trailing you here? Or anyone eyeing the car after you arrived?”

  “No,” Jerry said.

  “Me, neither,” Gilda added.

  “What about someone casing your house? Cruising by multiple times? Maybe jogging or walking past and checking things out?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Jerry said.

  “I haven’t spotted anyone suspicious, either,” said Gilda. “Of course, we’re not out front too often other than when we’re coming and going or getting the mail. We spend most of our time inside or on the screened porch out back when the weather permits.”

  “Do you have security cameras on your house?”

  “No,” Gilda said. “We didn’t see any real need for them. We’ve got two big dogs who bark a lot and would discourage anyone from breaking in.”

  I jotted some notes and asked. “Is there anyone who’s shown particular interest in the car?”

  Jerry and Gilda exchanged another glance before Jerry spoke. “Our neighbor’s teenaged son got his license a few months ago. He asked me if he could take the ‘Cuda out for a spin. I told him the only person I let drive it other than myself was my wife. He seemed so disappointed I offered to take him for a ride in it. We rode around for over an hour. He loved it, kept commenting on how ‘cool’ the car was.”

  “Does he seem like the kind of kid who might steal a car?”

  Jerry shrugged. “Hard to say. He seems responsible enough. He mows lawns for a lot of the folks in the neighborhood in the summers, rakes leaves in the fall. His parents are divorced. His mother’s not around much, but I see boys coming and going from their house at all hours. They sometimes shoot hoops in the driveway, get a little rowdy, play their music too loud. But we can’t fault him too much. Our own boys did the same when they were that age.”

  My teenaged half-brother could get loud and rowdy, too, though he preferred video games to sports. “What’s the neighbor boy’s name and address?”

  Jerry said the boy was Brody Riddle. He gave me the boy’s address, too. “He lives directly across the street from us. Green house with the dogwood trees out front.”

  “Got it,” I said, making a note on my pad. While it was a school day, Brody could have skipped, or maybe faked an illness so that his mother would have let him stay home. I looked up again. “Anyone else?”

  “This might be nothing,” Jerry said, “but I went to a classic car rally in Charlotte back in January. They call it ‘Cars and Coffee.’ It’s held the third Saturday of every month from seven to ten in the morning. It’s a free event. Everyone just pulls up in the parking lot in their cars and shows ‘em off. You get hot rods, muscle cars, sometimes a tricked-out low-rider or two. Anyway, there was a guy there who came over and talked to me for a few minutes. White fella. Introduced himself, asked about the car. He asked to see the inside and he seemed harmless, so I let him sit in the driver’s seat and take a look around.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “No,” he said. “It didn’t seem all that important at the time. But I do recall that he had a bushy beard and dark hair. He was wearing a ball cap and mirrored sunglasses, so I can’t tell you what color his eyes were or anything like that.”

  “What about his build?”

  “Seemed pretty average all around. I don’t remember anything standing out.”

  “Did he say where he was from?”

  “Not that I remember. I didn’t ask. I think he might have asked me, though. I vaguely remember talking about the drive down to Charlotte, that awful construction on Interstate Eighty-Five.”

  “It’s a mess,” I agreed. I’d been down to the speedway myself for the Outlaw Drag Wars, when novice racers were allowed on the track. One of the other Durham motorcycle cops raced his bike there. I’d had a blast. “Is there anyone who might be able to identify the guy you talked to? Did he have a car there?”

  “I don’t believe he had a car at the event,” Jerry said, “but I can’t say for sure. I’m not well connected in the classic car circles. I drove down with a friend. It was the first time we’d done anything like that. We went on a whim after seeing something about it on the internet.”

  I jotted some notes. Average build. Hat. Sunglasses. Dark hair. Bushy beard. It wouldn’t surprise me if the thieves tried to change the car up to hide the fact that it was stolen. It wouldn’t be hard or costly to swap out hubcaps or tires, or add stripes to the paint or even fully repaint the exterior. But they’d likely leave the interior alone if it was in good shape, as Jerry had mentioned.

  My note-taking complete, I slide the pad into the breast pocket of my uniform. “You two got someone to give you a ride home?”

  Gilda frowned. “I hate to interrupt our sons or neighbors at work. I suppose we could figure out the bus routes or call a cab. We’ve never used Uber. Don’t know the first thing about it.”

  I raised a finger. “Let me see what I can do.” I pulled my radio from my pocket and asked whether there was an available officer in the area who could run a courtesy transport.

  Amberlyn’s voice came back over the airwaves. “Be right there.”

  I clipped the radio back on my belt. “Your ride will be here shortly.”

  While we waited for Amberlyn, I told them I’d ask around the medical center, see if anyone saw anything. “Maybe someone happened to see something out the window. I’ll check with security, too, see if we can get their video footage.”

  “Thanks, Officer Sharpe,” Jerry said. “If you can get that car back, it’ll mean the world to me.”

  It would mean the world to me, too. “A detective will be in touch with you in the next day or so. In the meantime, law enforcement will keep an eye out for the Barracuda. I’ve spoken directly with the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department, and Durham PD has issued an alert to all jurisdictions in a hundred-mile radius.”

  Amberlyn rolled up shortly thereafter and climbed out of her cruiser. “Hello, folks.”

  “Hey, Cass.” I introduced her to the Beaumonts.

  Gilda took Amberlyn’s hand in hers and patted the top of it. “Thanks for the chauffeur service.”

  Amberlyn smiled. “My pleasure.”

  I gave Amberlyn a quick rundown of the car theft. “Please keep an eye out and spread the word.”

  She nodded. “I sure will.”

  I opened the passenger and back doors for the Beaumonts.

  Jerry cut his wife a look. “What will the neighbors think when we show up in a cop car?”

  Gilda smiled. “They’ll think these old folks finally did something interesting.”

  His mouth curved in a hint of a smile.

  As Jerry climbed into the front and Gilda eased into the backseat, Amberlyn and I collapsed their walkers and loaded them into th
e trunk. She held out her hand for a fist bump. “Later, ‘gator.”

  I closed my hand and bumped my knuckles against hers. “See ya.”

  Once they’d driven off, I went into the building and asked the custodian mopping the lobby if there was an on-site management office.

  He pointed down the wing to his right. “At the end past the restrooms.”

  “Thanks.”

  I headed down the hall and stopped at the last door. Through the narrow glass panel, I could see a woman sitting at a desk inside the small space. I rapped on the glass—thunk, thunk, thunk. She looked up and buzzed me in. As I entered, she stood to greet me, her face tightening with concern. “Is something going on?”

  “A car was stolen out front earlier.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No,” I said. “The car was taken while the owners were at a doctor’s appointment in the building.”

  She exhaled in relief. “Thank goodness.”

  “Could I take a look at your security feeds?”

  “Of course.”

  She offered me a folding chair and I scooted it up next to hers as she logged into the system. She tapped a few keys and swiveled her mouse to bring the footage up on the screen. “What time should I start the feed?”

  “Ten minutes after ten,” I told her.

  “All right.” She clicked on a box that showed the time and typed in 10:10 AM. Another click and the feed began rolling. Unfortunately, the video quality wasn’t great, the image grainy, but maybe I could still glean something from it.

  At 10:13, the green Barracuda rolled up and pulled into one of the designated handicapped parking spots. Jerry climbed out of the driver’s side, putting a hand on top of the car to steady himself as he circled around to the back. There, he put a key into the lock and opened the trunk. Had I not spent three weeks of my childhood living in a 1978 Pontiac Safari Station Wagon, I might not have known that older cars came with two different keys, one for the ignition and another for the doors and trunk.

  Jerry pulled his and Gilda’s walkers from the trunk, opened one of them up, and used it to balance himself as he shuffled up to Gilda’s door. He helped her out and she grabbed a hold of the walker. Putting his hand atop the car again, he circled back and unfolded his own walker before closing the trunk. The two then made their way into the medical center, side by side.

  A moment later, a white guy appeared at the back of the parking lot, emerging from between two bushes. He weaved through the parked vehicles as he approached the Barracuda. The guy wore an athletic suit in blue and white, the colors of Durham’s Duke University, along with a ball cap and mirrored sunglasses. His face was further hidden by a full beard. A backpack was slung over one shoulder. After taking a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching him, he stepped over to driver’s window. He pulled a metal Slim Jim tool from his backpack and slid the metal shaft down into the door at the base of the window. Two wiggles and one pull later, he got the door open. He slid into the car and closed the door, no longer visible on the screen. A mere forty-three seconds later, the car’s reverse lights came on. This guy’s a pro. He backed out of the parking space and drove off.

  I asked the woman to forward to a time shortly before the Beaumonts had dialed 9-1-1 to report the theft. The screen showed the couple hobbling out of the building. From the camera’s vantage point behind them, we couldn’t see their faces. They stopped moving when they noticed the car was no longer in the handicapped spot. They turned their heads to speak to each other, eyes wide and mouths gaping in shock and dismay. Jerry threw his hands into the air and then put them to his head. When he lost his balance and began to fall, he grabbed the handles of his walker to steady himself. Gilda pulled her cell phone from her purse to call the police. All Jerry could do at that point was stare helplessly at the empty parking spot.

  The other outdoor cameras provided only a glimpse of the Barracuda driving into and out of the lot. The man did not appear on the indoor feeds.

  The woman pulled a thumb drive from her desk. “I can copy the footage for you if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I told her. “The detective assigned to the case will want to review it. But please retain the original video on your system, too.”

  “No problem.” She copied the video and handed me the thumb drive, along with her business card.

  After making the rounds of the medical offices, questioning the available staff, and leaving my contact information with each office, I went back outside and glanced around. There were a few other small businesses nearby. I checked in with them, but none had exterior security cameras, only interior units. Having done what I could at the crime scene, I returned to the station. I gave Captain Carter both the drive and a rundown on my pursuit of the stolen car and interview of the victims. I left out the part where the buck nearly killed me. No one likes a whiner.

  “Good work, Officer Sharpe,” the captain said. “I’ll assign the case to a detective this afternoon.”

  I spent the rest of the day handling traffic matters. Issuing speeding tickets on the interstate. Directing cars around a fender bender near the mall. Citing a semi that was bellowing black smoke. And thinking about Deputy Archer’s gorgeous brown eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Family Dinner

  Near the end of my shift, I rode my bike to the address the Beaumonts had given me for Brody Riddle. Four teenaged boys ran about the driveway, playing a game of two-on-two basketball that involved a lot of illegal shoving and unsportsmanlike conduct. As I pulled to the curb and cut my motor, they turned to look at me.

  I removed my goggles from my eyes and said, “Which one of you is Brody Riddle?”

  A tall, skinny boy with light skin and dark hair raised his hand. He didn’t look much like the guy in the video from the medical center. Brody seemed taller and thinner than the guy who’d stolen the car, and sported only sparse, patchy facial hair. Still, the athletic suit might have made his body look fuller, and he could have worn a fake beard. I’d seen all kinds of costume beards for sale at the Halloween store last year. Long, silver wizard beards. Burly black lumberjack beards. A brown Jesus beard. Even a glue-on goatee.

  I jerked my head in a come-here motion. “Let’s talk.”

  Brody bounced the basketball to his friends and strode over, looking confused but not apprehensive. If he’d stolen the Beaumonts’ car, he’d look a little more anxious, wouldn’t he? Then again, some criminals were good at hiding their emotions, especially the sociopaths who seemed to experience very little emotion to begin with.

  No sense easing him in. I cut right to the chase to see how he would respond to a direct confrontation. “Did you take Jerry Beaumont’s Barracuda for a joyride this morning?”

  His face grew tighter as his confusion seemed to increase. “No. Mr. Beaumont has taken me for rides before, but today was a school day.”

  “The car was stolen,” I clarified. “You know anything about that?”

  “Wait. What?” He looked not only confused now, but distraught. His mouth gaped and his posture went rigid. “Someone took Mr. Beaumont’s car?”

  “Yes. It was stolen this morning.”

  “But Mr. Beaumont fought in wars and stuff. He even got shot! It would be really shitty to steal a car from someone like that.”

  “Agreed. You know how to hot-wire a car?”

  “Hot-wire? Isn’t that a website for hotels?”

  The kid was clueless. He didn’t steal the car, that was clear.

  As realization dawned on him, his expression went from distraught to hurt. “Does Mr. Beaumont think I took his Barracuda?”

  “No.” I raised a conciliatory palm. “Your name only came up because I asked him if anyone had expressed an interest in the car.” I pointed from myself to Brody and back again. “This? This was all me.”

  His features relaxed. “I hope you find his car.”

  “Me, too.” I gestured back to the driveway. “Now get back over th
ere and show your buddies how the game is played.”

  His upper lip quirked in a half smile before he turned and trotted back to the makeshift court.

  Having eliminated Brody Riddle as a suspect, I drove my police bike over to my mother and stepfather’s house. The two had given me and my sister Brie an open invitation to dinner, and we took them up on it one night or two each week. It was nice to see my family and it beat the heck out of having to cook for myself.

  My stepdad worked out front, pruning the dead blooms off the camellia bushes he’d planted at my mother’s request. He was a pale, doughy man, with thick glasses and zero sense of style. He was also the kindest, most caring, and reliable man I’d ever known. I loved him with all my heart and then some. My biological father? Not so much. The only thing I felt for Sam Sharpe was contempt, especially after seeing his sorry face again last weekend. He’d taken off twenty years ago with the cash my mother had earned as a cashier at a grocery store. She’d hidden the money in her shoes, hoping he wouldn’t find it and blow it on whiskey or cigarettes. I’d been just eight years old at the time. My little sister Brie had been seven. As usual, my father had been “between jobs,” an imprecise term that meant he’d screwed up and been fired, yet again.

  When Mom couldn’t make rent, the landlord evicted us from our apartment. My mother’s family had disowned her when she got pregnant at seventeen, and her former friends, unfettered and carefree, had fallen away after she’d given birth to me. She’d had no one to turn to, and too little money to rent a truck to move our furniture out of the place. We’d packed our clothing, toys, and what food had remained in the kitchen into our old wood-paneled station wagon.

  For three weeks, we’d slept in the car, which my mother parked in the lot of a 24-hour pharmacy every evening. During the day, she drove it to her job at the grocery store. With her savings gone, Mom could no longer afford childcare. She gave me a key so Brie and I could get into the car after school, where we’d wait until her shift was over. Mom parked the station wagon in a shady spot at the far end of the store’s lot, where people wouldn’t spot us. She gave us strict orders to keep the doors locked and honk the horn if someone bothered us. We were only allowed to unroll the windows one inch, not enough for anyone to fit their hand through and pull up on the locks. She checked on us during her breaks.