Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  One evening, Mom walked me and Brie down the block to play in the park. We’d tired of being cooped up in the car for hours every day. When we returned to the pharmacy, our car—our home— was gone. The store manager told Mom the parking lot was for customers only, and that he’d had our car towed.

  We took a bus to the outskirts of town, then walked for what seemed like miles until we came to the tow lot where our car had been taken. My mother pleaded with the greasy-haired man in the rusty trailer that served as the lot’s office. She didn’t have enough money to pay the exorbitant towing fee. I remember the guy dangling Mom’s car keys from his fingers, giving my mother a scary smile, and saying “Maybe there’s another way you can pay.” Mom followed him into another room, fear and shame in her eyes as she closed the door behind her. A few minutes later, she’d burst out the door, keys in hand, and hollered for me and my sister to follow her to the car. She’d sped out of the place, tires spinning in the gravel, a cloud of dust in our wake.

  She’d driven to a fast-food joint, where she took us to the ladies’ room. She’d washed her hands with steaming hot water for ten minutes straight, scrubbing them raw and using all the soap in the dispenser, as if she couldn’t get clean. Her fingers were pink and pruny when she finally gave up.

  When we left the burger place, she’d driven to the grocery store. She feared she’d lose her job if we were found sleeping in our car there overnight, but she didn’t know where else to go. Early the following morning, just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, we were awakened by a rap-rap-rap on the driver’s window, which my mother had covered with newspaper. She peeked around it to see the store manager, Mr. Yancey. She’d climbed out of the car to speak with him. Brie and I spied on them from behind the newspaper in the back window. We saw Mom cover her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving as she cried. Mr. Yancey frowned in concern. He held up a set of keys, just like the man had done the night before, but Mr. Yancey’s accompanying smile was soft and sweet, not scary at all.

  Next thing we knew, Brie and I were eating corn flakes at Mr. Yancey’s kitchen table and giggling while his cat tried to lap milk from our bowls. Our mother and Mr. Yancey spoke to two police officers in the front yard. Mr. Yancey frowned again at something the officers said, but it was a different kind of frown from earlier, an angry and frustrated frown. My mother burst into tears again, and the police left.

  Our stay at Mr. Yancey’s was supposed to be temporary, only until Mom got back on her feet. My sister and I were enrolled in an after-school program at our campus, no doubt paid for, at least initially, by Mr. Yancey. Mom made dinner for the four of us every night, and Mr. Yancey insisted on helping her with the dishes afterward. My mother tried to keep me and Brie corralled in the guest bedroom so we wouldn’t invade Mr. Yancey’s space any more than necessary, but he invited us to watch television with him in his living room. He even let us pick the shows we watched. He put up a swing set in his backyard. He bought us bicycles and helmets, and taught us how to ride the bikes, running alongside us as he held us up. Once I’d mastered how to balance and maneuver on the bike, I was unstoppable, racing up and down the street at breakneck speed. Riding my bike made me feel free, as if I by going fast I could outrun our family’s problems, leave them in my dust.

  Over time, my mother began to laugh more often than she cried, until I could no longer remember when I’d last seen her shed a tear. Mom finally saved enough for us to move out and rent furniture. Except we never did. By then, something had developed between my mother and Mr. Yancey, despite the sixteen-year difference in their ages. My biological father had never officially married my mother, so no divorce was necessary. Mom married Mr. Yancey at the courthouse, with Brie and I serving as witnesses. Six years later, to their delight, Mom got pregnant with my half-brother, Jacob.

  My stepfather turned and smiled as I walked up. “Hey there, Shae.”

  “Hi, Dad.” Unlike my biological father, this man had earned the title. I gave him a kiss on his soft, pliable cheek. “How’re things going?”

  He beamed. “Jake earned straight A’s on his report card again this term.”

  I feigned a scowl. “Show off.” My stepdad didn’t fall for the ruse. We both knew how proud I was of my little brother. Brie and I had more street smarts than book smarts. Jake was the opposite. He might know the Pythagorean theorem, but he had zero situational awareness. I’d once had to snatch his wallet back from a pickpocket downtown. Too bad I wasn’t wearing the badge at the time or I would’ve arrested the robber. I was glad Jake’s life had been safer and simpler than mine and Brie’s, that he’d had the luxury of not having to learn survival skills.

  Dad tucked the pruning shears into the bucket he’d been using to collect the spent blooms and removed his gardening gloves, laying them on top. “Let’s go see what your mom’s cooked up for dinner.”

  We went inside and ventured into the kitchen, where we found my mother stirring spaghetti sauce at the stove. Noodles boiled in another large pot beside it.

  “Smells great,” I told her as I gave her a peck on the cheek, too. “How can I help?”

  “Want to get the garlic bread ready?”

  “Sure.” I washed my hands and set about slicing the Italian bread and brushing it with olive oil and garlic. After I slid the cookie sheet into the oven to brown the bread, I said, “I’ll round up Jake.”

  I found my baby bro in his bedroom, which looked like it had taken a direct hit from a bomb. Dirty clothing was scattered all about, hanging from the back of his desk chair and doorknobs. Snack wrappers littered the floor and his desktop, along with dirty plates and glasses. His bedcovers and sheets were tangled in a crazy twist atop his mattress. The room bore the funk of garbage and teen-boy testosterone. They don’t call it adolessence for nothing.

  Jake lay back in a specially designed video gaming chair with a headset on, talking trash to his friends over the internet. “You doofus! You just shot me! I’m on your team, idiot!”

  Like his father, Jake was pale-skinned, but he’d somehow managed to stay thin despite an utter dislike of physical activity. Credit the high-speed teen-boy metabolism. I stepped up behind him, reached down, and snatched the controller out of his hands, pushing buttons as fast as my fingers could move. Six seconds later, his avatar lay dying, having taken an abundance of laser fire from green-skinned aliens.

  “You suck at this game.” Jake reached a skinny arm up to grab the controller back out of my hand.

  “Nice to see you, too.” I ruffled his hair affectionately. Once he’d informed his friends he was going offline, put the device down, and removed his headset, I wrapped him in a tight bear hug. Having immobilized him, I bent him over and ran my knuckles back and forth over his head, giving him the noogie treatment. What were kid brothers for if not to torment?

  “Stop that!” he hollered.

  When I released him, I held up my hand for a high five. “Way to go on your report card, dude.”

  He slapped my hand, hard, and said, “Dad said if I make straight A’s the rest of the year, I can go to summer camp at the Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama. How cool is that?”

  “So cool.” Jake would be the first human to set foot on Mars, mark my words. “Dinner’s ready. Wash up.”

  I returned to the kitchen, where my stepfather was setting the table. Brie had arrived while I was rounding up Jake. Brie was a slightly shorter, slightly less busty version of me, with a much better haircut. Her golden hair had been styled into loose curls with fashionably frayed ends. I didn’t bother much with my hair most days. There was no point given that I’d end up with helmet head. Brie worked for a local pop radio station, performing a variety of administrative tasks and selling advertising time in between.

  Her eyes brightened when I walked in. “Hey, Shae.” She stepped over to give me a hug. “What’s new with you?”

  I wanted to tell her I’d seen our father, arrested him no less, but I didn’t want to mention it
in front of our mom. I settled for saying, “Not much,” which, sadly, was true. My life had become relatively routine. “What about you?”

  She grinned. “I got a promotion!”

  Mom looked over her shoulder from the sink, where she was draining the pasta. “That’s wonderful, hon.”

  Brie filled in the details. The station manager had finally agreed to put her on the air during the 6:00 AM to 10:00 AM time slot. She’d provide traffic reports every half hour, more often during the morning commute. “I’ve already decided what my catch phrase will be. ‘Roll on, Raleigh-Durham!’”

  “That’s wheelie good,” said our stepfather, the grand master of bad dad jokes.

  Brie, Jake, and I groaned in unison. Mom, always supportive, giggled girlishly.

  Jake pointed a finger at her. “Don’t encourage him, Mom.”

  We took seats around the table, lay our napkins in our laps, and began the process of passing the food around until everyone had filled their plates. We made small talk over dinner, simply enjoying each other’s company.

  Dad looked at me and Brie. “Either of you know someone looking for work? One of my suppliers is short a loader.”

  “I’ll put the word out,” I said. Maybe one of the Dangerous Curves knew someone who needed a job.

  “Me, too,” said Brie.

  While we were on the subject of our jobs, I told them about the classic cars that had been stolen, about Mr. Beaumont and his Barracuda.

  “Shoot,” Dad said. “Stealing a car from a war veteran is about as low as it gets.”

  As a cop, I knew things could get much lower, but there was no sense in pointing out this fact and bringing everyone down. “I was right on the thief. Chased him into Chatham County but he got away. Turned off somewhere in the woods.”

  Jake raised his glass of lemonade. “What do you think the thief is going to do with the car? Use it for parts?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But the car is more valuable intact.”

  “He can’t very well drive it, though,” Dad said. “If he was spotted in the car, he could get arrested. Maybe whoever stole the car is a collector.”

  Brie wiped her mouth. “What’s the point in keeping a car you can’t even drive anywhere?”

  Seeing Jake was out of bread, Mom sent the basket his way again. “Without a title, the thief couldn’t sell the car to someone else, could he?”

  I passed the bread to my brother. “I don’t see how. Not in the U.S., anyway.”

  Durham, North Carolina was a long way from the border. While cars might be stolen in states like California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas to be sold south of the border, it would be stupid for someone to nab a car here with the hopes of driving it all the way to Mexico without getting caught. Of course, they could hide the vehicle inside a semi, I supposed.

  We wrapped up the meal, exchanged another round of hugs and kisses, and parted on the porch with pleas from my mother to come back again soon. Brie and I headed out to our vehicles. As soon as I heard the front door latch behind us, I said, “Guess who I arrested last weekend?”

  She stopped walking and looked up in thought before running through a litany of famous North Carolinians, starting with a local from Chapel Hill. “Clay Aiken?” she asked, referencing the former American Idol contestant on which she’d had a hopeless crush back in the day.

  “Nope. I can’t really see Clay Aiken in a fight, anyway. He seems like too nice a guy.”

  “There was a fight, huh? It had to be Sugar Ray Leonard, then.”

  “Nope.”

  She cocked her head. “Zach Galifanakis?”

  “It’s nobody famous.”

  “Give me a hint, then.”

  “We share his DNA.”

  Her head jerked back like she’d been slapped. “I hope you beat him with your nightstick.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, especially when he said I looked like our ‘nagging bitch’ of a mother.’”

  She shook her head. “I’m glad you didn’t tell Mom. It would have only upset her.”

  “On the bright side,” I said, “I’ve realized the jerk did us all a favor. If not for him walking out, we wouldn’t have ended up here.” I gestured to the house behind us, where we’d spent many happy years and where our mother was continuing to live happily. Yep, Sunday’s ride with the Dangerous Curves had certainly given me perspective. Even so, Trixie was right. I had to work through my remaining feelings about my father if I had any hope of putting my resentment to rest for good.

  Brie and I said our final goodbyes, and I climbed onto my bike and motored home.

  Back at my apartment, I changed out of my police uniform and into a pair of pajamas. I curled up on the couch with Oscar on my lap and a mystery novel in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other. But as much as I tried to focus on the story, my mind kept going back to the Barracuda. I’d wanted to nab that sucker, and he’d gotten away. Darn arrogant buck. He’d cost me an arrest. But come hell or high water, I’d find that car thief and show him just what Shae Sharpe was made of.

  Chapter Six

  Sticking My Nose Where It Doesn’t Belong

  The next morning, after roll call, I sat down in one of the shared cubicles and logged into the desktop computer to search for the police reports regarding the classic cars that had been stolen earlier. I printed them out to peruse. All three cars had been stolen from driveways during the late morning hours. Though I’d seen only one person on the security camera footage from the medical center, it seemed likely that more than one person was involved in the crimes. A second person would be needed to drive the car that had brought them to the scene. Then again, I supposed the thief could have taken a cab or Uber to a place nearby and walked the rest of the way. Or maybe he’d left his car nearby and gotten a ride back to it later, after he hid the stolen vehicle.

  I checked the reports to see which detective was handling the case. The paperwork indicated that Captain Carter had assigned the car thefts to Detective Richard “Mule” Mulaney. Though the nickname probably originated as a shortened and slightly warped pronunciation of his last name, the moniker was also fitting, as the man was half workhorse, half jackass. He handled the bulk of property crime cases in District Four.

  I logged out of the computer and wandered down the hall to Detective Mulaney’s office. I stopped in the open doorway and said “Knock knock” to get his attention.

  Detective Mulaney looked up from his desk. He was a stocky man, with stiff white hair that stuck up from his head like the bristles of a scrub brush. Ditto for the mustache under his nose. His poor wife. Kissing him must be like kissing a porcupine.

  The surface of his desk was was crowded yet neat. An abundance of manila file folders lined up in metal holders across the edge of his desk. The names on the file tabs had been crossed through multiple times as each case was solved and the folder repurposed for a new investigation. His stapler and hole punch sat side by side on the corner of the desktop, keeping company with a plastic pencil cup. Given that the guy ran on caffeine, he had his own coffee pot sitting atop his credenza, the half-empty carafe telling me he’d already guzzled several mugs of brew this morning. He must’ve come in early. As if telling me to hurry up, the wall clock loudly counted off the seconds. Tick-tick-tick.

  “Officer Sharpe,” the Mule said. “To what do I owe this interruption?

  “The term is ‘pleasure,’ sir.”

  “No, it most definitely is not.”

  Though he’d yet to invite me into his office, I stepped inside anyway. “I chased the stolen Barracuda yesterday, but lost it in Chatham County. Have you heard anything since from the sheriff’s department?”

  “Not a word,” the Mule said.

  I’d fully expected that the sheriff’s department would call to say they’d nabbed the car thief, and that Deputy Archer would be featured on the evening news, hailed as the hot rod hero who’d found the missing Barracuda. Part of me was glad the cocky deputy hadn’t shown me up, t
hough a larger part of me was disappointed the sheriff’s department hadn’t found the Beaumonts’ car. The couple’s happiness was much more important than any accolades.

  “I’m curious about the classic car thefts. Do you think the thief plans to keep the stolen cars? It would be hard to unload them without a title, wouldn’t it?”

  The detective took advantage of my interruption to pour himself a fresh cup of Joe. “There’s clever ways to get a government-issued title. Sometimes thieves do what’s called ‘VIN cloning,’ where they use a VIN and title from a similar car that’s legit, and pass them off as the VIN and title for the stolen car. Or they could create a fake title. Some people are quite skilled at drafting bogus documentation. Unless a purchaser checks the VIN number on the National Insurance Crime Bureau website to see if the car was reported stolen, they might have no idea they’re buying a hot vehicle. Even dealers have purchased stolen cars without realizing it. They aren’t required to check the site.” He went on to tell me about another fraudulent process called ‘title washing.’ When a person’s car had been rebuilt or totaled by their insurance company, some states issued titles branded as salvage, flooded, or rebuilt to put others on notice. Some unscrupulous car owners would take their branded title to another state that didn’t issue branded documents to get a clean title. “My guess is that whoever stole the cars plans to sell them. Those classic cars can be darn valuable, especially the rare ones.”

  “What’s been done to identify the thieves?”

  “I just got the case late yesterday. I interviewed the victims again by phone, asked if they any inkling who might have taken the cars. None did. None of the others had been to the speedway in Charlotte. We got video surveillance from a security camera on the house next door to where the Bel Air was taken. The quality’s not good, but we’ve given it to the media outlets anyway, along with the footage you brought back. You never know. Maybe someone will recognize the guy.”