Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  As I stared at the screen, I caught my reflection, my eyes looking back at me, filled with hurt and anger. Was this the face my father had seen when he’d glanced back at me from the squad car last Friday night? I supposed it was. I decided that, while I was already in the police reports database, I might as well run a search for my father’s name, see what kind of trouble Samuel P. Sharpe had gotten himself into over the years. I’d never looked before, neither in the police nor the criminal records. It had seemed easier to pretend the man had never existed, that I’d been conceived in some type of immaculate conception, minus the angels, manger, and gifts from the magi. What would I have done with frankincense and myrrh anyway?

  I typed my father’s name into the search box and hit the enter key. Over a dozen reports came back. I started with the oldest, which was from 1978, when my father would have been only five or six years old. While the names of minors were redacted from public copies of police reports, as an officer I had access to the complete documents. By the time I finished reading the reports, I was shaking and heartbroken and sick.

  In the few years he’d spent with us, my biological father had never mentioned his family. After he’d left, I avoided bringing him up, knowing it would only upset my mother. But now I knew more about his family and childhood than I would have ever wanted to, and it was a complete nightmare. The scars on my father’s hand weren’t from a dog bite, as he’d told us. They were cigarette burns, his mother’s boyfriend using her small son as an ash tray for punishment. When she’d refused to break ties with the brute, child protective services had taken my father away and placed him with his maternal grandmother, who’d gone on a bender and forgotten to feed him or send him to school for days on end. A concerned school bus driver had notified the authorities when my father didn’t show up at the bus stop for several days in a row. He’d been emaciated when they’d found him. And all of this was just for starters. He’d bounced around among an extended family who’d managed to keep him alive, but had certainly not nurtured him.

  When he turned 18, the police reports began to address petty crimes committed by my father rather than against him. A misdemeanor drug offense for possession of a small amount of marijuana. A vandalism charge in which he’d punctured a tire on his boss’s car after being fired from a job. A couple of assaults. The most recent report was my own from the preceding weekend. A quick look at the criminal records confirmed he’d never been charged for the assaults. None of the victims appeared to have suffered more than superficial injuries, with my father taking the brunt of the blows. The district attorney must have figured it wasn’t worth the time to pursue the matters.

  I logged into the database to find out the disposition of my father’s recent arrest at the biker bar. I was curious whether he’d yet been arraigned, how he’d pleaded, whether I might have to testify against him at a criminal trial. To my surprise, I discovered he was still in custody. In other words, no one had made bail for him.

  I sat back in my seat, fighting down the emotional head gasket that threatened to blow inside me. Maybe these reports had been better left unread. But no. I’d looked back, and now I had to move forward. Only I didn’t know exactly how.

  Bustling in the hall caught my attention and my eyes went to the clock on the wall. It was straight up 5:00 and officers were rotating off the day shift, others rotating on to the swing shift. I decided to wait until the morning to run my search for the car thieves. I pulled out my cell phone and called Trixie. “Can I come by? I need to talk.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I just ordered a pizza. We can share it.”

  “I’ll bring the root beer.”

  #

  Half an hour later, Trixie and I were sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch of her bungalow in east Durham, enjoying hot pizza and cold root beer, her favorite drink.

  I told her what I’d found in the records. “No wonder my father was so screwed up.” While military men were the poster children for PTSD, the ugly truth was that families who’d battled on the home front also suffered the disorder at alarming rates. No doubt my father had lingering issues stemming from his childhood trauma.

  Trixie reached out and gave my hand a supportive squeeze, knowing what I’d learned had upset me. “Does knowing all that stuff about his childhood make it easier to forgive him?”

  “It does,” I said. “But even though it explains his behavior, it doesn’t necessarily excuse it.”

  “So you don’t yet have closure. You’re not ready to chuck it in the fuck-it bucket.” Trixie could always be counted on for a fresh word of phrase.

  “Not quite.”

  She raised her drink. “Keep working on it. You’ll get there.”

  “I hope so.” Turning to another topic, I gave her a rundown of the classic car thefts. “I visited some of the victims today. Nothing they said gave us any new leads.”

  “You’re nothing if not determined,” she said. “I bet you’ll figure things out.”

  “I hope so.” I found myself wondering how Jerry Beaumont was doing, if his broken heart was holding up. I also found myself wondering where my father was right now.

  When the pizza was gone and the remaining root beers stowed in Trixie’s fridge for next time, I gave her a hug, headed out to my bike, and climbed aboard. My motorcycle seemed to have a mind of its own and took me directly to the county lockup. I stared at the building for a moment, wondering if I’d lost my freaking mind, before going inside.

  I stepped up to the front counter. “How much is bail for Samuel P. Sharpe?”

  The fiftyish man working the desk put his keys to his keyboard and consulted his computer before returning his attention to me. “Three grand.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bonds typically ran 10% of the bail amount, more if the person arrested had skipped out before. Given that my father’s bail had been set relatively low, I assumed he hadn’t failed to appear previously. I headed out of the jail and drove to an ATM, where I withdrew three-hundred in cash. I drove back the way I’d come, turning into the parking lot across the street from the jail at the conveniently located bail bondsman’s office.

  The man at the front desk cocked his head in surprise. “A cop posting bail? That’s a first.”

  He stared at me, as if waiting for a response. I didn’t owe this man an explanation, and I wasn’t going to give him one. I pulled out my notepad and jotted a quick note that read Consider this an early Father’s Day gift. I signed my name, and added both my phone number and my e-mail address. I folded the note and picked up a stapler from the desk to staple it closed. I handed the note to the man. “Make sure Mr. Sharpe gets this when he’s released.”

  With that, I went out the door. Would my father get in touch with me? It seemed unlikely. My mother still worked at the same grocery store where she’d worked when they’d been together. He could have easily found her there, yet he’d made no attempt to contact us in the last twenty years. But I’d opened a new door now. It would be up to him to come through it.

  #

  I heard nothing from my father that night and, the next morning, my attention was back on the car theft investigation. As soon as Captain Carter completed roll call, I plunked myself down at a desk and searched to see who in the area had arrests or convictions for car theft. I disregarded the thefts that were crimes of opportunity, where the victim left the keys in the car. Amazing how many people left their cars running in their driveways to warm them up on cold winter mornings, only to come out a few minutes later and find the car gone. I also disregarded the reports that involved the theft of a single car from a related party, such as a roommate, friend, or family member. They didn’t fit the classic car thief’s M.O. His thefts were targeted and planned. He’d also had no access to the car keys, having to hot wire the vehicles instead.

  Three names popped up as possibilities. The first guy was back in jail, this time on drug charges. The second held no current North Carolina driver’s license, and had no vehicl
e registered here. Presumably, he’d left the state. The third was a thirty-three-year-old man named Devin DelVecchio.

  DelVecchio’s mug shot was more of an ugh shot. The guy was as ugly as they come, with bulbous eyes, bumpy skin, and no distinguishable neck. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his olive skin bore a greasy sheen that said he hadn’t bathed in a while. He resembled a bullfrog. He’d been arrested six years ago for stealing cars and selling them to chop shops. He’d been convicted and served eighteen months at the Dan River Prison Work Farm, a minimum security facility for nonviolent offenders. I jotted down DelVecchio’s address and headed out to pay him a visit.

  I rapped on the door of the townhouse where DelVecchio lived. The human bullfrog answered a moment later, a can of cheap soda in one hand, the TV remote in the other. He made a guttural sound when he saw my uniform, not unlike a croak. He wore a dingy, sweat-stained undershirt that rode up on his round belly, exposing his navel and four inches of rolled flesh. He didn’t have a beard, though it would have been easy enough to shave it off and change his look. Still, his Homer Simpson physique told me he wasn’t the guy in the security camera videos. Just in case he might have partnered with the car thief, I told him why I was there. “I’m looking into some car thefts that happened recently in Durham.”

  He was matter-of-fact. “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t boost cars no more.”

  “Why not? Did you find Jesus while you were in the pen?”

  “Nah. There’s not enough money in it.”

  His pragmatic response gave me little hope that he’d turned himself totally around, but his claim that he wasn’t stealing cars seemed truthful. Still, even though he might not be involved in car thefts, he could know someone who was. “What about your former associates? You know anyone who might be involved in stealing classic cars?”

  He shook his head. “Car theft is a dying business. Like coal mining and tobacco. Everybody I used to deal with is doing other stuff now.”

  “Like what?”

  His bullfrog chin bounced up and down as he laughed sarcastically. “Like I’m going to tell a cop.”

  “Eh. It was worth a shot.”

  Having struck out with DelVecchio, I decided to head back to the station to update the detective. On the drive, I was derailed by dispatch coming over the radio, reporting a downed tree on Highway 54. Fallen trees were a frequent problem in the area. Though most fell during or immediately after severe storms, some came down at random, as if trying to keep people on their toes.

  I activated my mic. “Unit M2 responding.”

  In minutes, I pulled up behind a long line of cars that had backed up in the right lane on the roadway. Many were executing U-turns in the left lane, which was devoid of oncoming traffic. The lack of northbound vehicles told me the tree blocked the road in both directions.

  I eased over onto the shoulder and rode along until I came upon both the obstruction and the sign demarcating Durham and Chatham Counties. A sixty-foot red maple growing on the Chatham County side had toppled over and lay across the asphalt, its roots exposed and its upper limbs stretching across the border into Durham County. The northbound traffic on the other side of the tree was likewise U-turning. Fortunately, the tree had come down clean, missing the cars on the road.

  I squeezed the button on my radio to contact dispatch. “The tree originates in Chatham County.” In other words, even though it was now lying partially in Durham County, it was their problem to rectify.

  The dispatcher came back. “I’ll get the sheriff’s department out there.”

  A short time afterward, an SUV came rolling up on the shoulder. Deputy Archer sat at the wheel. He eased to a stop a few inches shy of the county line, putting our vehicles nose to nose, and climbed out of the Tahoe. He strode toward me, his gleaming roguish gaze locked on mine. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Officer Sharpe, pushing the limits once again.”

  I angled my head to indicate the fallen tree. “Seems you’ve got problems keeping your wood up in Chatham County.”

  He returned the jibe in kind, lifting his chin to point to the line of cars behind me. “Shame this tree fell here with so many people trying to escape Durham County for Chatham.”

  He turned and headed back to his SUV, where he pulled a chainsaw from his cargo bay. After donning canvas gloves and yanking the starter to rev it up, he returned to the road and proceeded to cut limbs from the main trunk of the tree. I headed toward him to help move the limbs out of the way. He turned off the saw and raised a palm. “Stay on your side,” he teased. “We don’t need you infesting us with those big-city cooties.”

  I rolled my eyes. Mutual aid agreements between law enforcement agencies stipulated that we could work together, regardless of official jurisdictions, during emergency situations. A downed tree impeding the safe flow of traffic constituted just such an emergency, and we both knew it. “Stop me,” I said in challenge. I made a show of crossing the boundary by taking a giant step over the invisible line that divided us.

  Cutting me some side eye, he revved the chainsaw back up and continued his work. I grabbed the limbs he’d cut and carried them off the road, stacking them on the shoulder. Once he’d dispatched the limbs, he set to work on the main trunk of the tree, cutting it into logs about two-feet long. Rather than break my back trying to lift them, I put my biker boot to the logs and pushed, rolling them to the edge of the roadway with my feet. Fifteen minutes later, Deputy Archer and I had the roadway cleared, and traffic began to flow freely again.

  He slid the chainsaw back into the bay of his SUV and slammed the door closed. Gesturing to the road sign, he said, “Emergency’s over now. Git.”

  “Gladly.” I stepped to the sign and stopped, pretending to wipe my feet at the edge of Chatham County before stepping back into Durham. I climbed onto my bike, started my motor, and circled around to his side of the sign before giving him a beep-beep of my horn and gunning it to zoom off in style.

  As I headed back to the station to speak with the Mule, I passed a car dealership. The brand new vehicles sparkled in the morning sun. Someone must have come in early to wipe off the pine pollen that left a thick yellow-green dusting on vehicles this time each spring. At the front of the lot, a bright red inflatable dancing man bent over and straightened up, flailing his arms like a suspected drunk asked to touch his nose during a sobriety test. Passing the dealership gave me an idea . . .

  Fifteen minutes later, as I stepped into his doorway, the Mule looked up from his desk. “Any luck solving my case?”

  “Not yet.”

  He slugged back a mouthful of coffee and leaned back in his seat. “Detective work’s not as easy as it looks, is it?”

  “Not at all.” I thought I’d gather up clues like puzzle pieces, put them together, and get a clear picture of the crime. But, so far, nothing had panned out. After informing him that I’d struck out visiting DelVecchio, I said, “What if I pay a visit to the classic car lots in town? Maybe one of them is involved or has been approached by someone trying to sell the cars or their parts.”

  “Can’t hurt,” he agreed. He fished a stack of business cards out of his desk and handed them to me. “Ask them to call me if they learn something.”

  I headed out again to make the rounds of the garages and auto lots that dealt in classic cars and parts. My first visit was to Masterpiece Motors. All of the vehicles for sale were parked inside an enclosed showroom, and had been impeccably detailed. I’d never seen such immaculate paint and clean tires. The place offered only a few select cars, including a 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible with some type of limited edition supercharged engine. The sticker price was over $200,000. Sheesh! You could buy a house for that chunk of change.

  The owner came out of his office and greeted me with a smile. He wore khaki pants and a navy blue blazer along with a white button down shirt, the typical prep school uniform. “Good day, Officer. Something I can help you with?”

  “Are you aware of the classic car theft
s that have taken place in Durham and Raleigh?”

  “Sure am. Saw the report on the evening news. I didn’t recognize the guy in the video footage, but I’m keeping an eye out for him. If he tries to hit my lot, he’ll be sorry.” He patted his hip, letting me know he had a handgun at the ready. The concealed carry law gave him the right to be armed, but I hoped the car thefts wouldn’t lead to violence and bloodshed. No property was worth more than a human life.

  “We’re not sure if the thief is a collector, or if he’s stripping the cars for parts or disguising them with new paint and other cosmetic changes to resell them.” I handed him the Mule’s business card. “If anyone offers to sell you the same model as the missing cars, or parts for the cars, please get their contact information and give Detective Mulaney a call. Don’t let the seller know you’re on to him, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  My next stop was at Rare Auto Repair, a garage that specialized in fixing unique vehicles, including older and imported models. A curvy red classic convertible Corvette was parked alongside the building. Sweet ride. I glanced into the open bays as I approached the office. An eighties-era black Trans Am was up on one lift, while an ancient white Ford Fairlane sat in the other bay, its hood open as if a doctor had asked it to say “ahhh.” Three mechanics in grease-stained coveralls moved about the space, tools in hand.