by Diane Kelly
The gray-haired woman working the front was also familiar with the thefts. “One of our clients said something about it, so I read up on the situation on the internet. Any luck finding the cars?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m hoping I can count on you to help us out.”
“Anything I can do,” the woman said, “I’d be glad to.”
“You can keep an eye out for the cars, let Durham PD know if anyone contacts you about similar cars or their parts. Sound good?”
“Happy to help,” she said, taking the detective’s card.
I jerked my head to indicate the bays. “Mind if I speak with your mechanics?”
“Have at it,” she said.
I stepped into the garage area. “Excuse me,” I called to the men. When all three sets of eyes were on me, I asked if they’d been approached by anyone about an Aston Martin, Charger, or Barracuda.
“You mean the ones that were stolen?” asked one of the men.
“Exactly,” I said. “We’re thinking the thief might try to move them through the classic car circles, or maybe try to sell the parts.”
All three indicated that they’d heard nothing yet.
“If you hear anything,” I said, “even rumors, please get in touch. Those cars meant a lot to the people they were taken from.”
“I can imagine,” said one of the guys. “My ’78 Corvette is my baby.”
Good to know they’re on our side. I thanked them and left.
While I knew many body shops had the equipment and facilities to paint the cars, there was no way I could visit every auto shop in town. I hit the MAACO facility, however, and asked them whether anyone had brought in a car fitting the makes and models of the stolen classics.
“No,” the manager said. “I’d remember if anyone had brought in an unusual car like any of those.”
Having put out what feelers I could and exhausting the leads within the jurisdiction of Durham PD, I set out on patrol feeling frustrated and defeated. The longer the Beaumonts’ car was missing, the less likely we were to find it. The other cars, too. Argh!
#
Over the rest of the workweek, I repeatedly ran searches online for cars being offered for sale. I ran across a 1971 ‘Cuda for sale in Winston-Salem. Even though it was purportedly a year newer than Jerry Beaumont’s car, I nevertheless rode the hour and a half out there to check it out. While my research indicated the early Barracuda bodies were based on another model, the Plymouth Valiant, this practice ceased with the 1970 models. The body style between the ’70 and ’71 models was similar, and the seller might have fudged on the year to keep from being found out.
The paint was bright banana yellow, with a black racing stripe down the side, and the paint job didn’t look new. In fact, the paint was chipped in a several spots. My critical inspection of the chips, as well as the doors and wheel wells, turned up no trace of green paint underneath the yellow coating. What’s more, while the stolen Barracuda had a reupholstered interior, the interior of this car was a bit shabby, with a few strips of black electrical tape affixed over gashes in the vinyl in a shoddy attempt to conceal them. I even checked the glove box. No sign of a lime-green tire gauge. It was clear the car wasn’t Mr. Beaumont’s.
“Thanks,” I told the man offering the car for sale. “It’s a nice ride, but I’ve just started looking. I want to see what else is out there.”
He patted the hood. “You won’t find another like her,” he warned. “I’ve had lots of interest. She’ll go fast.”
I smiled at his unintended double entendre. “I’m sure she will.”
I continued my online search. Though I found a few other vehicles that matched the make and model of the stolen cars, they, too, checked out as legit. By Friday evening, I was feeling beyond discouraged at my fruitless investigation. I was also understanding why the Mule had gone with his wait-and-see approach. All my efforts seem to have been for naught, an unnecessary expense of time and energy.
But while my search might have been fruitless, my Friday evening wasn’t. The fruit involved was grapes, fermented into a delicious drink that could ease frustrations, at least for a little while. Amberlyn and I commiserated over cheap cabernet in a downtown Durham wine bar.
She slugged back a gulp. “My week was a waste, too. A speeder I clocked doing ninety-seven on Apex Highway a while back challenged the ticket in court. I planned to testify against him, but I got hung up at a fender bender and didn’t make it to the courthouse on time. The judge dismissed the citation.” She issued a loud sigh. “Sometimes I wonder why we bother.”
I thought about Jerry Beaumont, about what little time he might have left, how that empty space in his garage equated to an empty space in his heart. That’s why we bother.
“On a bright note,” Amberlyn added, “I’ve got a date tomorrow night.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “With who?”
“Remember that guy I met when we went to the Hurricanes game?”
“How could I forget?” He’d been sitting next to us in the hockey arena. An amateur player himself, he’d taken a puck to the nose in practice. “His nose looked like an eggplant.” Not only had it been huge and misshapen, it had also been purple.
“Look at him now,” she replied, holding up her phone.
On the screen was an attractive white guy with the same shaggy blond hair, but with a nose only a third the size it had been the night of the game between the Carolina Hurricanes and Vancouver Canucks. His skin bore a slightly yellow tint, but his nose was straight. Overall, he’d healed up nicely.
“Not bad,” I agreed. “He got a friend for me?” It had been a while since I’d been on a date. I’d tried nearly every dating app, engaged in hours of online flirtation but, when the guys learned that I was in law enforcement, they either felt too emasculated to take things further or hoped I’d be into kinky play with my handcuffs. Ugh. The only guy I’d met in the wild recently was Deputy Archer and, despite the initial jolt I’d felt on seeing his sexy brown eyes, he seemed more like a rival than a romantic prospect.
Amberlyn sipped her wine. “If we have a good time tomorrow night, I’ll suggest a double date for next time.”
“Great.”
She raised her glass and signaled the server for another drink before turning back to me. “I heard Patton got in trouble for humping a suspect.”
“Is Patton the new K-9? Or is that the name of his handler with the big ears and hairy arms? I have trouble telling them apart.”
“You and me both.”
We chatted for another hour, catching each other up on the latest gossip. Once we’d run out of wine and rumors, we called it a night, parting in the parking lot. I went home to Oscar and a lot of unresolved emotions. About the investigation. About my father. And about that damn deputy with the sexy brown eyes. All were equally infuriating.
Chapter Eight
Crossing the Line
When I woke late Saturday morning, I decided to do what I could to resolve those still unresolved emotions, at least the ones about the investigation. The victims and videos had given me nothing to go on, and the visits to the auto dealers and shops had likewise yielded no leads. The only thing I knew for certain was that the Barracuda had vanished in Chatham County. That meant one of two things—either the thief had taken the car to a specific, predetermined location in the county, such as his home or place of business, or the thief had abandoned the car in the county so as not to be caught red-handed.
After a cup of coffee and a quick shower, I threw on a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and my studded biker boots. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and swiped on some eye makeup. I didn’t bother with foundation or lipstick. They’d only guck up my helmet. I rounded up my compact, high-powered binoculars from my police bike, and clipped them to my belt.
After kissing Oscar on the head and admonishing him to be a good boy, I donned my cat-head helmet, eased my Harley out the door, and took off for Chatham County. There was only a mile
or so of roadway on which the Barracuda could have turned off between the last time I’d had eyes on him and when I’d met up with the buck and Deputy Archer. With the sheriff’s office on alert, it seemed someone would have spotted the car if it had since continued through the county, at least if the thief had used any major roads. There was a decent chance the car was still around the area somewhere, that the thief had abandoned the vehicle somewhere in the woods south of the city. Maybe the car was just sitting there, waiting to be discovered and returned to its rightful owners. I might not be able to solve the crime and nab the thief, but I’d consider it a victory if I could find the Barracuda and put Jerry Beaumont back behind the wheel of his beloved automobile.
I headed south and, ten minutes later, passed the sign telling me I was now in Chatham County. I felt a little tingle, knowing I was back on Deputy Archer’s turf. Then again, maybe that tingle was simply telling me my motor needed a tune-up.
I turned down the first possible road the car thief could have taken, and slowed to scan my surroundings. The woods were thick and shady, not easy to see into. A single-wide blue and white trailer sat back among the trees, a children’s swing set in the front yard. The only car in the gravel drive was some type of silver sedan. The next house I came upon was a gray Colonial set even farther back from the street, visible only in narrow vertical slices between the tall oaks. The house had a two-car garage, but both garage doors were closed. There was no way to tell if the Barracuda was inside. I pulled over on to the shoulder and raised my binoculars to my eyes, scanning the woods. No Barracuda was in sight, nor was there any outbuilding big enough to house the car.
Though I passed two more driveways, one gravel and one paved in asphalt, whatever houses lay at the ends of them were too far back to see from the main road. A yellow sign warned DEAD END, and I slowed to a crawl, banking to turn back the way I’d come.
The second road I turned down was wider, with a yellow line down the middle. Several smaller roads cut off from it, exponentially expanding the escape routes the thief might have taken. Ugh. Clusters of houses on half-acre lots were scattered along the first road, a rural neighborhood. While many of the homes had garages in which the stolen car could be hidden, logic told me a car thief would be unlikely to drive the car into a neighborhood where there would be so many potential witnesses.
I returned to the primary road and turned south again. I’d made it only a little way before a Tahoe came from the other direction, heading toward me. The light bar on top told me the SUV belong to the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department, the attractive face on the man in the driver’s seat told me Deputy Archer was on duty again today, and the fresh tingle in my tummy told me I might not be as annoyed to see him as I should be. As we passed each other, I felt more than saw him do a double take. The red brake lights reflected in my motorcycle’s mirrors indicated he was slowing down behind me. Was he turning to come after me? The thought both irritated and excited me.
A minute later, he pulled up behind me, his lights flashing.
Busted.
I eased over to the side, cut my motor, and remained on my bike, waiting for him. His door slammed behind me, his boots crunching on the gravel as he walked up beside my bike. I felt that Taser-like buzz again as he turned to face me. He motioned with his index finger for me to lift my face plate. I flipped it up and stared pointedly at him.
“Officer Sharpe,” he said. “I thought that might be you on this bike.”
My blond hair and big bust must have given me away.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What’re you doing back in my jurisdiction?”
“Just going for a joyride.” I shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “It’s a free country.”
He eyed the binoculars strapped to my belt. “What are the field glasses for?”
“Bird watching.” I beamed at the quick excuse my mind had produced.
“Oh, yeah?” He arched an inquisitive brow. “Seen any interesting birds today?”
“I spotted a scissor-tailed ruby-throated warbling woodpecker. They’re very rare.” Also entirely made-up, which was probably obvious. Other than what I’d learned from Toucan Sam, Big Bird, and Woody Woodpecker, I knew nothing about birds and birding.
His brow fell back into place as he issued a soft snort. “I call bullshit on the bird-watching. You’re out here trying to figure out where that Barracuda went to.”
I crossed my arms over my ample chest. “What if I am?”
“Then you should ride with me.”
“Why? So you can claim credit if I find the car? Steal my thunder?”
He shook his head. “You’re as hard-headed as your helmet, aren’t you, Officer Sharpe?”
“That’s what my superiors at the station tell me.”
A grin tugged at his lips, which looked incredibly soft and damn kissable.
“Why should I ride with you?” I asked.
“Because you’d have an easier time scouting for the stolen car from my passenger seat. I’ve logged half a million miles on the streets and highways of Chatham County. I can make sure you don’t miss any of the back roads.” He jerked his head toward his SUV in invitation.
He had a point. He knew this area far better than I did, and could cover it much more efficiently and methodically. What’s more, I could keep a better eye out for the Barracuda if I wasn’t also having to watch for traffic, squirrels, and deer. Another plus was that he’d have authority to make an arrest if we happened upon the car thief. I was here only as a civilian today, with no power to make an arrest.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll ride with you. But I need somewhere safe to park my bike.”
“I know just the place,” he said. “Follow me.”
He returned to his SUV and I followed him to a main artery called Farrington Mill Road. A few miles down, he turned into the parking lot of a small diner with red and white gingham curtains in the windows and wooden planters filled with purple petunias flanking the double glass entry doors. The roadside marquee out front read PAULINE’S PLACE – BREAKFAST SERVD ALL DAY. Looked like they’d been short one letter E and decided to just go with it. The botched spelling might not be good enough for Pat Sajak, but it was good enough for Pauline, whoever she was. I pulled my bike into a space at the far end of the lot. Deputy Archer pulled his SUV into the spot next to me.
He unrolled his window as I removed my helmet and clipped it to my bike. “You had lunch yet?”
Heck, I hadn’t even had breakfast. Just the cup of coffee. “No.”
“Let’s fuel up before we head out.” He rolled up his window, opened his door and slid out of the Tahoe.
We went inside. The air was filled with the smells of food frying on the grill and coffee percolating in the pot, along with the sounds of silverware clinking and the murmur of casual conversation. The grill let off a loud sizzle as the cook used a metal spatula to flip hash browns. A glass case filled with assorted fruit pies stood next to the register to our right. A sign on a stand read PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. Deputy Archer held out a hand to indicate a booth in the front corner.
I slid into one side of the booth and he took a seat in the other. Laminated menus were already on the table, standing upright between a shiny metal napkin dispenser and glass bottles of ketchup and mustard. He held out a menu to me but didn’t bother to take one for himself.
“I’m guessing you’ve eaten here before?” I asked as I reached for the menu.
“Only two or three thousand times. You can’t go wrong with anything on the menu. It’s all good.”
I took hold of the menu, but he refused to release the other end, forcing me to engage in a brief game of tug-of-war with him. “Are you always this difficult?”
“No.” He grinned. “I’m usually much worse.”
A tall, dark-haired woman sauntered up and placed a large plastic tumbler of tea in front of Deputy Archer. He gave her a smile in return. Though she turned to look at me, it was clear she was addressing him. “Who’s
this you brought with you, Zane?”
Zane. Now I knew Deputy Archer’s first name.
“Officer Sharpe,” he told the woman. “She’s with the Durham Police Department.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “I didn’t realize this was a business lunch. I thought I’d sensed some chemistry between you two, but I must’ve been mistaken.”
She looked from me to him and back again, as if gauging our reactions. I tried to maintain a poker face, but I feared the warm flush that had raced to my face was obvious.
She tucked her pen behind her ear and stretched out a hand. “Welcome, Officer Sharpe. I’m Pauline.” After we shook hands, she retrieved the pencil and readied her order pad. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Dr. Pepper, please.” Ironically, while I was sitting here trying to deny any chemistry with Zane, I’d ordered a drink that had been created by a pharmacist, an expert in chemistry.
“You got it.” Pauline headed off to round up my soda.
Zane flicked a sugar packet to loosen the granules inside before tearing it open and dumping it into his tea. “You know my first name now,” he said as he stirred the tea. “I might as well know yours.”
“It’s Shae.”
“Shae,” he repeated, leaning back against the booth and draping an arm along the top of the seat. “Shae Sharpe. Shae Sharpe sells seashells by the seashore.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shae Sharpe does no such thing.”
“What then, does Shae Sharpe do?” He cocked his head in question.
“Besides hunting down stolen cars?”
“Yeah.”
“She rides with the Dangerous Curves motorcycle club, plays Fortnite with her kid brother, and serves as a scullery maid for a spoiled cat named Oscar.”
“Dangerous Curves,” he mused. “Sounds like a tough bunch.”
“We hold our own.”