Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  “Back to the blame game, are we?”

  Ignoring his jibe, I pulled my phone from my pocket. I’d snapped photos of the police reports on each of the thefts. The most recent theft before the Barracuda was the Bel Air. According to the report, the car was stolen on a Wednesday, five days prior to the theft of the Barracuda. I mentally computed how long it might take for a car thief to drive from the Wellborn home to our current location, assuming he was driving within the speed limits. Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes? I gestured to the screen. “See if they’ve still got footage from April ninth starting at 2:20 AM.” I held my breath, hoping the couple hadn’t erased it yet.

  Zane rolled the mouse and tapped the keyboard until he accessed the feed. “Looks like there’s something here.”

  He played the footage. On screen, the porch light illuminated a small area of the driveway and the woods behind it. Movement in the woods caused the camera to activate. As I watched, a deer with short, velvety antlers stepped out of the trees and into the open. His ears pricked up and rotated as if seeking the source of a faint sound. He turned to stare at the camera.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I said. “It’s him again!”

  Zane looked at the screen before cocking his head. “Who?”

  “That’s the same buck that ran me off the road.” I pointed. “See? His antlers look like someone giving the finger.”

  Zane squinted again at the screen. “You’re right.”

  As we watched, the buck walked right up to the camera and looked into it, as if issuing another challenge. After staring us down for a few seconds, he turned his head and walked away, flicking his tail dismissively. At the edge of the driveway, lights flashed as a car went by.

  I hit the button to pause the feed. Again, the image was blurry from the movement. Add in the dark of the night, and the image was even less clear. Even so, the signature bubble shape of the car’s roof and the wide stripes of the whitewall tires were discernable. “It’s the Bel Air. It has to be.”

  We looked to see if footage had been retained from the dates of the earlier thefts, but there was none on the computer. When we were done with our review, we asked the man to forward copies of the relevant video clips to our e-mail addresses. We stood by to watch while he sent the videos, and checked the e-mail attachments on our phones to make sure we could view the footage.

  “Got it,” I said.

  Zane concurred. We made note of the man’s contact information in case we needed to get in touch, thanked him for his cooperation, and off to the lake we went.

  Chapter Twelve

  Row, Row, Row Your Boat

  Buoyed by the corroborating evidence that the stolen cars had traveled the road on which the Tucker property sat, we pulled into the recreation area. There, we slipped out of the truck and into bright orange life vests. Thanks to my oversized bust, I had to extend the straps as far as they would go to be able to close the snaps. A smile played about Zane’s mouth when he noticed, but he was smart enough not to comment. Despite the fact that I avoided tight, low-cut shirts, I’d heard more than enough comments about my big breasts from boys and men over the years. Jerks. It sucked to be reduced to one body part. I was so much more than that. My smile was nice, too. But, of course, in my opinion, my perky personality was my best selling point.

  Zane pulled a small tube of sunscreen from the pocket of his shorts. “Heads up.” He tossed the tube to me.

  I squirted a generous dollop into my hand before tossing it back to him. “You better slather up those white legs of yours. They look like they’ve never seen the sun.”

  He wagged his brows. “Noticed my legs, did you?” He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other in his hair, and tossed his head back, lips parted, as if he were on a photo shoot for a Victoria’s Secret catalog. “What else have you noticed?’

  “That you have absolutely no shame.”

  Properly outfitted and protected from UV exposure, we grabbed the handles at either end of the kayak and carried it down a leaf-strewn embankment where we could launch the boat from shore.

  He handed me one of the long paddles. “Sit in the front. I’ll push it off.”

  I took a seat in the front of the kayak and slid my legs into the empty space in the hull. I held the paddle up as Zane pushed the boat forward. The bottom scraped on twigs and rocks until it was far enough into the water that it began to float. Zane slipped into the seat behind me in one smooth, easy motion, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. As he did, a tennis ball rolled back from inside the hull and bumped softly against the seat. I picked it up. “Looks like Eight-ball forgot his toy.”

  Zane reached over my shoulder and took it from me. “I can throw it out in the water for you to fetch if you’d like.”

  Looking back over my shoulder at him, I brandished my paddle. “Don’t make me come back there.”

  My gaze roamed the shore, seeking something to give me some bearings. While I’d been out on Jordan Lake several times throughout my life, it had been a couple of years since the last time, and I didn’t know the water well. The shoreline all looked the same to me. Trees, trees, and more trees. “Where to?”

  “I looked over satellite maps online last night.” Zane raised his arm and pointed to a spot at approximately the 2:00 position. “See where that water tower is? That’s where we’re headed.”

  “All right,” I said. “Full speed ahead.”

  We turned slightly and paddled along, inadvertently knocking our oars a few times before we fell into rhythm together. The water gave off a soft shush-shush-shush as we paddled our way across the lake, an occasional wave sending up a light spray of water onto my face and arms. The sky was sunny and cloudless, and the cool droplets provided a welcome, if brief, respite from the day’s heat before they dried.

  As we moved along, Zane launched into a sea shanty, singing with a deep timbre. “Come all ya young fellers that follow the sea—”

  I’d learned the song in music class as a child and joined in with him on the chorus. “Way, hey, blow the man down.”

  Zane sang alone again, “Now just pay attention and listen to me.”

  Together we bellowed, “Give me some time to blow the man down.”

  “Aboard the Black Baller I first served my time.”

  He let me sing the chorus alone this time. “With a way, hey, blow the man down,

  “But on the Black Baller I wasted my prime.”

  “Give me some time to blow the man down.”

  After ten minutes of paddling, we drew close to the shore.

  “Land ho!” Zane called. “Raise your oar.”

  I lifted my oar out of the water and he expertly banked the craft. I climbed out onto the marshy land and grabbed the handle, pulling the kayak farther up until he could disembark without having to step into the water. We set the oars down next to the boat, and took off our life jackets. It would be difficult to perform clandestine surveillance in a day-glow orange vest.

  “Are we allowed to be here?” I asked. If we were on the Tucker’s property, we’d need a search warrant. Even though Elsie Tucker owned the place, she didn’t have the authority to grant us access given that the place was subject to a binding lease. Only the current tenant could legally allow us onto the property without a search warrant. We had to be careful. The last thing we wanted was any evidence we collected being thrown out on the grounds of illegal search and seizure.

  “We’re okay,” Zane assured me. “I checked things out. The Army Corps of Engineers owns this stretch of land adjacent to the lake. The Tucker place is fenced, so we’ll know when we get there.”

  In other words, we’d have a visible boundary. Good.

  Zane led the way into the woods, occasionally stopping and putting his field glasses to his eyes to try to better get his bearings. Eventually, we came to the fence at the back of Mrs. Tucker’s property. The fence was a rail and wire style, formed by thick chicken wire supported by vertical and horizontal wood rails. NO TRESPASSIN
G signs had been erected every thirty feet or so along the top rail. From the relatively new look of the signs, they’d been put up recently.

  Zane pointed off to our right, where we could see the house and storage building through the trees. As we made our way along the fence, we hunkered down to be less visible in case the tenant was home and happened to look out a back window. The metal building we’d spotted earlier sat close to the back of the acreage, and we could get a good look at it from here. Unfortunately, the doors on it were closed and padlocked.

  I raised my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the property. Parked in front of the house was a silver Chevy Camaro, facing us. Could it be the same Camaro I saw at the gas station near Pauline’s Diner earlier? I couldn’t be certain. North Carolina law required official license plates only on the rear of vehicles, and many people opted to put novelty plates on the front. The owner of this car had done just that. The plate featured two black and white checkered flags on crossed poles, the flags extended to either side as if waving. They were the type of flags used at raceways, such as the Charlotte Motor Speedway. Could this mean something? Or was it coincidence? “Check out the license plate on the car,” I told Zane.

  He raised his field glasses to his eyes. “He’s a racing fan.”

  A sound drew our attention to the back door of the house. As the door banged open, I dove to the ground behind a tree. Zane did the same, landing on top of me. Oof!

  Though his full weight was pressed against my back and legs, Zane couldn’t move or he’d risk the guy spotting us. Zane put his mouth to my ear and whispered “sorry,” his breath warm on my neck. Given that he had me pinned to the moist dirt of the forest floor, I really shouldn’t have found the situation so enjoyable.

  Had the man seen us back here? We waited a few beats to see if he would shout or come to the fence. When neither happened, Zane eased off my back to kneel and peer surreptitiously around the tree trunk. I levered myself to a crouch next to him and spied from the other side of the trunk. The man walked to the barn and fingered through a set of keys before inserting one into the padlock. One twist and the lock came open, the chain falling free.

  Zane and I exchanged eager glances as the man went to open the door to the outbuilding. Would we see the Barracuda inside? Maybe the Bel Air or Aston Martin? I held my breath and crossed my fingers, sending up a silent prayer to the heavens to help me find Jerry Beaumont’s prized vehicle and put a smile back on the sick old man’s face.

  To my dismay, when the man opened the metal barn, all he revealed was several large cardboard boxes, assorted lawn equipment, and camping gear, including a red kerosene lantern, a gas cook stove, and a bundle of collapsed tan canvas that appeared to be a tent. No Aston Martin. No Bel Air. No Barracuda. There were no tell-tale splotches of dripped paint on the concrete floor, no spray residue on the inside walls, just a rake leaning innocently against the wall. The guy walked to a wooden workbench, grabbed a reusable water bottle he’d apparently forgotten there, and came back out, locking the doors behind him. Rather than return to the house, he circled around it, climbed into his car, and started the engine. He whipped around in a quick circle and disappeared down the driveway, the house blocking our view of him now.

  “Did you get his license plate number?” Zane asked.

  I’d managed only a split-second glimpse of the back of his car before he’d headed off. “Did it start with a D?”

  “I thought it was an O.”

  The two letters could look alike from a distance. “Darn.”

  Zane shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter. It didn’t look like he’s using the barn for painting or hiding cars. I think we can cross him off our list of suspects.”

  I exhaled sharply. “But he was the only person on our list of suspects.”

  “Then I guess we can throw the list away.”

  “Ugh. We’ve been barking up the wrong tree.” I banged my forehead lightly against the tree I’d been hiding behind. As I did, my eyes spotted several stacks of firewood and mountainous piles of dried leaves past the boathouse, at the edge of the woods. With so many trees around the property, it was certain several would fall or lose limbs each year, providing a ready source of firewood. The dense trees provided no shortage of dead leaves in the winter, too. Some people raked them up for composting, but many more, especially those in rural areas like this, simply let the leaves lie where they fell. Gathering them up was time-consuming, backbreaking work. Why would the tenant bother?

  The stacks of chopped wood surrounded the leaf piles on three sides. Orange plastic netting had been stretched across the fourth side where it would help keep the leaves corralled but could easily be rolled back so that additional leaves could be added to the piles. Most of the leaf piles were long and tall, standing three or four feet high at their pinnacle, but one was even slightly taller, around five feet by my best estimate.

  I returned my binoculars to my eyes. The tallest leaf pile, which stood at the back of the makeshift pen, looked different somehow. The texture wasn’t quite the same as the rest of the pile, nor were the colors. They were both slightly off, weren’t they? What’s more, there were still plenty of dead leaves lying about the yard area. It didn’t appear to have been fully raked. Had the tenant tired and given up on the job halfway through, or had he stopped collecting the leaves because he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do—hiding a stolen car in a place he thought nobody would think to check?

  Think again, buddy.

  I jerked my head to indicate the pile. “Check out those leaves. Something look strange to you?”

  Zane peered through his glasses for a long moment. “No. What caught your eye?”

  “The tallest pile at the back. It’s a slightly different color and the pattern of the leaves is different somehow.”

  He squinted. “I suppose you’re right. But maybe it’s an older pile, at a different phase of decomposition.”

  I took another look. “That pile is about the size of a car. Just sayin’.”

  “Who would hide a car under leaves?” he said, both his voice and face strained with skepticism. “One good wind and they’d blow away.”

  “One good wind,” I repeated, “and we could see if there’s anything underneath them.”

  Zane gazed up at the motionless trees. “Too bad it’s a still day.”

  “Hmm.” I crossed my arms over my chest and thoughtfully tapped my chin with my index finger. “If only we had access to some sort of device that blows air.”

  “I could take off my shirt and wave it,” Zane suggested.

  I had to admit, I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy without a shirt on. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Did you mean a hair dryer?” Zane said, scratching his head. “Or a box fan? We’d have to drag a generator out here. An extension cord, too.”

  “I really hope you’re just playing dumb.”

  He chuckled and motioned for me to follow him. “Back to the kayak.”

  We returned the boat and paddled fast and hard back to his truck. He snatched the leaf blower from the cab and came back to the boat. “Spread your legs.”

  I eyed him from under accusing brows. “Excuse me?”

  “My legs take up too much space. It’ll fit better up here with you.”

  “All right.” I spread my legs, resting my knees against the inside of the hold. He slid the leaf blower between my knees, resting the handle on the end of my seat directly between my thighs. The leaf blower extended out in front of me like some type of oversized mechanical phallus.

  In seconds, we were off again, paddling fast and furious across the lake.

  My back, upper arms, and wrists ached from the repetitive rowing motion, but I was determined to give it my all. I worried that the stream of air from the leaf blower might not be forceful enough to move the leaves, but we had no other option. We couldn’t very well ask a judge to issue a search warrant based on such flimsy evidence as a large pile of leaves. />
  We went ashore in the same spot as before, but this time we walked farther down the fence to get as close to the leaf piles as we could while remaining on public land. We checked to make sure the Camaro was still gone, and crossed our fingers that nobody else was in the house who might overhear us out here.

  Zane pulled the string on the leaf blower and it revved up with a roar, sending up a spray of dead leaves, pine needles, and dirt. While I covered my ears, he turned and aimed the nozzle at the closest leaf pile, which stood a dozen feet from the fence and blocked the bigger leaf pile at the back. The forced air went through the safety netting and a couple of downed acorns rolled away, but nothing much else happened. Damn! Unfortunately, the canopy of trees overhead let little direct sunlight shine down on the area. The leaves remained damp from last night’s rain, weighted down with moisture.

  “Wave it back and forth!” I hollered to Zane. “Maybe it will dry them out.”

  He tried my suggestion. Slowly, bit by bit, the pile dried enough so that chunks of leaves broke free and blew off to the sides of the enclosure. Finally, the odd pile at the back was exposed. He aimed the nozzle at the top of it. Rather than blowing away, it seemed to merely ruffle in the wind. He turned to me, a puzzled look on his face, before turning back. I nudged him with my elbow and pointed at the bottom of the heap. He shrugged, but aimed the blast of air at the lower part of the stack, where leaves met earth. The pile lifted a few inches, hovering on the current. Only it wasn’t a leaf pile. It was camouflage netting, like the kind the army used to obscure tanks and other equipment on military bases. Hunters sometimes used the netting, too, to hide themselves from their prey.

  Something’s under that net. Something the tenant doesn’t want us to see.

  Zane lowered the leaf blower until it was nearly on the ground and put it right up against the wire fencing for maximum impact. The netting blew up just far enough for us to get a peek at a black tire, an exhaust pipe, and a shiny chrome bumper.

  I was right! There’s a car under there! But was it one of the stolen cars?