Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  Half an hour later she picked up Kath. In her decrepit Honda Civic, they drove along El Camino past Icarus Pawn. Kath was unfamiliar with the shop. Evan wasn’t surprised.

  But a hundred yards down the street, Kath swiveled, eyeing a used car dealership.

  “That’s where I sold your granddad’s Volvo after he died.”

  Evan did a double take. PINKY’S PRE-OWNED PARADISE.

  “Did you talk to anybody there about your family?”

  Kath huffed. Of course she had. Her grandkids were the shiny red apples of her eye. And of course she had given the dealership her name, address, and phone number. She glared out the car window, deadly silent for a minute.

  “How many people do you think they’ve ripped off since they got to me?” she said.

  “I don’t know. But one’s too many.”

  “We can’t let this go on. And we don’t have forever, do we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a cutoff for prosecuting a crime. For suing.”

  “The statute of limitations,” Evan said. “I think for fraud, it’s three years. There’s still time.”

  “Not for the people they’re targeting while we cruise around. People who may not be able to take a three-thousand-dollar hit to their wallets. For them, the clock’s ticking. Loudly.”

  Evan wrung her hands on the wheel. Kath was right.

  “Turn around,” Kath said. “Drive by again. I want to get a solid look at these human skid marks.”

  “You’re not going to do something. I am,” Evan said.

  “You think I’m too old to kick some ass?” Kath said. “Fine, I need a knee replacement, but don’t underestimate me.”

  Evan tried to laugh. Kath sighed.

  “I know,” Kath said. “I just don’t want anybody else getting conned.”

  The next day, Evan started staking out Icarus Pawn.

  * * *

  Evan didn’t know what she was looking for, but sitting across from the pawnshop on El Camino in her rusting Civic proved a good way to study. She found it helpful to be away from the law library and all its angst and lust. She read casebooks and highlighted her class notes, drinking lukewarm coffee and scrutinizing everybody who went into the shop. It convinced her she never wanted to be a cop.

  On the third day of her stakeout, a car rumbled to a stop in front of Icarus. It was an orange Camaro with a price soaped on the windshield—$9,999. A young man climbed out and lit a cigarette. He looked like Roger Inke’s younger, even skeevier incarnation. He walked into the pawnshop without extinguishing his smoke.

  Only family would so casually stink up a store, Evan thought.

  Five minutes later, the young man came out of the shop with the greyhound on a leash. The dog popped up and down at his side as though the sidewalk was a hot skillet.

  The man looked half-bored. He had an envelope in his hand. The dog jumped and tried to nip it away from him. He teased her, holding it out of reach, before finally letting her grab it. Jerking the leash free from his hand, the greyhound bolted along the sidewalk toward a mailbox on the corner. She accelerated like a Lamborghini. The man ran after her for a few steps, then threw up his hands and slowed to a saunter in frustration.

  Roger Inke leaned out the pawnshop door and yelled at him. When the man shrugged, Inke put two fingers to his lips and whistled. The streaking dog pivoted, ears pricking, and stopped. The younger man raised his middle finger, as if trained to flip the bird on command, and kept strolling.

  Evan watched him mosey into the distance. She fired up the Civic, U-turned, and drove to the used car dealership. Amid a profusion of American flags, salesmen patrolled the lot like predatory squid. It took four seconds for one to approach her.

  “You look like you’re in the market for something fast and hot,” he said.

  “I’m looking for one of your sales associates. Mr. Inke.”

  The salesman deflated. “Wayne’s on a break. I can help.”

  “I have a yen for an orange Camaro. I’ll come back when he’s here.”

  She left, nerves sizzling.

  Wayne and Roger Inke. The two of them had thieved and humiliated Kath. She felt certain. She just had to get evidence that proved it.

  How? The Inkes wouldn’t easily talk and incriminate themselves. She wasn’t a black hat who could hack their texts or bank records. She didn’t have the burglary skills to plant bugs in their wall sockets. She had snark and a talent for provoking people into talking smack.

  That was when she first thought of tricking Roger Inke into confessing. Detective Mendoza wanted her to do something about him. Wanted her to take the initiative. What other choice did she have?

  This was called rationalization, and she was a pro at that.

  From there, it seemed simple. It seemed necessary and righteous. A little voice said it also seemed risky. She flicked the little voice off her shoulder.

  She knew she couldn’t simply walk into Icarus Pawn and demand a confession. She needed to be subtle and sneaky. Unfortunately, she also knew that she was in-your-face and a lousy liar.

  “Use that,” said her roommate, Nikki Girard.

  It took her a fevered week to work up the idea. She gamed it out. She drew a map of El Camino and a floor plan of Icarus Pawn. She rehearsed it. She ran it by Nikki.

  “It’s basic,” Evan said. “Get in, maintain a clear line of sight to the door, keep the recorder running, lure Inke into tripping over his own tongue. Get out.”

  Nikki hated it, even more than she hated the painting Evan had bought at the pawnshop: Cats at the Last Supper. As an art history major raised in the AME Church, she objected to the painting on both aesthetic and theological grounds. But beyond all else, Nikki hated the fact that Kath had been scammed.

  “There’s no honor among these thieves,” Nikki said. “Because they have no honor, period. Count on that. Screw with their heads.”

  Evan phoned Brian to warn him what she was planning, in case she needed exfil from her own missteps.

  “Unlike you, I might end up needing bail money for real,” she told him.

  She didn’t tell Kath.

  * * *

  A cool wind was blowing the next afternoon when Evan walked through the door of Icarus Pawn. Her throat was dry. Roger Inke sat behind the counter polishing a tarnished wristwatch. The greyhound huddled near his feet. They both glanced up listlessly.

  Inke smirked. “You’re spoiled for choice today.” He nodded at new paintings on the wall. “Decorate your boudoir.”

  He swept a hand. LeBron James. Sasquatch. The Little Mermaid.

  Evan approached the counter. In her front pocket, her phone was recording a voice memo.

  “I know it was you and your nephew,” she said.

  “Say what?”

  She pressed her hands to the counter to keep them from trembling. “You and Wayne are the people who conned my gram out of her money.”

  Inke’s eyes went cold and cloudy, like ice chips. “If you ain’t buying, you need to go.”

  She jabbed the counter with her index finger. “She sold a Volvo to Pinky’s used car dealership. Wayne overheard her explaining that it was her late husband’s car. She gave the dealership her address and phone number—which was all Wayne needed to call her up anonymously and pull her in.”

  Evan was playing a hunch. Roger Inke could have been the one who phoned Kath, but his voice sounded old and worn, unlike the voice she’d briefly heard on the phone—the voice of the man who’d convinced Kath he was Evan’s brother.

  Inke’s eyes stayed opaque. “Get out.”

  “She and I went back to the dealership. She saw Wayne,” Evan said. “She heard him talking to a customer and recognized his voice. He was the caller.”

  Inke stood and came out from behind the counter, shoulders tight. �
�I said, get out.”

  Evan backed toward the exit. “Wayne had already phoned her four times—she wasn’t going to forget what he sounded like.”

  He was stalking after her, pointing at the door, but when she said that, his expression tightened with surprise and what seemed incipient suspicion.

  “Why’d you have to be so greedy?” she said. “The first five thousand bucks Gram paid was bad enough, but then another five, and when Wayne called back again for even more?” She sneered. “Pigs shoving your snouts into the trough over and over because you can’t get enough.”

  That may have been too much. The look in Inke’s eyes turned poisonous. Crap. Evan spun and took a sharp step toward the door. Inke jumped in front of her, blocking it.

  “Move,” she said.

  He stayed put. “You tell me Wayne’s ripping people off, and expect to just waltz out of here?”

  Clinging to a thin thread of bravado, she tried to see past his shoulder out the door. “I said you’re both ripping people off. Don’t act aggrieved.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Which part?”

  “That he took her for ten grand. Prove it right now.”

  She could have kneed him in the groin and run. Her nerves were screeching. But what he’d just said was better than a confession. It told her that Inke already had doubts about young Wayne, who treated him with casual disrespect and who brought his dog back from her walks exhausted, with dirty paws.

  “You think I’m going to show you a receipt, with her personal information and account numbers?” she said. “Forget it. You scammed my gram—you’re not going to scam me.”

  “I can check this,” he said. “Real quick.”

  He turned the sign on the door to CLOSED. Pointed at the counter.

  She hesitated, then walked to the back of the shop with him breathing on her neck.

  At the counter he got on the computer and brought up Western Union. The site said “MONEY IN MINUTES. 500,000 locations worldwide for cash pickup.”

  Bending over his cell phone, Inke scrolled through photos. Evan got just a glimpse. He was perusing snapshots of credit cards. Belonging to customers, she’d bet—his or the used car dealership’s. After some thought he chose one. He checked the card number carefully as he typed it into the computer. And he checked the cardholder’s name and spelling with equal care.

  He hit SEND.

  “Now we’ll see,” he said darkly. He picked up the store phone and punched in a number.

  A few seconds later, Wayne apparently answered. Inke said, “Got one.”

  Evan’s heartbeat kicked up.

  “Get over to the cashpoint in Mountain View and pick it up,” Inke said. “Yeah, right now. I had to reel this one in. And I get the sense they might be on the verge of figuring it out.”

  Evan fought the urge to fidget.

  “Just do it,” Inke said. “Name on the money order—” he checked the credit card image on his cell phone “—Arthur Mannheim.” He set the cell down. “Then get over here straightaway.”

  Another pause, more annoyance. “Because I said so. I have something to show you. You’ll like it. Just hurry.”

  Win. That’s what Evan was thinking: a complete win. This was evidence of intent to commit fraud. She took a step away from Inke.

  He reached across the counter and grabbed her wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long before the door buzzer rang and Wayne strutted in. He looked flushed. The wind gusted and paintings battered against the wall.

  Wayne marched down the aisle, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the door. “Sign blew the wrong way round. Says you’re closed.”

  “But you didn’t bother to fix it, did you?” Inke said.

  “What’s your problem?” Wayne reached the counter. “What do you want to show me?”

  Inke nodded at Evan. “She says you been shortchanging me.”

  And she realized her mistake, and inexperience. They had her outnumbered. She wasn’t a good undercover operative. Or even a wily lawyer in training. Just stupid.

  “What are you talking about?” Wayne said.

  “Just want to make sure you’re giving me the full amount,” Inke said. “You better have brought five thousand dollars.”

  Wayne’s eyes flared, and his face reddened. “What kind of stories has she been telling you?”

  Evan really needed to get out of there.

  “You don’t trust me?” Wayne said.

  “Show me,” Inke said.

  “On her word? The word of a stranger?”

  “A stranger whose grandmother paid out,” Inke said.

  Wayne glared at Evan. Then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out an envelope, and slapped it down on the counter.

  “Count it.” He cut a glance at his uncle, then leaned toward her, hulking. “She’s pulling something. On you and me.”

  The door buzzed again and blew open in a violent gust of wind. Papers swirled from the countertop. Wayne was inches from her face.

  In the doorway, two men appeared.

  Inke said, “We’re closed.”

  “Good.”

  They were in their late twenties, lean, fit, slide rule straight, with eyes trained to sight enemy fighters from fifty miles away while flying at the speed of sound. One white, one black, both deadly, and beloved. Evan’s brother, Brian, and his friend Marc Dupree filled the aisle. Side by side, they walked toward the counter.

  Wayne turned. “The hell are you?”

  Marc said, “I’m the guy who was in the hospital in Mexico.”

  Brian said, “I’m the one who was in jail. Looks like I busted out. Oops.”

  He smiled, like a shark. Roger Inke had gone absolutely still.

  “What is this?” he said.

  The wind blew hard through the open door. A set of chimes rang off-key.

  And the envelope with the money lifted off the counter. Inke swiped at it but the envelope caught air and swooped to the floor.

  “Wayne, get it,” he said.

  Wayne attempted to stomp on the envelope with his boot, but missed. It scooted along the floor. Evan lunged for it.

  The greyhound beat her to it.

  Tyche grabbed the envelope and streaked out the door like she’d been catapulted.

  Inke and Wayne charged after her, shouting insults at both the dog and each other. At the door, they shoved and grappled to get out first, then ran down the sidewalk.

  Brian put an arm around Evan’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “More than.”

  * * *

  Nikki phoned while Evan was walking to her car with Brian and Marc.

  “I got it. All of it.” Her roommate’s voice was fizzing. “Got photos of Wayne. I followed him from the used car dealership to the Western Union cashpoint. Got pics of him going in, signing the receipt, collecting the cash. And I talked to the clerk after he left. She let me snap a photo of the receipt. He signed it ‘Arthur Mannheim.’ Evan, we’ve got them.”

  “Sensational,” Evan said. “Nikki, you’re a star.”

  She kept thinking: that close. The money had been within her reach.

  When they reached her car, a white piece of paper was stuck beneath the windshield wiper, fluttering in the wind.

  It was a blank envelope. It was the envelope that had held the cash. It was empty.

  * * *

  Evan and Nikki took all the information to the police. Detective Mendoza was amazed to get it. And he scolded them severely for taking such a risk. But he was happy to download the conversation Evan had recorded with Wayne and Roger, and to copy Nikki’s photos and take her statement.

  He walked them out. At the station door he paused, looking stern, then smiled broad
ly.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  He called that night, after hauling the Inkes to jail.

  Their arrest featured on the local TV news, and in the next day’s paper. The fallout featured in later reports. Wayne and Roger turned on each other during interrogation. Once out on bond, their blame casting turned ugly. Arguments and insinuations escalated to accusations and threats. Two weeks later, on the sidewalk in front of Icarus Pawn, Roger challenged Wayne to come at him. Unfortunately, at the time Wayne was at the wheel of the orange Camaro he’d borrowed from the used car lot. He came straight at Roger and kept going, through the front window of the pawnshop, and the car had to be marked down from $9,999.

  Tyche, apparently, was the sole mourner at Roger’s funeral. By then, Wayne was back in jail, being held without bail. It was a rough, shocking end to a nasty episode, and for Evan a pointed lesson in how the world worked.

  Later, she stopped by Kath’s house, to toast their bitter half victory. She talked to her grandmother about filing a civil suit to recover her money—they could sue Roger Inke’s estate, she suggested. They could try to attach the proceeds from the sale of the pawnshop. Arthur Mannheim’s credit card company had done exactly that to recoup its missing five thousand dollars. Or they could sue the cashpoint that had let Wayne collect Kath’s money without asking for a legitimate ID.

  Kath shook her head. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  “But, Gram...”

  Kath took her hand. Her eyes were bright. “It’s done, Evan. Let it go.”

  * * *

  That was the image shining in Evan’s memory as she opened the newspaper-wrapped package. Just over three years since Kath had been scammed. Exactly three since Evan had faced off against the Inkes. Graduation, a job, a move to Santa Barbara. Kath finding herself again, traveling. Confident, since that day. Evan unwrapped the last layer of newspaper and saw what was inside.

  She stared. Her laugh, when it came, was sharp with shock. She understood now. About that day at Icarus Pawn, and how an envelope that had been emptied of cash ended up on the windshield of her car.