by Jay Atkinson
Witnesses stated that there was no damage to the Z28's windshield— indicating the thief did not break his own nose. The trouble was, after just one day in the tow yard, the car disappeared. Detectives from McCain Investigations were sent to look for it.
As we approach Newburyport, Mark pauses in his tale. The Chain Bridge is closed for winter repairs, and we must detour through the lower end of Salisbury Beach, past the tidal flats and the small, brightly painted stores, their signs mounted on two-wheelers proclaiming “Totally Nude Dancing” and “We Have Seaworms.” Over the Route I bridge we descend the ramp into Newburyport, a posh little town composed of old sea captains' homes and various boutiques and restaurants arranged along State Street. We are armed with a book of New England street maps, and I plot a course through the tangled downtown streets while Mark drives. Two blocks, and we enter a working-class neighborhood of two- and three-family homes clustered on a narrow street overlooking the old port and the delta of the Merrimack. Because of their proximity to the ocean, even these rickety saltboxes are worth a pretty penny.
Mark slows down, peering at the house numbers and the various trucks parked along the street. “There it is,” he says, pulling in behind a new-looking Dodge four-by-four. The bed is piled high with snow.
This is my first “door knock,” and I'm a little queasy when we step out of the car. Mark is six foot three and he's a cop, but I don't have a badge or a gun or a court order; I'm hiding behind my sunglasses. As we approach the house, Mark imparts a little wisdom acquired from Joe McCain, advice that has stood him in good stead over the fifteen years he's been rapping on doors.
“It's all about your demeanor,” he says. “The guy might have a machete, or it might be a Ph.D. with a pipe. You read your situation and you react to it. Grovel. Play dumb. Be forceful. Whatever it is.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“You have to think on your feet,” he says. “Peek inside. Does he have a picture of Bobby Orr on the wall, or JFK? Connect with that. Joe always broke the ice with his grandchildren, to get the guy talking. ‘I'm everybody's grampa,' he used to say.”
We turn in at the gate and go up the walk, and I feel totally unequipped for the task at hand. It's a funny feeling, like being twelve years old again and out in the woods with seventh-grade beauty Cheryl LaPlante and afraid to kiss her.
We're looking for a guy named Paul Browning, who has taken a very hard line with the bank's collection officer, yelling about his lawyer on those rare occasions that he's remained on the phone long enough to utter an intelligible remark. Glancing at the weather-beaten clapboards and the dead, snow-strangled geraniums in the window boxes, I'm expecting a large, raving, whiskey-soaked lunatic with forearms the size of championship salmon.
Mark rings the bell. A moment later the door opens to reveal a small, chunky man in stained gray sweats. He has a sallow, indoor complexion and lank brown hair, and is wearing an old pair of socks with a hole in the big toe of his right foot. Behind him in the entranceway is a lopsided piano, the keyboard deep in unopened mail, all of it bills.
“Paul Browning?” asks Mark, handing the man his business card. Browning nods, blinking in the sunlight.
Inside the house is dark, smelling of mothballs and paint thinner. “What do you want?” Browning asks, his gaze shifting from Mark to me and then back again. I feel ridiculous.
“You're in default on your car loan,” Mark says. “Three months in arrears.”
Browning insists that his check for two of those three payments cleared the day before, and that the third payment is now only twenty-four hours late. “The bank has been royal ball-busters about this,” he says. “I'm seriously thinking about suing them. They're discussing my credit with third parties, and that's clearly illegal.”
He says that his carpentry business is foundering, and his only income at present is the rent he collects from the other half of his two-family. Mark is diplomatic, commiserating about the lousy economy. While we stand on the front stoop, he produces his cell phone and speed-dials Ray, the collections officer at the bank. Browning recoils like he's a vampire and Donahue has just produced a crucifix.
“I'm just trying to work things out,” Mark says.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Browning says, “I refuse to talk to anyone from the bank.”
Donahue acts as go-between, relaying information from the bank to the offending creditor. Once he fell three months behind, Mark explains to Browning, the double payment was inadequate to remove the flag on his loan. Now Browning is on the hook for the full amount and has to pay it all right away, even if the truck is repossessed and sold at auction. It's a discomfiting aspect of contracts law that the bank could win a judgment for, say, $12,000, and Browning would be deprived of the truck yet required to pay back the entire amount or never get another car loan.
“Oh,” he says, eyes downcast.
When Mark tries once more to get him on the phone with the bank, or give us a postdated check for his late payment, Browning retreats behind his threat of a lawsuit, and the glum admission that he does not have the money.
Mark wishes him luck, and we head off down the walkway. Arriving at the car, he says, “Deadbeat. We'll be back with the tow truck.”
We're going to Taunton next, an hour and a half to the south. This is the grunt work at a P.I. firm, the stuff that keeps the lights turned on and the office heated. Out on 495, huge embankments of snow are folded back from the shoulder, the woods and fields stretching away to the horizon on either side. The highway is flecked with bits of sand and salt, metallic blue in the sunlight, and as we cruise along in the center lane, Mark resumes his story of the car thief and police brutality case. In the course of their investigation, he and Joe McCain learned from Attorney Doyle that the Car-A-Torium in Billerica had suffered a large number of car thefts, all of them Z28s and Camaros. It had gotten so bad that the dealer had created a separate fenced-in area for his “muscle cars,” but the larceny continued.
With Joe Doyle's help, McCain Investigations was able to determine that an employee of the dealership was having new keys made and leaving the doors unlocked and extra ignition keys beneath the floor mats of the designated cars. That employee's identity became crucial to the police brutality case.
McCain instructed Donahue to set up an appointment with the auto dealer's head of security. Donahue was told to offer the dealer a trade: produce the Z28 from the police chase, which they'd heard via the rumor mill had been sent from the tow yard to the dealership for repairs, and McCain Investigations would tell the head of security who the inside guy was.
“We'll all get what we need,” said Donahue.
The head of security was a muscular, dark-haired fellow named Chuck Rossevetti, and the meeting was held in an airless little room overlooking the sales yard. Outside, row after row of new cars were lined up, their gleaming snouts pointed toward the street. After hearing the offer, Rossevetti left the office for a few minutes. “I can't find it,” he said, when he got back.
“Who has it?” Donahue asked.
“We don't know where it is. It got picked up.”
Donahue returned the next day to try again and Rossevetti asked why he wanted to see that particular Z28. “Look, give us the Z and we'll tell you how they're stealing the cars,” he said.
“I already have that,” said Rossevetti.
Donahue felt he was bluffing. “I have the person's name, the scam, their chop shop,” he said. “You'll look like a fucking hero.”
“I have to go talk to corporate legal,” said Rossevetti and left the office again. A few minutes later, he came back and said, “Legal says they can't find the car right now, but if you want to tell us who the inside person is, that would be great.”
“Let me tell you something,” said Donahue, taking a gamble. “The car is part of a police brutality case. The cops beat up the kid pretty bad and we want to inspect the interior to check out their story that he was hurt in the wreck.”
> Rossevetti stood up. “I was a cop for six years. I would never ‘do' a fellow cop that way,” he said. “Get out.”
Suddenly, Rossevetti's intransigence and unpleasantness made a lot more sense: he knew the cops had beat up the car thief and, as an ex-cop, was helping them hide the Z28 with the undamaged windshield.
“It was all my fault— I told him the truth,” Mark recalls.
“I don't need an ambulance-chasing, lowlife P.I. coming in here to tell me who's stealing cars off my lot,” Rossevetti said.
Holding onto the negotiation by a very slender thread, Donahue let it go. “Talk about lowlife, you work in a fucking car dealership,” he said.
“Get the fuck out of here,” said Rossevetti.
Driving away from the Car-A-Torium, Donahue called Joe McCain to give him the news. McCain dialed in Joe Doyle the lawyer and Donahue explained what had happened.
“You sent this rookie, and he fucked up my case,” said Doyle, blowing a fuse. “You better get to the bottom of this, McCain, and call me back.”
Doyle hung up. In the years since the shooting, Joe McCain's hypoglycemia had grown worse, and so had his mood swings. Mark expected a barrage of insults from his boss and mentor, but there was only silence on the line.
“Hello?” said Mark.
“Yeah, I'm here,” said McCain in a quiet voice. “Just come back in and we'll talk about it.”
Mark chuckles at the recollection. “I thought Joe was gonna kill me,” he says. “But he knew it was his mistake in sending me there.”
Back at the office, Mark explained to Joe that he thought the dealership would want to nab the car thief and find out the truth. “You thought what you thought,” said McCain. “You gotta do what you're told, and you weren't told to say a goddamned thing about police brutality.” When Mark mentioned Rossevetti's six-year career in law enforcement, Joe let out a snort. “He didn't last very long,” said McCain. “He couldn't have been much of a cop.”
Arriving in Taunton, Mark and I use the street map to locate the residence of Eugene F. Rearborne, who has defaulted on his loan for an Isuzu Trooper. The Rearborne home is a modest, brown-shingled ranch on a quiet street. American flags line the walk, fluttering in the breeze, and Mark and I pass two small concrete angels when we go up and knock on the door. There's a dusting of snow on the driveway marked by tire tracks running down from the garage and the house is dark. No one answers the door.
“Let's try where he works,” says Mark.
Back on the highway to Weymouth, and a small industrial park beside the Expressway. On the drive Mark uses his cell phone to call Rearborne's employer and when the receptionist pages him over the intercom, Donahue hangs up.
“Okay, he's there,” Mark says.
In the case file is a description of the vehicle— a new gray, four-door Isuzu Trooper— and a blurry, third-generation photocopy of Eugene Rearborne's driver's license. It's barely a smudge, like looking at a Rorschach, but I see his squat, oval head, the shape of a compressed bowling ball, and the staring skull holes of his eyes. Then Donahue tells me that I'm going to work this one. I gaze out the window at the industrial wreckage that lines the southern approach to Boston and wonder just what I'll say to Eugene Rearborne.
Rearborne's occupation is “shipping and receiving,” and as we cruise through the lot of the small manufacturing company where he works, Donahue spots a gray SUV parked on the slanted drive in front of the loading dock. “Bingo,” he says.
Mark drives around to the side of the building and parks in the deep well of shade, out of sight. The company is housed in a boxlike, corrugated metal shed, and this part of the building is windowless. Mark speed-dials Ray, the bank collections officer, and reaches across and opens my door.
“Go get the VIN [the vehicle identification number],” he says. “Make sure we've got the right car.”
I get out and stand by the car. “Where should I look?”
Donahue points to a little metal strip on the driver's side dash. “Right here,” he says. “All I need are the last five numbers. One-oh-nine-seven-seven.”
I shut the car door, and the concussion booms across the empty lot. Apparently most of the workers are at lunch. As I cross the snowy strip of lawn, there's a moment when I'm conscious of the absolute nullity of my experience as a detective. My heart starts to beat more rapidly.
The front of the building is deserted. I walk around the hood of the car and lean over the appropriate spot in the windshield, trying to look casual. My eyes scan back and forth, up and down. The only printed material is a little plastic strip that says “air bag.”
It feels like I've been standing there for an hour. Without anything to report, I retrace my footprints to where Mark is waiting, a huge grin on his face. He rolls down his window and gives me a thumbs-up, and I decant my own thumb downward.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I can't find it.”
Donahue laughs. He reaches outside the car and runs his fingers up and down the vertical edge of the driver's side windshield. “Sometimes it's etched on a little plate right along here,” he says.
“Okay.” I linger by the car for a moment. “What do I say if he comes out?”
“Have a pretext,” says Mark, rolling up his window against the cold.
On the way to the truck I realize that I've forgotten the sequence of numbers but decide not to go back and get them. I figure on seeing what's there and sneaking a look at the file upon my return, so Mark doesn't know how stupid I am. The pretext is another concern. What am I going to say? Nice truck, how much are you asking? My sister has the same thing. How do you like it? I work around the corner and was walking by and thought, What a great-looking truck. . . .
If Eugene Rearborne comes out, it's going to take all my resolve not to just shriek and run away. What do I care if he owes the bank money? In the time before caller I.D., when they used to hound me about my student loan, I would lie and say I wasn't home. Everybody does it.
The truck is still there, like an insult. Again I study the edge of the windshield all around, feeling very conspicuous, then move along the driver's side window. Suddenly a critical piece of evidence presents itself, and I retreat over the battered lawn.
“It's a Mitsubishi,” I tell Donahue.
“Wrong car,” he says, with a shrug. “It happens. How'd that feel?”
I climb in, exhaling a long breath. “Like I was about to receive the opening kickoff in the Super Bowl. The pretext had me all screwed up. I was gonna ask him how much he paid for it, and then realized that wasn't such a good idea.”
“He's probably at lunch. Let's go get something to eat,” says Mark. “Then we'll come back.”
As I've seen time and again, nobody eats lunch like cops from Somerville. Within minutes I'm enjoying a piece of haddock at a faux country tavern a short distance from the industrial park. Mark feels sorry for me and picks up the check.
When we return to the manufacturing company, there are several more cars in the lot but no Isuzu Trooper. Figuring that Rearborne's wife drives the Trooper and he's got some old beater for commuting to Weymouth, Mark decides to visit the front desk and have Mr. Rearborne paged. Because, in the end, the bank doesn't want the car, they want the money.
The “lobby” is just a space containing a worn sofa and coffee table scattered with old magazines, located at the foot of a very steep staircase. The receptionist peers over the railing from above and asks our business, and Mark climbs partway up the stairs and extends his arm, handing the woman a business card printed only with his name and a cell phone number.
“We'd like to speak to Eugene Rearborne, please,” he says.
The woman tells us to have a seat and a moment later pages Rearborne over the intercom. Based on the indistinct license photo, I am expecting some kind of war criminal, but in reality Eugene F. Rearborne is a small, porcine fellow in his late fifties, with gray bristles atop his head and the gray, sagging skin of a heavy smoker. He d
escends the stairs, looks Mark up and down, and glances over at me.
“What's this about?” asks Rearborne.
The receptionist is staring at us from above. “Let's go outside,” says Mark.
The temperature is dropping, and our conversation makes little white clouds that stream away from us on the wintry air. Donahue explains that we represent the bank and have an order to repossess Rearborne's car. We've come to talk it over with him to save the indignity of having the vehicle towed away in front of his co-workers or neighbors.
“I'm seeing my lawyer at three o'clock,” says Rearborne. “The dealership forged my signature on some papers and that's illegal. My beef is with the dealership.”
But his loan is with the bank, Donahue reminds him. Basically, Rearborne has two choices: give up the vehicle or pay off his arrears. His dispute with the car dealership is a separate, civil matter. “I want to talk to you about the repossession order,” Mark says. “You're going to fuck up your credit.”
He goes on to tell Rearborne that he could still win a judgment from the dealership in the amount of the loan that he could keep, after the payments are made or the vehicle is turned over to the bank.
Mr. Rearborne is not hostile or angry. Mostly he's just embarrassed, and I am embarrassed for him. Private detectives are rarely, if ever, called in when someone is having a run of good luck.
“I'm not giving anybody a hard time,” says Rearborne. “If my lawyer tells me to give up the car when I meet with him today, I'll leave it in my driveway for you.”
Mark is satisfied with that. He shakes Rearborne's hand, and then I shake the guy's hand and he goes back to work and we head for our car, stamping our feet against the paving stones and flapping our arms to stay warm.
“I feel bad for the guy,” I tell Mark as we're driving away.
“That's why I took him outside,” says Donahue. “He's a nine-to-fiver. He's got a house, a family. He's not like that bullshitter on the tugboat.”