His eyes went wide with a look of disbelief at my lack of mathematical aptitude. His face betrayed how surprised he must have been to learn that there were still some blue-collar white folks in the city who hadn’t grown up with the benefit of a pricey private school education. Finally, once he’d realized that I wasn’t even going to attempt to crunch the numbers, Regan regained his composure long enough to respond. “Not counting the property damage, or any other merchandise which might be missing? Just from the theft of our new shirts alone, I’d say that I’m out at least forty thousand dollars.”
I couldn’t hold his stare, and my eyes fell away as I flushed with embarrassment. In an unmistakable show of defeat, I finally flipped open my notebook and stood ready with a pen. It looked as if I was going to get stuck fielding an incident report after all, if only because of the high dollar amount involved. I decided to take another long moment to let all the tension pass while pretending to study a box of souvenir salt water taffy which was carried in at least half a dozen other tourist traps nearby. The Scarlett O’Hara’s price tag gave me another case of sticker shock, as it somewhat outrageously declared that four ounces of cheap candy wrapped in wax paper and stuffed into a novelty gift box was a bargain at only $8.95. The rest of the store’s shelves seemed to be strewn with endless quantities of the same low-quality junk– souvenir coffee table books that would never be read, inedible ribbon candy packaged in collectible tins, and glassware with novelty etchings which were destined to be forgotten in the back of somebody’s kitchen cabinet. If the layers of dust covering the shelves were anything to go by, it looked like it had weeks, if not months, since Scarlett O’Hara’s had actually made a sale. I scratched my head in amazement, wondering why a multi-millionaire real estate mogul like Duke Regan would be wasting his time on such a lame business. Who knows, maybe it was all just some kind of a tax write-off, although I was certain that the vandals has actually helped his bottom line by providing the basis for a whopping insurance claim.
After what seemed like a respectable moment of silence, I settled into the familiar routine of gathering all the necessary information. My personal style of interrogation involved sticking to the facts, just the facts, like on that old “Dragnet” television show. It’s been my experience that cutting out all the superfluous details always made for a more succinct report, and it also saved a lot of my valuable time. As I started the interview, my tone of voice shifted into a clipped, no-nonsense cadence. “Sir, you said you left the store right after closing up. What time was that?”
“Six o’clock” he answered. “Although business usually tapers off long before then. We only stay open later during the peak summer months.”
“And what time did you come back here?”
“Just before dialing 911. Seven-thirty, perhaps?”
I scribbled the numbers down in my notebook, then fumbled around on my belt in an effort to reach my walkie-talkie once more. Without looking down, I adjusted the volume knob ever so slightly. Some rookie working patrol down in the East Side projects was taking his sweet time about calling in a traffic stop, so I held down my transmit button to cut him off. “714 to control” I crooned sweetly.
“714, stand by please!” The dispatcher sounded kind of hot, almost as if I’d tried to snatch away her fried chicken or something. “Another unit’s pulling a traffic stop!”
I bit my lip with irritation. It was almost insulting to be reprimanded like a child, so I charged forward before the patrol rookie had time to pipe up again. “Control, just confirming you have a crime scene unit responding to this location? It’s in reference to a 29. Forced entry.”
The airwaves went quiet for another couple of seconds. Finally, just as I thought for sure that the dispatcher must have been giving me the silent treatment as a punishment, she snapped back in a harsh tone. With a voice that was practically dripping pure evil off every syllable, she replied, “I copy, 714. Crime scene is still en route to your 20. Stand by.”
I snapped the radio securely back into its holder and cranked the volume knob down once again. After a second’s thought, a better idea occurred to me and I just turned the damned thing off altogether. Now that any possible distractions were out of the way, I was free to turn my full attention back toward Mr. Regan. “Sir, one of our crime scene specialists is en route now, and he should be here shortly.” I didn’t want to get the guy’s hopes or anything, so I shifted into a canned narrative that I’d developed over the years I spent working as a property crimes detective. “Now I can’t guarantee that we’ll gather enough evidence to identify a suspect, but I can assure you we’ll do everything in our power to make an arrest. However, since this case is likely the work of a gang of experienced professionals…” I said, waving a hand across the ransacked room to emphasize my point, “it’s probable that the perpetrators covered up their fingerprints by wearing gloves.”
Mr. Regan nodded in resignation. It seemed almost strange to me, how easily he accepted my theory of a crack group of seasoned hoods targeting his broken-down tourist trap, but I certainly wasn’t about to second-guess my stroke of good fortune. A grave expression had sunk over his face, emphasizing a deep series of wrinkles that I hadn’t noticed before. Too much time in the tanning bed, most likely. And you know what else, it seemed kind of odd that Regan didn’t act overly broken up about losing the bulk of his store’s inventory, but I figured that was probably only because the dude was dripping with cash to begin with. Between his fat bank accounts and all those slummy investment properties, he could probably afford to take a hit every so often. “I understand, Officer, and I appreciate all your efforts. Do you think there’s any chance of recovering my merchandise, or should I just write it all off as a loss?”
I choked back a laugh. At that very moment, those thousands of novelty T-shirts were probably already on their way to any number of flea markets and garage sales across the Palmetto State. Even as we spoke, some redneck mom in Goose Creek probably had a few of his shirts spread out on the living room floor of her singlewide trailer, picking through the colors and designs while she tried to assemble new spring wardrobes for all eight of her kids. But since there was no way in hell I was stupid enough to share my personal opinion with a damned civilian, I did my best to put a shine on the situation. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Regan. I’ll make sure to give this case my personal attention.”
The intimate yet noncommittal touch seemed to pacify him, at least for the moment, so I went back to picking my way through the mess. It was a slow process since I had to watch my step over the fallen shelves, and it took a great deal of agility to avoid all the loose piles of damaged merchandise which were strewn about the floor. Normally it would have been my golden opportunity to pick up a light injury in the line of duty, and for a moment I seriously considered taking a dive right then and there. Losing my footing and having a slow, controlled fall would have undoubtedly made for another lucrative worker’s compensation claim, especially if the department was willing to throw in a couple weeks off for rest and recuperation. I decided against it, though, since it’s been my experience that it’s always better to score an injury during the early morning hours. There’s a ton of paperwork involved with workplace accidents and besides, the last thing I wanted was to get stuck in a downtown emergency room next to all the whackjobs who come out on the night shift.
3.
Just a few seconds later, my moment of quiet reflection was shattered by a screeching sound in front of the store. The noise was the sound of car tires braking hard, and it echoed up the narrow street. When I turned to look, I was blinded by the flashing glare of a revolving blue light reflecting off the plate glass window. I took a few tentative steps closer in order to steal a quick peek outside, then instantly regretted my move. One of our crime scene station wagons had just arrived and parked with three wheels up on the sidewalk, almost as if it was responding to an active robbery or something. As the driver’s side do
or flew open, out bounded all five feet nothing of Corporal Jason Mealor. The kid took the shop’s front steps two at a time, his movements powered by an unbridled passion for his criminal forensics. I swear, just the sight of that guy was enough to leave me exhausted.
As Mr. Regan unlocked the door Mealor burst inside with a full head of steam, his enthusiasm leading him on. The pasty little twerp was holding a huge digital camera in one chubby hand and a bright orange tackle box full of crime scene geek stuff in the other. Mealor’s normally pale face was flushed red from the excitement, almost as if he’d been running lights and sirens the entire way over. The kid pumped his head up and down at a rhythmic pace, as if our mess of a crime scene was precisely the situation that he’d been expecting to find. Turning to face me, Mealor let loose with a wide grin which showed off two disgustingly perfect rows of lily-white teeth. “Goosey! How’ve you been? How’s your girlfriend Katie? And you’re working down in foot patrol now? When did you get transferred? So where’s the point of entry?”
Over the years Mealor had earned himself quite a reputation as the department snitch, and all the other cops usually just referred to him by his official nickname of “Squealer.” He and I had been forced to work together on a couple of cases before, and unfortunately that meant we were required to stay on speaking terms. Since I was one of the few cops who were able to tolerate the guy’s presence for more than two minutes at a clip, Squealer must have taken my patience to mean that we’d become best buds for life.
I couldn’t decide which of his questions I should answer first, so I settled for the most recent. “Hey Mealor. Good to see you.” That was a bold-faced lie, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It looks like the thieves made entry from the rear.” Squealer hung on my every word, letting his head fall into a series of quick nods. It looked like he was taking the case much more seriously than I was, so I chose to hold off on any of the obvious homosexual jokes. “They made off with a ton of T-shirts that had just been delivered today. Looks like thousands of dollars worth of merchandise might be missing.”
Squealer cocked his head to the side as he took a few seconds to consider the facts. His neck was twisted into an awkward angle, and there was no possible way it could have been a comfortable pose. “T-shirts? Huh. That’s got to be a first.” He bent over, setting his equipment gently down on the floor before standing back upright and gingerly stepping over to the cashwrap area. After one quick glance at the register, he turned his attention to Mr. Regan. “Sir, loose cash is usually the first thing that any thief will go for, but I see that both these drawers are empty. Do you keep any money at all on the premises overnight? Is there a safe in the back office, maybe?”
Mr. Regan nodded in the affirmative. His nods were much more natural gestures than Squealer’s, whose head movements tended to come across as more like mini-seizures. The dude had a strong chin, the kind of solid facial foundation that made all his expressions seem like he really meant business. “Yes, but we always keep the office locked after hours. I’ve already taken a look, though, and it doesn’t appear as if the thieves tried to get in. We’ve got a reinforced security door there, you see.”
Squealer tapped the nail of his middle finger against his upper teeth. That guy’s most annoying nervous habits always seemed to come to the surface during periods of intense concentration, and I found myself gritting my own teeth since the constant clicking made it impossible for me to think straight. “Hmm….” Squealer muttered. “That’s highly unusual.” After another long moment, he finally came back down to earth. “Do you mind if I take a look over there, sir?”
If Mr. Regan was at all inconvenienced by the odd request, he sure didn’t show it. I’ll say this for the dude, he minded his manners a lot better than I could have. Regan simply turned and headed towards the rear of the store with Squealer falling in on his heels. “Of course, Officer” he said, unruffled. “But perhaps it’s possible that the thieves got frightened away? That they simply fled the store after grabbing the T-shirts and committing their vandalism?”
With all the newly-opened space on the salesfloor, Squealer’s shrill voice carried further than it normally would have. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible…but we’re obviously not looking at a quick piece of work here. It would have taken these people some time to load up all of your new merchandise, and there’s simply too much inventory gone for them to have carried it away by hand. No, these thieves almost certainly would have had to back a truck into the alley. I tell you what, after we finish here I’ll start canvassing the area for any witnesses.”
While Squealer was keeping himself busy explaining the intricacies of crime scene investigations, I did my level best to ignore him. Since I wasn’t technically working as a detective anymore, the case just wasn’t my problem. My only remaining duty was to put one more radio call in to our dispatcher, get a case number for the incident and bang out a report. Barring any unforeseen surprises, I figured that I’d probably be able to hold my narrative to under five lines. Most of the supplemental information wasn’t likely to change much overnight, so it could just as easily be left for the dayshift crew to handle.
The two of them came back only a few minutes later and naturally, Squealer piped up first. “He’s right, Goosey! There wasn’t even so much as an attempt to force that office door open.” The little rat drew himself up to his full height, coming to a stop only just above the countertop. He had to tilt his head up at an impossible angle in order to look Mr. Regan directly in the eye. “Sir, I don’t suppose you take any kind of security precautions with your business? A motion-activated alarm system, perhaps? Video cameras positioned at the front or rear entrances?”
Regan’s face flushed from embarrassment. It was pretty obvious that a man of his standing wasn’t accustomed to being interrogated by a mere public servant. “I’m sorry but no, although I imagine that my insurance premiums are sure to skyrocket once I submit this claim. I’ll make a note to have my accountant perform a cost benefit analysis this week, in order to determine if it’d be worthwhile to install a security system. I have to admit, though, I never thought that such a crime might happen in a safe area like this! After all, aren’t your officers required to perform routine patrols throughout the City Market?”
This time it was my turn to feel embarrassed, and my face went hot. I had to move quick before my personal patrol tactics became the main focus of our little chat, so I injected myself into the conversation without further delay. “Here you go, sir” I said, stuffing a business card into Mr. Regan’s open hand. “I should be able to have the initial report turned in before close of business this evening. Just give your insurance company this case number, and that should be all they need to start the claims process.”
Regan took my card and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “Thank you very much, Officer Larsen. Or do you prefer to be called by your nickname. Goosey, was it?”
My cheeks were positively burning with rage at how Squealer had outed me. I certainly wasn’t proud of either my unique nickname or the circumstance behind its origin, so I usually only accepted the ribbing from very close friends. I certainly didn’t know Regan very well, but since the guy was causing me to do work he was in serious danger of making it onto my enemies list.
Taking absolutely no notice of my warning scowl, he carried right on with his sob story. “I’ve already alerted my insurance carrier’s incident response team, as a matter of fact. There’s a maintenance crew on the way here now, and hopefully they’ll be able to get that back door secured for the night.”
So what do you need me for, I wondered to myself. It sounded as if Regan had things pretty much under control, so I guessed the whole process of calling the cops was probably nothing more than a formality. Somebody has to sign off on all the paperwork, after all. But now that the bulk of my heavy lifting was done, I did my best to stall for a few more minutes. This case was a rare opportunity for me to rub shoulders with one
of Charleston’s most powerful businessmen, and I certainly wasn’t about to let it slip past. A lot of the other cops at CPD ran these little side businesses during their off time, and I’d been kicking around the idea of hanging out a shingle myself. The ideal gig would be a lucrative one, of course, some kind of part-time hustle that I could work entirely during the course of my regular patrol shifts. “That’s excellent, sir” I said, in an effort to butter him up before I delved further into his brain. “I wish that all of our citizens were as proactive as you.”
Regan flashed a polite smile at the compliment. I noticed that his teeth were perfectly aligned and dazzlingly white, even more so than Squealer’s, to the point where I had to charge ahead with my line of questioning before I was blinded by the way his fangs shimmered under the fluorescent overhead lights. “Sir, I’ve investigated a number of property crimes, but I’ve never had any personal experience with the whole claims process. How quickly do you think that your insurance company will respond once you’ve totaled up all your losses?”
Mr. Regan’s smile widened. It was clear that the world of legitimate business was a much more familiar territory for him than was the city of Charleston’s murky criminal underworld. “Well, Officer, the representative that I spoke to said they’ll be sending an adjuster by the store first thing tomorrow morning. Once he assesses the damage and confirms the scope of the loss, I should receive an initial settlement check shortly thereafter so as to begin replacing the stock. In sales, you see, time is money.”
I nodded sagely, saddened by the fact that it would still be another six days before I caught sight of my own paycheck. As much as I loved the bi-weekly ritual of watching my checking account bounce back into the black, it was always a sobering experience when I read my paystub and saw just how little the Department valued my time. “I see. Well, sir, I certainly hope they’ll be able to get you back on your feet soon.”
On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) Page 4