But it’s not a set of keys. It’s a piece of paper or perhaps an envelope. Hard to tell.
The bill of the cap moves back and forth again. Another check of the area. The person then moves close to the door.
We can’t see what happens next because the visitor’s body is blocking the drone’s camera, but we can hear it.
The soft squeak of a hinge, a long scrape of paper, and then the sound of something light hitting the floor inside the showroom.
After a dull bang of metal, we see the visitor turn away from the door and hurry out of the lot. Thirty seconds later, he’s moved beyond the drone’s camera frame.
Jar and I remain where we are, in case he decides to make a return trip. The sidewalk in front of the dealership remains empty, but a minute after the visitor disappears, a car drives past, heading north.
It looks like an old Honda Accord but I can’t be positive.
“Try to get the license plate,” I say.
It’s possible the car does not belong to our visitor, but I think chances are better that it does.
Jar sends the drone after it, but the car speeds out of the craft’s range before she can get a good angle on the plate.
“Sorry,” she says, annoyed with herself.
“It’s okay. I couldn’t have done any better.”
She returns the drone to its previous position and sets it to sentry mode again. We check the feed and confirm the area is still deserted before we finally stand.
On the floor, just inside the showroom door, is the piece of paper that wasn’t there before. We walk over and I pick it up. It’s card stock. You know, like what’s used for postcards, only it’s cut larger than the ones you usually send to people from vacations. And it’s bright yellow. On the side I’m looking at is a preprinted address for a place called Mercy Cares, and in the top right corner is prepaid postage.
I flip the card cover. On the other side is a form, with questions followed by boxes that can be checked. For example, under WHICH DAY WORKS BEST FOR YOU? are five boxes for the days of the week. (Weekends apparently not included.) There’s another question asking for a preferred time, which also gives several choices. And a third asking WHAT WILL WE BE PICKING UP? Under this are checkboxes for ELECTRONICS, CLOTHING, APPLIANCES, TOYS, HOUSEWARES, and OTHER. The final question—ANY SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS?—is not followed by checkboxes but an empty area in which one’s answer can be written.
These questions take up about two-thirds of the back. Below them is this:
Fill out the card and mail it back to us, or call the number below for faster service.
Mercy Cares sincerely appreciates your donation.
Your items will go to those in need or sold in our Mercy Cares Store. Any money earned will be used to fund various programs, such as job training, early start, and elder meals.
After this come the Mercy Cares phone number and nonprofit ID number for tax write-off purposes.
I’ve received plenty of postcards like this in my lifetime. It’s the kind of thing that gets stuffed into mailboxes on what seems like a weekly basis. But it doesn’t usually happen after midnight, nor are the cards dropped off by someone who clearly isn’t leaving additional cards anywhere else in the neighborhood.
Jar, who’s been reading along with me, asks, “What’s that?” and points at a choice below the question about time. Specifically, at the box labelled 5-6 PM.
Beside the box are two small marks, each no longer than a quarter of a centimeter, one mark on top of the other like a tiny equal sign. They sit just outside the bottom right corner of the box, the bottom mark in line with the box’s bottom line.
It could just be an artifact of the printing, but then Jar says, “And that?” She points at the checkbox for Tuesday on the days-of-the-week inquiry. It, too, has a mark but only one, lined up with the bottom of the box.
I scan the rest of the card, but none of the other boxes have marks. I do notice something interesting, though. The colors of the ink used for the message on the card and the marks are similar but not the same. The words are more a deep charcoal than true black and have a matte finish. The marks are definitely black, and when I tilt the card so that it catches direct light from the floods outside, the marks glisten. The marks and the message were not printed at the same time, so the former cannot be written off as a press error.
I would still be tempted to write off the marks if there was only one. Someone handling the card could have accidentally touched it with a pen at that spot. But three marks in corresponding spots next to two different boxes, especially given the way the card was delivered? The tiny lines are not so easy to dismiss.
“A message?” I say.
“It could be.”
“Five to six p.m. Tuesday.”
Jar frowns.
“What?”
She hesitates. “I was just thinking that since five to six p.m. is the latest time on the card, the two lines could mean even later than that.”
It’s not a bad thought, and would explain why the sender marked the box more than once. But does the extra line mean six to seven p.m.? Or does it mean double it to ten p.m. to twelve a.m.? Or does it have no meaning except later than six?
“Did you see this?” Jar touches the card again.
Make that four marks.
Not a line this time but a dot, which is why I missed it. It’s between the words various and programs, and is made from the same darker ink. If it’s a mistake, it’s a perfect one, as it sits right in the center of the space between the s and the p, both horizontally and vertically.
Neither Jar nor I have any idea what it means.
I take a picture of both sides of the card, then place it back on the floor where we found it. After checking to make sure we’ve bugged everything we wanted to, we leave the building the way we came.
Once we’re back in the truck, Jar resets the security system. There’s going to be a blip in the security footage but it can’t be helped. If anyone takes a close look, they’ll see that at one second the floor beside the showroom door is empty, and in the next the card is sitting there. It’s annoying, but at least our visit will go undetected.
It’s not until we’re back at the duplex that I look at the movie I shot of the visitor at the door. I’ve been hoping I caught his face, but the visitor’s head is tilted downward the entire time, his features hidden by his cap. The only new piece of information the image provides is that the hat is black with a dark blue or purple bill, and displayed on the front is the logo for the Colorado Rockies baseball team.
Chapter Nineteen
Jar lets me sleep in until eight a.m. That gives me about six hours of rest, which is normally enough for me when I’m working. I’m feeling a bit more sluggish than usual, though, and it’s another forty-five minutes before I’m showered and dressed.
When I finally enter the living room, Jar says, “Coffee is in the kitchen.”
I go fetch myself a cup. After taking a couple of sips, I head back out, feeling marginally more awake.
“Sit.” She pats the empty chair, which she’s pulled around the card table so that it’s beside hers.
As soon as I plop down, Jar plays a video on her computer screen.
It’s a shot from our camera in the kitchen of the Prices’ house. Right after it starts running, Chuckie enters and walks to the outside door, carrying his briefcase. When he exits, the shot switches to the camera in the garage. Apparently, Jar has had time to make a movie for me. Chuckie walks into the garage, gets into his twister orange Mustang, and leaves. The time stamp at the top puts his departure at 6:03 a.m.
The shot switches again, to footage from one of the cameras at the dealership. This one is in the service garage. It picks up most of the service bays and the roll-up door, which is open. Two men in coveralls are doing something at a counter near the door. No one else is present.
Within seconds, both men look toward the big doorway, and a few beats after this, Chuckie rolls in behind the whe
el of his Mustang. Time stamp is 6:09 a.m.
Both men give him a wave as he drives by. Chuckie pulls into one of the empty service bays, exits the vehicle, and walks over to the two men. They share a laugh, then Chuckie walks through one of the doorways leading into the rest of the building.
Camera switch. Chuckie walking through a hallway.
“Does popcorn come with this film?” I ask.
“No, it does not,” Jar says. “Watch.”
Another switch, this time to a camera inside Chuckie’s office, a moment before he enters. We watch him set his briefcase on the desk and drop his keys beside it.
The next shot is from the showroom camera that covers the area between the glassed-in offices and the cubicles. Chuckie enters the frame, pauses for a moment and looks around, obviously checking for anyone else.
The shot changes again to the camera watching over the main part of the showroom. It’s on the window near the banner (WHERE YOU’LL ALWAYS GET THE BEST PRICE), and is focused toward the cubicles and offices in the back. The shot also takes in the public entrance, where, as of the recording of this clip, the donation card is still sitting on the floor where we left it.
I know the moment Chuckie spots the card. It comes right after he circles the cubicles, when a smile springs onto his face. After he picks up the card, he can’t help but look around again.
I think he’s going to take a look at it right there, but he waits until he’s behind the closed door of his office.
The moment Chuckie touches the card right below the two lines beside the 5-6 PM box, any question as to whether the marks are deliberate or not disappears. He isn’t quite so obvious with the mark by the checkbox for Tuesday or the one between the s and the p, but I’m sure he’s seen them.
Not only is he smiling now, he looks relieved, too. He folds the card and puts it into the inside pocket of his leisure jacket, then leaves his office and returns to the service department. The younger of the two men who were there at Chuckie’s arrival has moved over to a bay and is working on a car. The other man is sitting on a stool behind the counter.
Chuckie walks up to the other side of the counter and starts talking to the man about the day’s service appointment. Suddenly, the video speeds up.
“They say nothing important,” Jar tells me.
The shot returns to normal speed a moment before Chuckie steps away from the counter and walks out the big doorway into the alley and vanishes from sight. Which is a problem. We didn’t anticipate needing cameras out back so we didn’t put any there.
The movie does not end, however. After a brief fade to black, a new shot cuts on. It’s actually from the same camera as the last, but time has jumped forward twenty minutes to 6:37 a.m. The man behind the counter is now working at one of the bays.
Chuckie enters the garage from outside, carrying a large pink box, the kind that often contains pastries. He yells, “First come, first served!”
The two mechanics stop what they’re doing and come over. Chuckie opens the box, revealing a variety of donuts. At least a couple dozen. Balancing the box on one arm, he pulls out a wad of napkins from his pocket and has each man take one before they choose their treat.
He then carries the box inside the main part of the building, and leaves it in the area where people wait for their cars to be repaired or their new cars to be ready for them to drive away. He chooses three donuts himself, makes a cup of coffee, and goes into his office.
This is where the video ends. Jar clicks a few keys and brings up a live feed from Chuckie’s office. He’s at his desk, working on his computer, the donuts no longer in sight.
“Unless he went somewhere while I was showing you this, he has not left,” Jar says.
“Has he done anything with the card?”
“Only if it happened when we weren’t watching him.”
“Has he taken it out of his pocket at least?”
“No.”
The leisure jacket is hanging on a hook on the back of the office door. If the card is important, and it sure seems so from his reaction to it earlier, it feels odd that he wouldn’t keep it closer. Sure, he’s the only one in the office, but the card is clear across the room, and if he gets up for some reason and leaves without putting his jacket back on, he’d be leaving the card behind. He probably has the habit of never going anywhere without his jacket. Otherwise, I can’t see how the situation would feel comfortable.
Unless…
“How many donut shops are within a few minutes’ walking distance of there?” I ask.
“Only one.”
She brings up a browser window already showing a website for Sunshine Donuts. Jar and I once more in sync.
“It is two blocks away,” she says. “Maybe a four- or five-minute walk.”
I might be wrong, but it is possible he dumped the card when he went out.
“Feel like some breakfast?”
The card is not in the trash can outside Sunshine Donuts.
No, we don’t pull off the top and rifle through it, but Chuckie wouldn’t have removed it, either. So, the donation form should be near the top. But we see nothing there that’s the same shade of bright yellow.
It’s not going to be in the can inside the shop, either, because—like The Smiling Eyes coffee shop—Sunshine Donuts has turned its entrance into a service counter. Yes, he could have given it to the lady working the counter to throw away, but if it really is important, he wouldn’t want anyone else to know he had it, right?
We purchase some donuts and put them in the truck, then walk the route Chuckie would have taken between Sunshine Donuts and the dealership.
We check the two city-owned trash cans we pass. Neither has much in it, and nothing bright yellow. When we turn down the side street that will take us to the alley behind Price Motors, I frown. There are no cans here at all.
Could I have been wrong? Is the card still sitting in his jacket?
We walk to the alley and look down toward the dealership’s service entrance. A couple of dumpsters sit in a niche along the back of the building. They would be the ones used by the dealership. Putting the card into one of them means it would be surrounded by trash from Price Motors. Any half smart criminal would know that’s not a good thing. And if Chuckie is anything, he’s half smart.
Still, I can’t let the dumpsters go unchecked.
A Ford Escape turns onto our street from Central. Jar and I pretend to be having a conversation as the vehicle slows and turns again, this time into the alley. When it reaches the open door of the service garage, it enters but stops before its back half is inside.
The pair of dumpsters is about three-quarters of the way down between us and the garage doorway. It’s a little closer to the entrance than I’d like it to be, but hopefully the mechanics inside will be occupied by their newly arrived customer.
Jar and I stroll into the alley. The dumpster niche is just deep enough so that the receptacles aren’t in the way of anyone driving past.
While Jar keeps an eye out, I lift the lid of the first dumpster and peek inside.
Ugh. The stench. It’s like a science experiment gone bad.
I blink to keep my eye from watering too much, then scan the contents quickly. If the card is in there, it’s out of sight.
I move to the other dumpster. A moment after I lift the lid, I hear a low whistle from Jar. I turn my head just enough to see someone has come out of the garage. I can’t identify who it is at this angle, but the person is clad head to toe in the same shade of gray as the coveralls worn by the service department mechanics.
I already have the dumpster open so I give the interior a scan, pretending I just threw something in there. When I see no card, I set the lid back down and make a show of wiping my hands on the sides of my jacket. Through the corner of my eye, I can see the person glance in our direction.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
We head back the way we came.
“Mechanic, right?” I say, my voice still lo
w.
“Yes.”
“Do we need to be worried?”
“I don’t think so. When you started to walk away, he knelt down next to the car and looked at the rear tire.”
Good. Likely he’ll forget about us in a few minutes, if he hasn’t already.
When we reach the side street, we turn the corner so that we can no longer be seen by anyone at the garage, and stop.
I felt positive Chuckie had dumped the card on his way to the donut store. I guess I was wrong. He must still have it on—
My gaze freezes on the entrance to the alley that runs behind the businesses on the other side of the street—including Sunshine Donuts. What if instead of approaching the shop via Central, Chuckie continued down the alley and reached the donut shop from the side street one block away?
We cross the street and approach the alley entrance. Before we enter, we glance back toward the service garage. The Escape is gone and the area is unoccupied.
We turn and start walking. Along the back of the shops are three more dumpster niches, these only wide enough for a single receptacle each.
The card is not in the first. But when I open the second, I see bright yellow paper sitting right on top. Chuckie has torn the card into quarters and tossed them in together, the pieces stacked in a single pile. I extract them and look at the questions on the back side, to confirm we have the right card.
Two lines by the box for 5-6 PM, one by the box for Tuesday, and a dot between the words various and programs.
Here’s the assumption I’m operating under.
The note Nicholas Huston gave Chuckie at the picnic is a request for…something. Two somethings, actually.
Chuckie, acting as middleman, passed them on during his Sunday trip to the driving range. I’m thinking to Robert Lyman, the guy in the parking lot. Once Lyman arranged for the requests to be fulfilled, he informed Chuckie when this would occur by way of the donation card delivered to the dealership. One of the two requests, that is, not both. “Before and after?” Chuckie had asked Huston, to which the man had responded, “Right after.” It had been clear they were referring to the storm. Which means the card must be about the event happening before the weather turns bad.
Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Page 23