Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) (8 page)

“Thanks for that.” I handed the cat carrier over to him and bent down, sticking my finger into the metal grid on the door. “Be a good cat,” I said. “Do whatever Uncle Eddie tells you to do. I’ll be back to get you as soon as I can.”

Logan stretched his paw out and ran the little black pads on the bottom of it over the top of my finger. Tears sprung to my eyes and I choked back a sob. I swallowed hard and then stood up. “Thank you,” I said to Eddie. My throat constricted and the words came out in a rasp. Before I could regret what I’d done or Eddie could change his mind, I turned around and left.

The taxi driver dropped me off in front of my house. I gave him a healthy tip and he gave me his card. “I am Mohammed Jones. My company tells me about you. You like to ride in taxis, correct? Please, take my card. I am new to the taxi world. I will drive you where you want to go.” His English was very proper, as if he’d learned it in a classroom and not on the street.

I thanked him, asked him not to leave until I was inside the house, and got out. Surprisingly, he did what I asked. I secured his card to the refrigerator under a magnet shaped like the Liberty Bell. Perhaps we could work out some kind of a deal.

I locked the front door, closed and locked the windows, and spent the next hour going through the house making sure I was alone. It was a slow and systematic process that left me wondering what exactly I would do if I’d found someone on the premises. By the time I’d finished, I had a shopping list of things that would make me feel safe. Pepper Spray. Security alarm. Bull Horn. Police on speed dial. Possible adoption of pit bull.

I opened a bag of Unique Splitz pretzel shells and a bottle of Birch Beer and sat at the kitchen table. What had happened today? I didn’t really know. I’d gone to work. I’d left work and gone to Jennie Mae’s house. It was very possible that while I was enjoying spiked tea with the lady of the house, she was being robbed. Had she known the tea was bourbon? Or had the tea been spiked for my benefit? Jennie Mae appeared to trust Mr. Charles, but I didn’t.

And then there was Pritchard’s behavior. Not only had he acted suspicious the day I’d overheard him in the attic, but after Jennie Mae’s sample wardrobe had gone missing, he’d shown up in my office and threatened me. He was after something, and despite the missing clothes, it sounded like he still hadn’t found what he wanted.

Which left a whole lot of what I didn’t know: what was Pritchard after? Where did he come from? What had happened to Jennie Mae’s collection? Was Mr. Charles on the up and up? And who was going to take care of all of those cats?

And the niggling question that didn’t seem to relate to anything but clearly was at the center of it all was, what did any of this have to do with my job at
Retrofit
?

The house felt quiet. Scary in its solitude. In the past, when I’d gotten mixed up in less than savory situations, I’d always been able to come home to Logan. He’d been my rock, my companion, ever since I’d adopted him when I lived in New York. He’d watched me date my way through three different deli counter employees (I blame it on my love of cured lunch meats), work sixty-five hour weeks while I climbed the corporate ladder at Bentley’s, and gained and lost the same twenty pounds depending on the year. He’d stood by me through my rocky new start in Ribbon even when one particularly harrowing adventure had put him in harm’s way. He hadn’t judged when I dated not one but two men since relocating: Nick, who he’d been hearing about for years, and Dante Lestes, a hot (with a name like Dante, how could he not be?) private investigator who felt it was his duty to make me his protégé. Logan hadn’t even shown a preference for either man, leaving the choice up to me.

Since Nick and I had slowly reconnected after our abrupt break-up, Dante had become a faint memory. After I’d made it clear that I wasn’t over Nick, Dante had left town. And I’d been okay with that. Dante’s attention had felt good, but it had also felt dangerous. Like living too close to a flame. Nick’s attention was exciting, too, in a different way. When we were in the same room together, it was like nobody else mattered.

But now, I had to distance myself from him too. The hair on my arms stood up as I remembered the way Pritchard had listed off details about my life, my parents, my sister, my cat. I didn’t know how much he knew about me or what he was trying to protect by scaring me into submission, but I wasn’t willing to put people I loved at risk.

I finished my birch beer and nuked a frozen pizza. In the time it took to finish heating and eating, I reached a few conclusions. Pritchard Smith’s arrival on the job at
Retrofit
had not been an accident. He’d had knowledge of something in Jennie Mae Tome’s attic, something that he’d tried to keep me from discovering. Whatever that knowledge was, I was too close to exposing it and now, the lives of the people I cared about were in danger.

And since there was nobody around to protect me from him, I was going to have to learn to take care of myself. Which is exactly how I found myself at the police station the next morning.

Chapter 9

FRIDAY
MORNING

“I’d like to fill out an application to the citizen’s police academy,” I told the officer behind the desk. He was dressed in the standard Ribbon PD uniform: navy blue shirt and trousers made from fabric so thick it might have been recycled from discarded water bottles. His name, Kent Callahan, was embroidered above his left breast pocket in neat block letters. On the opposite side was a patch in the shape of a badge. It had a picture of intersecting ribbons circled by the words
Ribbon Police Department. To Protect and Serve.

As a counterpoint to his official police uniform, I was dressed in a maize colored peasant blouse and a pair of chocolate brown wide legged pants that hid my platform shoes. Oversized gold hoop earrings swung on either side of my face.

Officer Callahan didn’t bat an eye at my request or my outfit. He opened a metal file cabinet, flipped part way back, and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Fill this out and bring it back in.”

“Can I fill it out here?”

“If you want.”

I carried the sheet of paper to one of the empty chairs in the lobby. There was no table to use as a desk, so I pulled Pritchard’s pen out of my handbag and then used my handbag as a lap desk. The point of the pen went through the paper twice before I got the hang of it.

The questions were easy enough. I breezed through the expected name/address/driver’s license fields and the “Have you ever been arrested?” (thankfully, close calls don’t count). Next: How did you hear about Citizen’s Police Academy? I chewed the end of the pen while I considered the pros and cons of writing Detective Loncar’s name. I could come back to that.

The bottom portion of the form was a series of yes and no questions that required Xs in the proper boxes. In the military? No. Been convicted of a felony? No. Relative in law enforcement? No. This was easy. I was a shoe-in.

The second page, however, gave me pause. What is your current occupation? Editor for online fashion magazine. Why are you interested in Citizen’s Police Academy? I have an ongoing interest in establishing a healthy working relationship with the local police. (I wasn’t even in class and already I was trying to butter up my instructors.)

The last question was optional. What are your goals in the community upon graduation?

There wasn’t nearly enough space for a proper answer.

I completed the application and returned to the desk. Officer Callahan didn’t notice me until I cleared my throat. He looked up. “Yes?”

“I’m finished.” I held out the papers.

“Congratulations. Wait here while I get you a badge,” he said sarcastically.

“Do you get a lot of applicants?” I asked.

Callahan took the paper and set it face down on a copy machine. “Fair share. The background check weeds out anybody with a criminal history. Most quit before it’s over. Couple turn in the paperwork and don’t bother showing up again. Why do you want to do it?”

“Detective Loncar suggested it to me once.”

The copier spat out a piece of paper. The officer picked it up and looked at it. Then he looked at me. I held his stare for at least two solid seconds. “Wait here,” he said.

Five minutes later, I was seated across the desk from Detective Loncar. This wasn’t the first time I’d been in his office. It wasn’t even the second. But since the last time, he’d replaced the bowl of sugar free candy that had sat on the corner of his desk with a tray of partially-solved Rubik’s cubes.

“My desk sergeant tells me you want to sign up for the citizen’s police academy,” he said. “You want to tell me what that’s about?”

“It was your idea,” I said. His forehead broke out in a series of deep horizontal lines as he frowned. “Remember? It was back when you were investing those arsons around Ribbon?”

“That was a joke, Ms. Kidd.”

“See, here I thought you were telling me that you respected my interest in the law. All this time, I took it as a compliment. Like I was the daughter you never had.”

“I have a daughter. You know that.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t share your interest in police work like I do.”

“Small miracle.”

“Detective, I’m serious about signing up. I think it’s about time I learned what really goes into law enforcement and stop getting in your way.”

He had a pencil in his hand and he put it eraser-side down on top of my application. He moved the pencil back and forth, which moved the paper back and forth with it. He had a habit of doing these little, mindless, annoying things. Clicking pens, spinning cups, and now shifting my paper.

I leaned forward and put my hand on the sheet. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“That. Whenever I’m in here, you do stuff like that. Like clicking your pens or tapping your wedding ring on the chair.” I looked at his hand. “Where’s your wedding ring?” I asked.

“My wife asked me to move out. She said she can’t handle this kind of life anymore.”

I was shocked at the timing. “But your daughter just had a baby,” I said. I looked at Loncar a little more closely. The circles under his eyes were two shades darker than the rest of his face. “I thought that was the kind of thing that pulled family together.”

“You’d think so, right?” He shook his head from side to side. “My daughter is living in my house with my wife and I’m living at the Motel 6.”

“Interesting choice.”

“The department gets a discounted rate.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Loncar set the pencil down and leaned back. “Why did you really fill this paperwork out?”

I wanted to tell him about the crazy man who had threatened me and my loved ones, that I was scared, and that I had a newfound respect for the people who had taken an oath to protect and serve. But two things stopped me:

A)
  
Claiming my coworker had broken into my office at a fashion magazine to threaten me to possibly help him steal an attic filled with forty year old clothes sounded crazy and

B)
  
Loncar and I had a spotty history.

Detective Loncar had arrested me, interrogated me, used me as a decoy, ignored me, and, most recently, saved my life. Did that mean he was at risk too? How deep did Pritchard Smith’s dirt on me run?

“It’s something I felt like I had to do.”

He nodded slowly, like he knew there was much more to my words. Or maybe it was because he slept under an open window and woke up with a stiff neck. He pulled a pen out of the mug on his desk and signed the bottom of the form. “You’re in,” he said. “First class is on Monday.”

“What should I wear?” I asked.

“Sweats.”

“I don’t wear sweats in public,” I said.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He pushed the paper toward me. “Give this to Callahan.” I took the paper and started to leave. “Ms. Kidd,” he called behind me. I turned around in the doorway. “You have anything else to tell me about what happened yesterday?”

“Not yet,” I answered, truthfully. Until I felt like I could take care of myself, I wasn’t going to tell anybody anything.

I called Mohammed and asked if he was driving his cab. He was. When I told him I was at the police station, he went silent. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I told him. “I was visiting a friend.” Oddly, it felt like it was almost true. “I’ll walk to the sandwich shop at the end of the strip mall. Can you pick me up there?”

“Yes. I will be there in one minute,” he said.

True to his word, he pulled the yellow sedan into the parking lot outside of the sandwich shop about sixty seconds later.

“Thank you, Mohammed,” I said.

“You may call me Mo,” he said. “Please sit and buckle in your body. I cannot drive until you are secure.”

It was after eleven. I paid an extra couple of dollars to have Mo keep the meter running while I ordered a hoagie. My favorite sandwich shop, B&S, had opened a second location and I felt it was my duty to support them in their endeavors. Their primary location was a few doors down from Nick’s showroom, which, considering my current plan to distance myself from everybody I knew, seemed a little risky.

“Do you want me to take you to your address, Miss Kidd?” Mo asked.

“If I’m going to call you Mo, you need to call me Samantha,” I said. “We’re not going to my house today. I left my car at a—a friend’s house.” I gave him the address to Jennie Mae’s residence.

When we arrived, he drove his taxi down the long gravel driveway. “That is your car?” he asked. “It is funny looking. What is it?”

“It’s a Honda del Sol. I bought it in the nineties, but it spent most of the time parked in a lot in New York City.”

“I have not seen a car like that. It is very shiny. And it is very nice. No.” He paused and appeared to concentrate for a moment. “It is very shiny and very nice. Like my new taxi. Yes.”

“I thought this taxi looked different. What happened to your old taxi? The one you drove yesterday?”

“I have worked hard. I now afford new taxi. My old taxi is in graveyard.”