by Jo Goodman
“He never said a word to me. Then again, he accepted delivery of all those pallets of Caribbean Coast that were delivered here by mistake. He’s got to hawk them.” He shrugged again. “I suppose I’ll know if there’s a sale when I scan their purchases—if one of them ever makes a selection.”
“Caribbean Coast? I heard it was bisque.”
“It is bisque. Just the name is fancied up. Sold quite a few cans yesterday on my shift. I’m thinking there’s a beautification movement in the works to paint the town bisque.”
Ramsey held up her hands, splaying her fingers to show him her polished nails. “Know what they call this varnish?”
“Clear?”
She chuckled. “Once upon a time, maybe. This is Shine on Harvest Moonshine. Never underestimate the appeal of a clever name. Even a cynic like me couldn’t resist.” Ramsey pushed away from the counter. “Nice chatting with you, Mason. Oh, looks like you finally got one.” She lingered long enough to hear the customer tell Mason in James Bond tones that he wanted his Caribbean Coast shaken, not stirred. Smiling to herself, she headed to lawn and garden.
The indoor/outdoor nature of the lawn and garden made It a challenge to observe. It wasn’t unusual for a shoplifter to try to leave by this route after spending time feigning interest in the annuals and perennials in the spring, the pool toys in the summer, the giant potted mums and Halloween décor in the fall, and the poinsettias, lights, and fake firs at Christmas. Some shoppers simply made a mad dash to the parking lot, but the savvy ones took their time and strolled out just as if they’d paid for every item in their cart.
The middle-aged woman with a collection of birdhouses in her buggy interested Ramsey. She kept a casual eye on her. The customer rearranged her cart to add seed and a birdbath and then proceeded to the checkout where she paid for everything she unloaded from the cart and nothing at all for the trinkets she had been slipping into her coat pockets.
Curious that this customer paid for the relatively expensive items yet wanted to lift the magnets, ceramic pot huggers, and votive candles, Ramsey stopped her at the exit and asked to see her receipt and then empty her pockets. There was a fuss, of course. There always was, but Ramsey remained calm and deescalated the customer’s rolling tide of anxiety and outrage until it was worry and embarrassment that troubled her. Ramsey led the woman to the office on the far side of the store, invited her to sit down, and offered her something to drink.
“I’m not going to charge you,” said Ramsey, sitting opposite the woman. “I don’t even want to know your name. You’re Jane Doe as far as I’m concerned. Does that work for you?”
Jane Doe nodded. She sat up a bit straighter, pulled back slumping shoulders. She brushed at fly-away strands of highlighted hair that had slipped from their clips. “Thank you,” she whispered. When Ramsey did not speak, she asked, “Why am I here, then? What do you want?”
“A better understanding,” said Ramsey. “I’m thinking you didn’t need the magnets, the pot huggers, or those tea lights. Maybe you didn’t even want them. Not really. You were obviously able to pay for the other items. So what was it that prompted you to lift the other things?”
Jane Doe’s dark brown eyes widened slightly. She blinked once and then stared at Ramsey, her forehead laddered with horizontal creases. “My therapist can tell you. Me? I don’t have the insight yet. She despairs that I ever will.”
“Really? You have a therapist?”
“I do.”
“Specific to your stealing habit?”
“Started out that way. But we’ve uncovered other issues.”
Ramsey believed it. She sighed. “You shop at the Ridge much?”
“All the time.”
“Not anymore,” said Ramsey. “Not this store.”
“I understand.”
“I’m guessing you’ve been caught before. Have you?”
“Not here, but yes, a few times. I only saw a judge once, though. That’s why I’m in therapy.”
“Well, I hope you come across that insight sooner rather than later. I’m not certain I did you a favor by not charging you.”
“Oh, you did. You did. I don’t want to lose my job.”
“What do you do?”
“Juvenile probation officer.”
15
It was several days later that Ramsey saw Sullivan and had a chance to relate the story. She’d called the police out to the store when she arrived for the midnight shift and noted a red Ford pickup parked in the fire lane with an expired inspection sticker and a license plate covered by a plastic yellow Ridge shopping bag. She peeked under the bag, memorized the plate, and gave that information when she called it in. A muddy plate would have been less suspicious than a bright yellow bag, for God’s sake. It took all kinds, she supposed.
As bad luck would have it, she was still on the phone to the police when the pickup driver walked out of the store with five Ultra 4K Samsung TVs and loaded them onto his truck. By the time Sullivan arrived, the Ford was gone. Ramsey led Sullivan up to the office with the monitors and they watched the video together.
Ramsey mostly shook her head at the in-your-face audacity of the thief. She hoped she would never get over being astonished at the sheer gall of the people who walked off with merchandise as if they were entitled to it. “At least we have the license plate,” she said to Sullivan as he reversed the recording for the third time. “That helps, doesn’t it?”
Sullivan pointed to the man on the screen awkwardly pushing his overloaded cart. “Bad buggy wheel,” Sullivan said, chuckling. “See how the cart goes sideways when Drew’s trying to push it straight. He got a little greedy too. He should have left that fifth one on the shelf. I’m thinking he cleared out your inventory.”
Ramsey went to what was important to her. “Drew? So the license plate did help.”
Sullivan turned away from the screen and looked at her. “Yes and no. The truck belongs to one Oliver Mansfield. Since it wasn’t reported stolen, there are two possibilities. Either Mr. Mansfield doesn’t know it was taken, or he, or someone in his family, loaned it out. He might not know the use that was made of it. We’ll find that out later.”
Ramsey pointed to the man on the screen who was now loading the pickup. “What about him? You called him Drew.”
“Oh, yeah. About that. He’s Andrew Butterick. I went to school with him. Elementary through high school. He started a grade ahead of me and ended up a grade behind. That explains some things, doesn’t it?” “Does he live around here?”
“I think so. Easy enough to find out. I see him from time to time, but he could live across the river now or in PA. It’ll be no problem to pick him up. I’ll need the info on the TVs.”
“Sure. I can get you that. They’ll all have an inconspicuous number on them, too, that will identify this store, just in case he tries to say he got them somewhere else.”
“Good.” His radio crackled but nothing came of it. He leaned back in the comfortably padded desk chair while Ramsey moved some papers aside and sat on the monitor table. “Sorry I didn’t get here fast enough to catch him in the parking lot.”
“You couldn’t have. No one could have. He was jackrabbit quick. Aren’t you going to call dispatch?”
“In a moment. Don’t you have a report to write?”
She smiled. “In a moment. No night manager. Paul’s assistant called in with a migraine and there’s no replacement. We operate with a skeleton crew on this shift. I’m practically in charge.”
“Good grief.”
“Exactly,” she said wryly.
His gaze wandered over her face, though it was not without feeling the tug of her rich, chocolate brown eyes. Her mouth still hinted at her earlier smile. Her lower lip had a slight forward thrust. It made him want to gently bite it, lick it. That made him think about her neck and so he looked there. She had her hair pulled together in a loose pony and the tail fell over her shoulder and curled at the base of her throat.
“What?” Self
-conscious, Ramsey pushed her fall of hair away from her neck so that it disappeared down her back.
“Nothing,” said Sullivan. “I like looking at you. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“A little.”
“No point in me apologizing since I don’t plan to change my ways. You’ll have to get used to it.”
In response, Ramsey swung a leg and tapped him lightly on the shin with the toe of her sneaker. “You’ll have to get used to it,” she said. “No plans to change.”
“You know you’re assaulting an officer.”
She grinned. “You could arrest me, but you have to call dispatch and I have a report to write.” She started to slide off the table, but he laid a hand over her knee, and she allowed him to halt her progress.
“How have you been?” he asked, searching her face again but differently this time. He hadn’t seen Ramsey since leaving her at her door after their bike outing. No texts. No phone calls. He drove past her house a few times when he was on patrol but even in the car it felt a little like stalking. She didn’t have a Facebook page, but then neither did he.
“Fine,” she said. “You?”
“The same.”
“I’ve called the station at least once on every shift since I last saw you, but mostly it was Butz who came out.”
“Yeah? He never said a word.”
“No reason he should. It was all routine.” She told him about the woman she hadn’t charged.
Sullivan whistled softly. “A juvenile probation officer who is also a klepto. That’s not routine.”
“No, and I don’t know that she’s a klepto.” Ramsey’s eyes narrowed on Sullivan’s face. “I see your wheels turning. Stop trying to figure out if you know her. It’s unlikely that she’s local. I don’t think she would have told me anything about her job if that were the case, and I wouldn’t have told you.”
“You let her go.”
“Not sure I can explain it except that I was trying to understand her. Not the right thing to do. I’m no therapist; anyway, she already has one of those.”
“Does Paul know what you did?”
“He hasn’t said anything. He’d only know if he watched the monitors. He wasn’t around when I brought her in.”
“Do you ever think that you might get fired for your protocol violations?”
“Sure. That’s always a possibility, but I don’t worry about it. I’m fairly confident I’d land on my feet. Don’t forget. Chief Bailey thinks I could be officer material.”
She said this last flippantly, and Sullivan called her on it. “You still think the chief was pulling your leg?”
Ramsey hesitated. “No, not exactly. It just strikes me as vaguely ridiculous.”
“Hmm. See, I find it odd that you might be the only one it strikes that way. General thinking at the station is that the chief is onto something.”
“Obviously I haven’t put it out of my mind,” she said. To her own ears she sounded a shade defensive and wondered why. More carefully she added, “I’m mulling it over. There are things I have to consider that you know nothing about.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
Ramsey saw that his smile was at best a shadow of itself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For all kinds of reasons, it has to be that way. If you can’t accept it, can’t accept me, then you should tell me.”
“For God’s sake, don’t sell the Bruno Mars tickets,” he said, deadpan.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed and felt lighter for it, which she was certain was his intention. “I won’t. Yet.” She crossed her heart and then removed his hand from her knee. “Still have that report to write, and it’s weeks yet until the concert. Plenty of time to unload those tickets.” She neatly avoided the arm that reached out to capture her. “You can’t stay here. I’ll walk you out. My paperwork is in the loss prevention office downstairs.”
Sullivan followed her lead. He had it in mind that if he timed it right, he could probably steal a kiss at the bottom of the stairs. As it turned out, her timing was better.
She trapped him in the stairwell.
16
Drew Butterick was setting out the last six-foot plastic table for his yard sale when the police arrived. He gave the car a cursory glance as it parked at the curb and went back to work. He kicked out the black metal legs from the table and then gave the table a shake to make sure it was steady on the driveway. His wife came out from the two-car garage bay carrying an armload of neatly folded clothes that she had designated as suitable for selling. Her steps faltered the moment she saw the cop car.
“Nothin’ to worry about, Lisa.” He approached her, took half the clothes, and set them on the table. “Go on about your business. I got this.”
“What have you done?”
“I got this,” he said. “Put the clothes down and go back in the house.” She was a full head shorter than he was, a petite stick of dynamite, he’d always thought, with a fuse that was way too short. He was pretty sure he’d already lit it because she was in full suspicious mode and the cops were only now getting out of the car. When he bent to kiss her on the cheek, her head reared back, she thrust what was left of her armload at him and marched back into the garage.
Drew placed the clothes on the table before he looked up to greet his visitors. He squinted against the early morning sun to make out their faces. “Is that you, Sully?”
“Morning, Drew,” Sullivan said. “Do you know Officer Conglose?”
“Buddy. Sure. I know Buddy.”
Buddy smiled thinly. “It’s been a while, Drew.”
“It has. Keepin’ my nose clean as they say.” He made an expansive gesture with one arm to indicate the array of toys, kitchen gadgets, country kitsch, tools, fishing rods, and clothes. “Lisa’s been after me for a while to help her set up a yard sale.”
“Good day for it,” said Sullivan, looking around. “Are we the first to show up?”
“Yeah. If you’re customers, you are. What are you interested in? I got more stuff in the garage.”
“You mind if I go in?”
“Nah.” Drew turned to Buddy as Sullivan walked off. “Crime keeping you busy, Buddy?”
“No more than usual. What about you?” And in the event that Drew missed his point, Buddy said, “Crime keeping you busy?”
Drew didn’t take offense. He grinned. “Those days are behind me. Ask Lisa. I got me a job that pays decent.”
“Oh?”
“Working construction. Full-time. And picking up some odd jobs now and again as word gets around that I’m a reliable sort.”
“That’s real good to hear, Drew. You ever do any handyman work for Oliver Mansfield?”
“Mansfield.” Deep in thought now, Drew’s forehead creased with as many wrinkles as a Shar Pei. He finally shook his head. “I don’t recall that name. Why? Someone say I did?”
Buddy was about to reply when Sullivan stepped out the garage and waved him over. “Excuse me. Sullivan wants me.”
“Sure.” Drew turned, saw Sullivan gesturing to Buddy, and waited until both men were deep in the garage before he jogged down the driveway to the street where his car was parked. He was inside it, fumbling with the key in the ignition, when there was a hard tap on the driver’s side window. “Careful you don’t break it,” he shouted. “I’ll sue.”
Buddy slipped his baton back on his belt. “Better the window than your head. C’mon. Get out.”
Drew was considering his options when Sullivan opened the passenger door and let himself in. It was a little comical seeing him trying to squeeze his long legs into the seat set for Lisa’s short ones, but Drew didn’t crack a smile, and Sullivan found the release bar and pushed the seat back as far as it would go.
“That’s better,” he said easily. “For a minute there I thought I was trapped in a clown car.” He looked over at Drew, frowned. “Maybe I still am. Where were you off to?”
“Dollar Store. I need some more tags.”
“Those wil
l have to wait. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m guessing maybe that’s so.”
“Go on. Get out. Your wife’s watching from the front window.”
Drew twisted so he could see. Sure enough, Lisa was looking out. “Damn.”
“Uh-huh. Keys, please.” Sullivan fisted the keys and exited the car at the same time Drew did. He and Buddy escorted Drew to the garage where four unopened boxes indicating Samsung Ultra 4K TVs were inside propped against the back wall.
“You selling these?” asked Sullivan. “I don’t see a price.”
“I told you I needed tags.” Drew’s slack features brightened a bit. “You interested? I can do a deal for you.”
Out of the side of his mouth, Buddy said, “I’ll just bet.” He shook his head. “This your idea of keeping your nose clean?”
“What?” asked Drew, rubbing his furrowed brow. “What are you saying?”
Sullivan cut to the chase. “There should be five, Drew. Where’s the fifth TV? Inside?”
Buddy said, “Maybe you left it in Mr. Mansfield’s pickup. A token of your appreciation as it were.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about it. I don’t know who this Mansfield is. What pickup? I don’t like this. I know something about my rights. You need a warrant.”
“You told me I could go in the garage,” said Sullivan. “You practically invited me to look around. No warrant needed.”
“You were posing as customers. That’s entrapment.”
Buddy sighed. “You believe this shit, Sullivan? He’s got his head so far up his ass that he has to yawn to see daylight.”
Drew looked from one officer to the other. “You think that’s funny? I want a lawyer.”
“Jeez,” said Buddy. “You’re not even under arrest yet.”
Sullivan got out his cuffs. “Hands behind your back, Drew.” He cuffed him while Buddy recited the Miranda warning. “Now you’re under arrest.”
