by Jo Goodman
“Grand larceny,” Buddy told him, taking him by the arm. “That’s a felony. You’re looking at one to ten.”
“You guys think I stole those TVs. You got it all wrong.”
“I’m sure you have an interesting explanation for how you came by them,” said Sullivan, taking his other arm. “The thing is there’s a recording. I recognized you right away and so will a jury. If your lawyer suggests a plea, you should probably consider it.”
Drew asked to speak to his wife as he was sliding into the backseat of the police car, but since Lisa Butterick was still watching at the window, Sullivan figured she didn’t want to speak to her husband.
“I’ll let her know what’s going on,” said Sullivan. “And I’ll give her the keys.” He closed the door on Drew and told Buddy to give him a few minutes. He saw curtains drift back into place as Lisa left her post at the window. She reappeared in the garage. The door that led into the house remained open behind her. He saw two children, both with the same dark curly hair as their mother, peeking around the corner. He kept his voice low.
“Officer Conglose is taking your husband to Regional. I’m going to wait here until another car comes to pick up the evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“The TVs, Mrs. Butterick.”
“But he said…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what he said, does it? It was a lie.”
Sullivan thought she looked more resigned than angry.
“They look expensive,” she said, staring at the boxes. “I don’t suppose he’s in misdemeanor territory any longer.”
“No. Felony.”
Her eyes watered. “And he was doing so well…I thought.”
“He stole five TVs, Mrs. Butterick, but there are only four boxes here.”
She nodded. “Kids are playing with the other one.” She looked over her shoulder, spied her children, and quickly moved to shut the door. “They were playing. When they come for pick up, they can take it.”
“I could get it now.”
“No. I’ll bring it out. If you want inside, you’ll have to get a warrant. I’m not an idiot. That would be my husband.”
“As you like. I’m only interested in the TVs.” He waited for her to return to the house before he went back to the car.
“Butz is bringing a van,” Buddy told Sullivan.
“Mrs. Butterick volunteered that the fifth TV is inside.” Sullivan leaned in the window and addressed the prisoner. “How much stolen stuff do you have inside, Drew? Your wife won’t let me in without a warrant. That tickled my interest.”
“She doesn’t know anything. She thinks she’s protecting me, only I ain’t done anything wrong.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have to go back and forth about that now.” He straightened and looked down the street. “Van’s here.” Sullivan tapped the roof of the car, stepped back, and waved Buddy on. Then he moved to the driveway and motioned to Butz to back the van in. It took a little time because Sullivan had to move the tables and other yard sale detritus out of the way.
“You look beat,” Butz said, climbing out of the van.
“Halfway through my double. I’m feeling it.” He hadn’t been asked to do the double. He volunteered because he wanted to follow the theft through to the arrest. Losing some shuteye was a small price to pay for the priceless ending.
Butz looked around. “Selling stolen TVs at a goddamn yard sale,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t that beat all.”
Sullivan grinned. “My thought exactly.”
17
“You’re kidding,” said Ramsey.
Sullivan shook his head. “Could I make that up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m telling you, I don’t have the imagination.” He picked up a twelve-pack of blunt tip LED light bulbs. “Are you familiar with these? I need replacements for a couple of ceiling fan lights. These are soft white. I wonder if that’s what I have in the fans now.”
Ramsey snapped her fingers in his line of sight. “Hey. It’s me. Do I look like I know anything about light bulbs? You’re the one that stalks Aisle Fourteen like it’s your second job.”
He looked up and found the hanging placard that indicated he was indeed in Aisle Fourteen. “Huh. So it is. I didn’t realize. I always turn left after I see plumbing supplies.”
“Yeah. Aisle Thirteen. Now you’re in my area of expertise.”
Sullivan put the pack of bulbs under one arm. “I guess I’ll get these.”
Ramsey smiled, amused, and looked him over. He was wearing faded jeans, factory ripped at the knees, scuffed loafers with no socks, an olive green tee that said i’m silently correcting your grammar, and a navy blue windbreaker. “Are you off duty or undercover?”
“I don’t do undercover.”
“So off duty, then. And you’re here in your favorite haunt.”
“I drove past your house, saw your car was gone, and figured you’d be here. I wanted to see you…and I needed lightbulbs.”
“If you’re not on midnight, shouldn’t you be home sleeping? I have to be here.” She checked her watch and yawned. “Two twenty. I shouldn’t have looked.”
“You get off at eight?”
“Seven. I started at eleven.”
“How about meeting for breakfast? Eat’n Park okay?”
“You know we have that concert coming up.”
“That’s still a couple of weeks away, and this isn’t a date. It’s breakfast.”
“All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you that familiarity breeds contempt.”
“I promise.” The corners of his mouth turned down and his flinty eyes narrowed as he turned thoughtful. “Who says that anyway?”
“Were you listening? I just did. Oh, you mean the origin.” She whipped out her phone, typed in a few words, and Google produced the answer. “I don’t know about saying it first, but Chaucer wrote it in the fourteenth century.”
“Huh. Guess there’s not much that Google doesn’t know.”
“Wait.” She tapped the Google microphone and asked her question so Sullivan could hear it. “Who sells stolen TVs at a yard sale?” Ramsey grinned. “It’s spinning. Oh, I’ll be darned. Apparently, it’s a cottage industry.” She clicked off and slipped the phone back in her pocket. “You should check to see if he has a Facebook account. Online sales of stolen goods are also lucrative.”
“Already on it. One of our tech guys pulled the assignment. Nothing so far. It’s not straightforward because of fake accounts, aliases, and alternative sites. Then there’s the dark web.”
Ramsey nodded, looked around.
“You expecting someone?”
“Paul. After Drew Butterick’s theft the other night, he’s decided to hang out.”
“Then you’re not in charge.”
“Not even practically in charge. He’s been popping up all over the store, looking over everyone’s shoulder. The cashiers. The stockers. The cleaning crew. He figures that Drew had inside help that no one’s identified.”
“Did he look at your copy of the recording? Drew was in and out; he hefted those boxes like a logger.”
“I know. He’s pissed because no one was working in electronics at the time. Jenny was on a break so she’s in his sights. I reminded him that he only scheduled a skeleton crew, and Jenny was entitled to fifteen minutes in the breakroom. He didn’t appreciate me pointing out what he knew was true.”
“I’m not aware of Paul talking to anyone at the station about it. He should call the chief with his suspicions.”
“And have it confirmed that cutting corners contributed to the theft? Not likely.” Ramsey looked over her shoulder again. “I better get going. I have my rounds to make. Home improvement is up next.” She pointed to the lightbulbs still secured under Sullivan’s arm and cocked an eyebrow at him. “You going to pay for those?” Her knees went a little weak when he grinned at her. “Go on, then. Get some sleep, for God’s sake. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Caribbean Country still a best seller?”
Mason gave her a knowing sidelong glance. “Caribbean Coast.”
“Right. Doesn’t look as if there’s been much of a dent in the supply.”
“Hah. A lot you know. Did Paul mention that he took in twenty pallets? Twenty.”
“I might have heard that.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a lot of bisque. We’ve stocked the shelves three times so far, and I’ll probably have to add some cans before I go off this morning.”
“Really? You sell paint now? At this time of night? Who buys it?”
“People who don’t sleep. Folks who underestimated how much paint they needed, how long the project would take, and don’t want to leave it half done until morning. You’d be surprised.”
“And I am.”
“Still, I gotta tell you, it’s weird about the Caribbean Coast.”
“What’s weird?”
“Sales are brisk. Neutral tones are popular but I don’t get this demand.”
“Did it scan at a sale price? I didn’t stick around last time to find out.”
“No. It’s actually one of the more expensive paints. There’s another brand, similar quality, similar color, and about fifteen bucks cheaper. I’ve pointed that out. No one switches.”
“Brand loyalty, I guess,” she said, shrugging. “Like you said: weird.” Ramsey rapped the counter with her knuckles. “Ciao, Mason. Have to make my rounds.”
Ramsey sat in a booth specifically designed for one or two persons. It did not encourage company. The restaurant was a favorite place for the midnight shift crowd making their morning recovery, and it was inevitable that she’d see some familiar faces. On a few occasions she’d been a target of testosterone fueled interest. A bar she could understand, but Eat’n Park? She wondered if the pickup artists simply wanted to get breakfast out of the way and go to bed after. Eww.
She was looking over the menu while she sipped coffee when Sullivan slipped in the bench opposite her. She set the menu down and slid it to one side for the waitress to pick up.
“Already know what you want?” asked Sullivan.
“Same as always. Eggs, over easy. Extra crispy bacon. Rye toast and a fruit cup. I’m a creature of some habits. I read over the menu the same way I read cereal boxes when I was a kid.”
He grinned. “You too?”
“Yeah. Plus, I’ve been here awhile. Trying to keep myself awake and entertained.”
“Ouch. Sorry. Last minute paperwork. Had an emergency call at five-thirty. OD.”
“Ouch,” she said softly. “Now I’m sorry. Did he live?”
“She. And no, she didn’t. The boyfriend called it in, but it was already too late when he came to and realized she was unresponsive.” He lowered his head, his voice. “There was a child. About a year old, I think. Sleeping when I arrived but wailing at the top of his lungs by the time child protective services got there. The boyfriend isn’t the baby daddy; at least that’s what he says. CPS will look for kin.”
“Heroin?”
“Fentanyl. The latest scourge.”
Ramsey said, “You okay?”
Sullivan looked up, nodded. “Yeah. The baby was hard. These calls always are when there are children.” He took a deep, deliberate breath and let it out slowly, shook himself off. “Enough. I need coffee.”
As if on cue, their waitress arrived, topped off Ramsey’s cup. She had a cup ready for Sullivan and filled it just short of the rim. “The usual?” she asked Ramsey.
“No point in deviating from what works.”
“And you, Officer Day?”
Sullivan handed her his menu without looking at it. “The morning sampler. And keep the coffee coming.”
“You got it.”
When the waitress departed, Ramsey asked, “Are you planning on sleeping any time today?”
He regarded her, puzzled at first. His expression cleared when he understood. “Oh, the coffee. Doesn’t bother me. Not when it comes to sleeping. Once I’m down, I’m out. It’s always been that way.” He carefully raised his cup and took a swallow before he sat back. “Tell me about your shift. Any crimes and misdemeanors?”
Ramsey’s smile was rueful. She shook her head. “Slow night. The only thing moving was the paint.”
“Maybe I need more coffee.” He took another swallow. “How’s that again?”
“Oh, nothing really. It’s the Caribbean Coast. That’s bisque to the layman. Paul accepted twenty pallets of the paint off the truck. He didn’t have to because it was a delivery error, but Paul thought it would look good for him if he could unload it. At least I suppose that was his reasoning.”
“Okay, but what do you mean it was moving?”
“Brisk sales in bisque. Seems as if it’s a popular color. Who knew?”
“Wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“Nor mine. Mason Calabash—he mostly works in the home improvement area—told me that he even sells it on the midnight shift. I don’t get it. Who does a paint job in the middle of the night?”
“Not me. I don’t paint. Ever.” He frowned slightly then, slate gray eyes shifting sideways past Ramsey’s shoulder as he drifted into thoughtfulness.
Recognizing Sullivan’s attention had wandered, Ramsey looked behind her to see what had caught his eye. It wasn’t the approach of their meal, nor anything of interest occurring at the other tables, but then she didn’t know the people scattered around in the same manner he might. “What is it?” she asked, leaning to her left so she was in his line of sight.
Sullivan blinked and his eyes returned to sharp focus. “What? Oh. Nothing.”
“Huh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Can we agree not to do that?”
“Do what?”
“When I ask ‘What is it?’ you don’t get to say ‘nothing,’ when clearly it’s something. If it’s secret squirrel business, you being a cop and all, then you say so, and I won’t press for answers.”
He grinned crookedly. “Secret squirrel business?” When she didn’t return his grin, he sobered. “All right. I can agree not to brush aside your questions. You want to try again?”
“Yes. What caught your interest a few moments ago?”
“My own thoughts. Strictly secret squirrel, though.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.”
“My thoughts frequently are.”
Ramsey didn’t believe that for a moment. She considered challenging him but their food arrived and the opportunity passed. Probably for the better. They didn’t speak again until they’d made a sizeable dent in their breakfast. The silence was neither deliberate nor awkward. It just was. Companionable. Comfortable. Two people who still didn’t know each other well, but had no desire for conversational clutter.
“It’s been a while since the wedding. Have you heard from your cousin?” asked Ramsey, spreading strawberry jam on her last triangle of toast. “Honeymoon meet all of Linda’s expectations?”
“Seems like. You were right about the camping trip. They went to Seneca Falls. Hiked and biked and slept in a tent. Turned off their cells. Gloriously peaceful is how Linda described it.”
“Wild and wonderful, too, I bet.”
“I’m sure. Where did you go on your honeymoon?”
Ramsey carefully laid down her knife. “Sneaky,” she said. “I never said I was married.”
“But you were, weren’t you?”
She hesitated then nodded. “Vegas honeymoon.” She took a bite of toast. In spite of the butter and jam, it tasted dry. She required coffee to get it down. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t, not until you told me. I’ve resisted doing any
kind of search in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t. You’d have had a better question than asking me where I spent my honeymoon.”
“Like what?”
Ramsey chuckled. “Easy there, Hoss. We haven’t had a third date.”
“Something to look forward to then.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“At least assure me that you’re divorced.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Did you take back your maiden name?”
“More or less,” she said. “And that’s the last you’re getting from me. This isn’t twenty questions.”
Sullivan pushed his plate away, picked up his coffee, and leaned back. “Damn. I like that game.” The waitress showed up with two checks. Sullivan took them both. “I got this,” he told Ramsey.
She plucked one of the receipts from his hand, glanced at it. “Mine. Otherwise it’ll seem like a date.”
“God forbid.”
Ramsey shrugged. “We haven’t talked about the concert. Yeah, I know we’ve got some time but I like to have a plan. I assumed I’d be driving. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure. I’ve just about got my truck’s transmission done, but I don’t want to count on it.”
“That’s okay. I’ll pick you up at five. That’ll give us time to get into town, get a bite before the opening act. The Stationhouse Grille has excellent bar food. Beer battered haddock nearly as long as my forearm. Burgers, if you prefer.”
“I’m familiar. Good choice. If you’re going to pick me up, though, you’ll need to know where I live.”
Ramsey tapped the side of her head with a forefinger. “Got it.”
One of Sullivan’s eyebrows arched. “How?”
“I did a search, of course.”
18
Sullivan was a tad embarrassed by how much he was looking forward to their date night; therefore, he never mentioned the concert to anyone at the station for fear of giving himself away and subjecting himself to endless razzing. That and the possibility that talking about it would jinx the evening. He was superstitious that way.
