Stolen Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

  There were five warehouses in total, all with decrepit and faded signs hanging over the shed doors, and all with graffiti sprayed over the walls. From the brief research Casey conducted while we drove to the complex, she confirmed that the lot had been abandoned after a minor chemical spill five years ago. It made sense given the atmosphere of the place, but apparently the area had been given the all-clear by the authorities; and on numerous occasions. But then money talks and who knows what the real story was. Whatever the truth of it was, the shoppers had simply stayed away no matter the official pronouncements of safety, with nobody wanting to go to shops that had a history of contamination. And so the warehouses subsequently closed down a little over a year later. The cost of redeveloping the area, and the rebranding, was too expensive. Instead, the area languished as an ode to a time long past.

  The first warehouse was a former speedboat sales shop, the second and third warehouses were for competing truck repair dealerships, the fourth was an old diving shop, and the fifth, resting at the very back of the lot, furthest from the road and partially out of sight, was a former specialized mechanic shop. ‘Top-Notch Service Garage’ specialized in servicing the sort of cars that could be heard before seen, the sort that were driven by angry young men keen to make an impression on vulnerable young girls.

  My Glock rested in its holster above my hip, concealed under my leather jacket. It was, however, unclipped and ready to go. My right hand rested on the weapon, ready to spring into action should the situation require it. And I had a feeling it would.

  The tall chain link fence into the lot was open, barely hanging onto the frame, sagging badly in the middle. It squeaked as we tried to walk in, loud enough to cast an unwelcome warning echo through the lot. There were tire tracks through the puddles at the entrance, fresh tracks entering into the lot and heading towards the last warehouse at the back. They didn’t reach the whole way there, fading out as they dried on the concrete but their overall direction was clear to see. This was interesting and concerning at the same time. We were not alone. Someone was in residence. On site in the here and now. And this was not the sort of place you came to without a nefarious reason.

  We walked near the old warehouses, hugging them closely for protection and to remain concealed as we edged our way forward in the only eerie light, shining from the streetlight on the road behind us. Casey flanked my back, staying close, her hand on her weapon as well, and we slowly crept towards the warehouse at the end of the drive.

  As we got closer, we could see a light. A flicker of electricity, clearly shining in the darkness, visible as a thin thread beneath the heavy garage doors.

  Holding my hand back, I stopped Casey.

  “There’s someone there,” I whispered. “It looks like the glow of a television. The power has been switched off to the site, so they must be using a generator to run it.”

  “Could be a homeless guy.”

  “With a generator? I don’t think so.” I looked around the lot. “Someone is hiding in there. Question is: why?”

  “Maybe it’s a bunch of squatters? Maybe a group of people who’ve stumbled across an old piece of equipment and are using it.” Casey looked around. “That sort of thing happens sometimes.”

  “Could be,” I said doubtfully, “but I don’t think so.” I checked the clip on my holster and my hand tightened around the familiar shape. “It’s time for us to find out.”

  I signaled for Casey to move forward, and she jogged lightly over to the other side of the walkway.

  We heard a noise.

  A clear metal sound.

  I drew my gun. Casey did the same. We were on high alert, ready to respond but not panicked.

  The warehouse ahead of us had a large two-vehicle garage door, a small window next to the door, and a small door next to that. The flicker of light was soft, but it was enough to notice amongst the darkness. The sign for the ‘Top-Notch Service Garage’ hung low, faded in the years of inactivity. The driveway into the warehouse had crumbled, clumps of diseased looking weeds growing at random intervals along the path.

  We heard another sound.

  It was a person. Movement. Something happening. Someone moving.

  The garage door moved upwards. The noise was loud, rusty metal scraping, echoing through the still night. It was dark inside. I couldn’t see in.

  My shoulder was against the wall of the adjoining warehouse, leaning in close to the shadows. Even from where I stood, I could barely see Casey on the other side of the street.

  The darkness was heavy, covering our positions well, but the person could’ve spotted us already. Or heard us when we entered thanks to the scraping of the entrance fence. Movement was unusual here, and they wouldn’t be expecting any wildlife around. Perhaps a rat, but they were right to be wary. It was not the sort of place you’d choose to frequent unless absolutely necessary.

  I leaned forward to look into the area behind the garage door, but I couldn’t make out the figure. I could see faint movement, but nothing more.

  Again, there was a loud noise.

  I spotted Casey. She was positioned well and waiting for my signal.

  With our guns drawn, we inched forward into the night, every footstep heavy with the consequences of what we might find or encounter, and of what we might have to do. We were prepared for the worst and if necessary, for a fight. Both of us following the advice of gunslinger Wyatt Earp when he said, ‘Take your time in a hurry’: going into action with the greatest speed, but mentally unflustered by an urge to hurry.

  As I moved to the next shadow against the wall, I had a clearer view of the inside of the warehouse. I could see the outline of what was inside. There were two vehicles.

  I stepped closer to take a better look.

  There was a car.

  And a van.

  The car was dark in color and the van light, their exact hue difficult to discern with any certainty in the minimal light.

  Could this be the white van we were looking for? Casey nodded towards the van with her eyebrows raised. She was clearly asking the same question.

  We heard a muffled noise. Different this time. Not mechanical or metal but human. It could’ve been the noise of a child. Someone with a hand over their mouth being ushered along or moved against their will.

  Then we heard the noise of a car door closing.

  An engine roared into action, bringing the area to life. The second the headlights beamed in our faces, we couldn’t see anything else. Against the darkness, it blinded us. I quickly moved against the wall, practically pushing myself into the brickwork to get out of the light. Casey leaned down.

  A car roared between us, but I could see nothing else.

  Casey jumped up and raced after the car, but there was no chance of catching it.

  I considered opening a round from my gun, but I didn’t know who was in the car, where Millie was seated, or if she was even there.

  The risk was too great.

  I held back, finger on the trigger, gun pointed at the ground, watching the car turn into the distance. It screeched down the road, never slowing for the potholes, crashing through the half-open gate. The driver of the car wasn’t going for a casual drive—they were escaping. They were running. And away from us. We were close, but not close enough. What did it all mean?

  Casey ran back to stand next to me, gun still drawn, panting. Her eyes were fixated on the warehouse behind us.

  “Did you get a look at who was driving? I didn’t see anything.”

  “I saw nothing. The car was going too fast. And the headlights destroyed my night vision in a second.” I turned back to the warehouse where the car had come from. “But we might get something from in there.”

  Chapter 11

  There are certain places that I found it easier to think—driving in my Chevy with my favorite tunes, after a few beers on my couch, or at the dog park with my favorite mutt, Winston.

  I was never supposed to like Winston, an always smiling golden retrie
ver. He was my wife’s idea, my wife’s second love after me, or maybe even before me, who knows, but after her passing, he’s become a part of my life.

  I didn’t want a dog, especially one that reminded me of my deceased wife, but my friends didn’t want him, Claire’s family said ‘no,’ and the pound was overfilled. Besides, the more I tried to get rid of him, the more I realized I needed to keep him, not just to provide him with a home but to help me deal with my grief. Sometimes it overwhelmed me, but whenever it did, Winston was always there with his unconditional happiness and enthusiasm, which would pull me through.

  Watching him run free, so happy and wonderful, brought a smile to my face, and probably more importantly, it put my mind at ease, allowing it to wander to matters related to the case.

  There was nothing of note in the warehouse.

  No evidence that anyone had used it in years before the last couple of nights. There was an old television, a couch, and a light hooked up to a diesel generator. There was sure to be DNA in the room, but I didn’t have access to that technology, nor did I have the time to chase it. It was clear that someone had used the room, but there was no evidence as to who that might’ve been. Nothing was left behind, if there had ever been much there in the first place.

  We didn’t even know if it was Millie in the garage. It could’ve been a coincidence. Squatters could’ve heard us coming, and then made a run for it once we were too close. That was certainly a possibility as there was nothing in the room to say that a girl had been there, less so that Millie herself had been present.

  We spent much of the night looking for any connections between the ‘Top-Notch Service Garage’ and our main suspects, but we came up short. All avenues led nowhere. There was nothing that could point us in a particular direction. Ruby Jones’s father was a mechanic, but he had no connections to the ‘Top-Notch Service Garage.’

  The van was empty. And white. The correct color, but then the color white on a van was as common as the color blonde on a dolly bird at the Playboy Mansion.

  I opened my phone and looked at the picture of Millie again—pigtails in her hair, broad smile on her face. So sweet, so innocent, and so free. The thought that Millie was in the back of the car that raced past us meant that I couldn’t sleep. Who would even think of doing that to a little girl? What heartless soul would do that?

  How could anyone ever harm an innocent child?

  It took me back to thoughts about Alannah, my niece. Just after Alannah was born, Claire dragged me all the way down to the lawyer’s office to make me sign a will. When Claire drafted hers, two years before she died, she made sure that there was money left behind for her niece, so that she was looked after and could benefit should anything happen to us, her extended family. The fact that Ben took that money, took Claire’s legacy and generous gift, and gambled it on a risky investment made me angry. Real angry.

  My hand gripped the edge of the seat tighter, thinking about how Alannah would never know or benefit from what Claire had selflessly done for her, or even know about it. She’d know about her deceased aunty but not that her aunty went the extra mile for her and had her back.

  Ben was an idiot, and his sister knew that he would mess things up along the way. Sure enough, he had, and he was now talking about bankruptcy, which also meant that he could lose his job as a police officer.

  “You look like you’re thinking. That must hurt.”

  It was Derrick Booth; a retired cop, but not a retired smartass, and owner of Barclay, a fellow golden retriever.

  “I was thinking about my wife’s favorite joke. Wanna hear it?”

  “May she rest in peace.” Despite being in his seventies, Derrick always had a thing for my wife. He flirted with her at the dog park whenever she took Winston for a run. There was an awkward silence for a moment, before Derrick went on. “Well, come on then, out with it.”

  “My favorite pen writes underwater.” I paused for a few moments. “It writes lots of other words as well, but underwater is a nice word to write.”

  Derrick laughed. “She was a school teacher, wasn’t she?”

  “She was.”

  “Well, my friend took a Viagra yesterday, but it got stuck in his throat. Poor guy had a stiff neck all day.”

  We laughed together.

  Derrick Booth basically owned the bench at the east end of the dog park. For the last ten years, he’d sat on the bench more than he had his own couch. When his wife passed away, this became his social outlet, hour after hour sitting on the bench. His wife had spent much of her forty-five years organizing his social life, and when she passed, he felt lost, alone, and empty. The park gave him an outlet, a chance to make friends out of strangers. Booth was the hub of the park, the person anyone could talk to, the social connection that a lot of people yearned for. As for me, I could take him in small doses, I wasn’t after a social connection when I came here, just fresh air and time spent with Winston. But today was different. Today I was actively searching him out.

  A little overweight, he was in his late seventies, and his tanned face would’ve been handsome once, perhaps half a century ago. Now it was sort of interesting, a bit like a beat-up old sports car that would have once been cutting edge but now was just kind of novel.

  He sat next to me on the bench, watching as his dog chased after mine. The park was almost empty with only one other dog running around, along the grass that was patchy at best, the result of too much digging from our canine friends. The chain fence that surrounded the park wouldn’t hold many dogs back, if they really wanted to run through it, and the trees looked tired, as if they were ready to give up any moment. Still, the air was fresh and we were outdoors so it was good enough for me.

  “Did you hear about Hugh Guthrie’s case?” Booth questioned. “Been all over the news this morning. They threw it out.”

  “I heard.”

  “It was a technicality. Something wrong with the way that Guthrie was arrested. I don’t know the full details. All I know is that a killer gets to walk free because someone somewhere didn’t do something by the book.” Booth sighed. “And a killer walks back onto the street.”

  My fists clenched tight, my jaw ground together, and my vision focused on a faraway point. I was trying hard to calm the rage. Hugh Guthrie had walked free.

  The justice that Claire deserved, the justice I needed, was taken away from me.

  I didn’t respond to Booth. Instead, I stood and paced the dog park, mumbling to myself. I punched a fence along the way, letting out steam.

  Guthrie had walked free. I couldn’t believe it. The system had failed me. The system had failed the memory of my Claire.

  After five minutes of pacing the yard, I came back to the bench to sit next to Booth. I couldn’t get distracted. Not now. Guthrie would have to wait.

  “Sorry I bought the case up,” Booth stated. “So what were you thinking about that’s causing you to look like you’re constipated?”

  “A case.”

  “Sometimes it helps to think out loud. Give me the low down on it, Valentine. Share the burden and halve it with me.”

  I could sense the excitement in his voice, as much as he tried to hide it this was clearly the most intrigue he’d had for some time. When you’ve spent the best part of forty years investigating crime as a former detective, it’s hard to leave it behind.

  “I have a crime that I’m trying to solve without getting the police involved. Everything has to be done behind the scenes and kept quiet.”

  He looked out at the park and nodded, as if he was only half listening.

  “Kidnapping?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s about the only crime that the victims don’t want the police involved in. Or, more accurately, the perpetrators are insistent that the police aren’t involved in. But as an ex-cop my advice every time is go to the police, sure they make mistakes from time to time, but given their resources, they’re the best bet statistically. And I say that fro
m experience, Jack.”

  I didn’t respond.

  After a few minutes of silence, it was clear Derrick couldn’t resist digging a bit further. Not that I could blame him, and he had enough experience to be potentially of use to me.

  “Who are your suspects?”

  “Mechanics, or possibly relatives of mechanics.”

  “Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “Want to know what I think?”

  The real answer was ‘yes’ but I was reluctant to let Derrick know that I valued his opinion. If I did I’d never hear the end of it, so I answered with a non-committal sounding ‘maybe,’ as if, in actual fact, I preferred a bit of silence with my own thoughts so they could organize themselves, but that I would listen to the old guy anyway out of respect or simple social convention.

  “Mechanics are a tight knit bunch, but they also have a group of people around the outside of them.” He raised his finger. “If you can’t find a connection to a mechanic, then I would say look to the people around the mechanics.”

  I groaned inwardly; he was starting to sound like a vague mystic karate instructor.

  “I’ve looked at their families,” I replied, more in an attempt to get him to furnish me with something concrete and specific than to encourage him.

  “No, no.” He shook his head and his chin wobbled as well. “Not families. You need to look for someone like a truck driver.”

  That got my attention.

  “Truck driver?”

  “Auto enthusiasts do most of their own work, so they don’t need mechanics. The closest people to mechanics are the people that need their vehicles for work. Truck drivers or delivery drivers. That’s who you need to be looking at.”

  His statement hit me.

  I hated to admit it, but he was right.

  Chapter 12

  Kyle Waters wasn’t hard to track down. In fact, it was downright easy to find him.

  A few phone calls to his employers, under a fake name, of course, and I was told where he had parked his hauler for the night. Traveling from North Dakota to Tennessee, hauling a semi full of brand-new expensive furniture to satisfy the population’s ongoing urge to spend ever more money, Kyle regularly found himself a resident at the Iowa 80 Truck stop, sleeping there in the spacious cabin of his semi.