“Oh yeah. According to the state unit, the crew they caught in Walker…” Bill shifted his position on the chaise lounge to face me. “Ever hear of Walker? It’s a small town about thirty minutes from here.”
“Walker…?” I hinted at complete ignorance.
“I’d never heard of it either. It’s where the thieves stashed the cars in a deserted warehouse. Used to be a machine tool company. Anyway the theft unit thinks it’s the tip of the iceberg,” he said.
“There’s more warehouses with stolen cars?” I asked.
“Probably. They could be part of a major trafficking ring.”
“They?”
“This crew apparently targeted cars up and down the East Coast. In fact, one of the guys was connected to Candle Beach.”
“No kidding?” I was skating on a razor-thin edge and hoping Jackson had remembered my warning to keep quiet about Tiny, Sam, The Bounty, the black book, and anything else related to Vinnie and the murder. For the time being.
“His name is Robert Stenowski. Big guy so they call him Tiny. He’s a street thug with a rap sheet. Theft, burglary, assault, mainly in the shore area.”
My heart thumped.
“He’s being tight-lipped. Not saying much. Protecting the higher-ups in the outfit.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “So…”
Please, Jackson, no mention of—
“How do they do it? Steal the cars and stash them away?” he asked.
Relief flooded my body. I could have kissed Jackson for steering the conversation away from Tiny. Almost.
“Why? You thinking of getting into the business?” Bill teased.
“I’m in enough of a mess,” Jackson said.
“Sorry,” Bill added hastily. “It’s pretty straightforward. There’s a market overseas for luxury cars. Mercedes Benz, Porsches, Land Rovers, Jaguars. And BMWs.”
“You said they ship them to Africa?” I asked.
“Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe,” Bill said. “Places where there’s a demand for the cars and no manufacturing of these models.”
“Whoa. It’s big business?” Jackson looked at Bill wide-eyed.
“Huge profit. Hundreds of cars stolen and millions to be made. Street crews handle the thefts and carjackings. They’re paid to steal. Then they deliver the cars to the warehouses. Middlemen create new VIN numbers, fake titles, and a shipping manifest. The paperwork looks legitimate.”
Who was the middleman in Tiny’s operation? And the boss? I was banking on Sam’s participation. “Sounds well organized.”
“Then the automobiles are placed in cargo containers and transported to ports. Port of Newark in this case. Next stop is somewhere overseas.” Bill sat up on the chaise lounge. “It’s sophisticated. Not only have they figured out how to steal cars with key fobs and remote starters, they’re smart. The vehicles are dumped in safe parking lots like hospitals or kept in the warehouses for a day or two to make sure the hot car isn’t equipped with an anti-theft device.”
My used MINI Cooper would never make it on the most wanted list. “If you hadn’t raided the warehouse in Walker, would the ring have been caught?”
Bill shook his head. “Who knows? Customs agents at the port do targeted searches of cargo containers based on suspicious shipping companies, manifests, or destinations. It’s a guessing game.”
“Talk about luck,” I said. “That they found your BMW before it got carted to Newark.”
“Also lucky that the state theft ring had their eye on this warehouse for a while now,” he added.
Something was bothering me…
“The ironic thing is that there’s been a decrease in overall car theft but a rise in the robbery rate of luxury cars.”
“Hey, man, glad I sold my Beemer,” Jackson said.
“Since when did you have a BMW?” I asked.
“Just kidding, dude.”
“Jackson, I hear you have a whip-smart lawyer,” Bill said carefully.
“Yeah, like my guardian angel came through.” He laughed.
“Talk about irony. Vinnie’s fiancée paid for the lawyer,” I added.
Bill became more alert. His background in law enforcement kicked in—unusual phenomena triggered his interest. “I didn’t know that. Very generous.”
“Maxine’s a real cool lady,” Jackson said.
Bill approached the door of the porch and studied the sky. “Thinking about tonight’s sunset. Red sky at night—”
“Sailor’s delight,” Jackson finished.
I knew the rest of the proverb suggested the possibility of danger with a fiery sunrise—red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. “How are those constellations coming?” I asked, joking with Bill.
“Too cloudy. The weather app says we could be in for trouble tomorrow.” He turned to me. “Hope that doesn’t interfere with the theater festival. Tonight could be the calm before the storm.”
Prophetic words as far as the New Jersey Community Theater Festival was concerned. Every night had had its own tempest. Hopefully the awards ceremony tomorrow would be smooth, without turmoil. Everyone—actors, crew, even Maddy and Arlene—deserved an easy night.
A gust of wind blew the screen door open another few inches. Bill ducked inside, then locked up. I shivered. Something felt ominous besides the weather…
16
A branch blew into the bedroom window, rat-tat-tatting on the pane. A tempest whirled around the house, growing louder and stronger until it reverberated like a buzz saw that would rip the house in two. I stood in the yard outside and gazed upward, a downpour drenching me, blasts of icy air sending me into spasms of shaking. A gale force knocked me off my feet. I continued to stare up at the elm tree in the yard next door. Something came crashing down on top of me and the roof of my house.
I awoke in a cold sweat, my body damp, my breathing ragged. I closed my eyes again and reentered the nightmare. It was Hurricane Sandy, and I felt as vulnerable now as I had that October night in 2012. I was disoriented for a minute. I inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly to calm the thudding in my chest.
We knew the hurricane was coming back then, had been warned to buy gas and stock up on food. The lines at service stations were long, occupied by impatient drivers. The shelves at the local grocery store emptied. Still, people hadn’t panicked during the weekend before the storm.
I’d been through hurricanes before, but nothing prepared me for Sandy. Or to spend the twenty-four most terrifying hours of my life alone. After Grody closed the restaurant on the Sunday before, he begged me to go home with him. Jackson texted me that he’d be back in plenty of time before the worst of the storm hit Candle Beach. Famous last words.
I hunkered down at home, but when the power went out, the wind howled, water flooded my basement, I felt trapped and helpless in the cold and dark, that my house would blow over. My neighbor’s elm tree landing partially on my roof was the last straw. By the time Jackson returned to Candle Beach forty-eight hours after the hurricane hit, I’d hung a flashlight from a chandelier for light, been charging my cell in my trusty Chevy Metro, and had wrapped myself in layers of long underwear and a sweat suit to stay warm. I was angrier with Jackson than I’d ever been during the five years we’d been together. He’d abandoned me. He claimed he left the Jersey Shore for a new business venture with his brother in Iowa. Maybe it was my anger that drove him off.
Next to me, Bill was asleep. Oblivious. I marveled that he never awoke when I had these middle-of-the-night hallucinations. The alarm read 3 a.m. I tossed from side to side, practiced breathing exercises I’d seen Walter conduct with actors to bring them into the present. Usually it sent them into sleep or boredom or fits of giggling. I’d never tell him that I found them useful. We didn’t have much of a relationship these last couple of years since I was instrumental in closing a murder investigation that peg
ged him as a person of interest. Even though he was exonerated, he never got over it.
Something besides memories of the hurricane kept me awake. It was what Bill said, or didn’t say. He gave Jackson and me a detailed description of the car theft process. Yet he neglected to mention how the thieves knew his car was available. How were they able to steal it so easily. Did they wander the streets digging around for potential targets? That seemed terribly inefficient to me. I would confront him first thing in the morning. I drifted off, no more dreams of wind, rain, and crashing trees.
Awakening in the middle of the night took its toll. My body refused to acknowledge the alarm clock the next morning.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Bill said and planted a kiss on my cheek. “You’re missing another of Jackson’s ‘specialties.’” Bill made air quotes. He smelled of caffeine and sugar.
The room was gray. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Nine thirty. You better get out there before he eats the rest of the pancakes. Golden brown. Covered in powdered sugar and blueberry syrup. Yummm…” Bill stepped into the shower.
My mouth watered. “I’m up.” I swung my legs out of bed and wrapped my robe around me. “Did you hear the wind last night?” I knew most of the weather elements I experienced were due to my Hurricane Sandy nightmare. In spite of that, I was sure Candle Beach had had its own tempest.
“No, though lots of branches were thrown around. Some lawn furniture from next door wound up in our backyard. In fact I think we’re due for a mini-nor’easter. It’s already raining. No beach today,” Bill said.
My nightmare was a premonition. “Where are you off to?” I asked.
“Returning my rental car and picking up my BMW.”
“Need company?” I asked and ran a brush through my hair.
“I’m good. I’ll get a ride to the impound area in Trenton.”
“That’s efficient service from the state police. Your car is recovered one day, picked up the next.”
Bill switched off the water and toweled himself dry. “I got some expedited service for helping out.”
“What kind of helping out?” I asked.
His face went blank. I’d seen this police-chief-facial-armor before whenever I’d asked questions about an official investigation. “The usual. Filling out paperwork, computer research.”
That didn’t make sense. The state of New Jersey had a special unit of officers dedicated to car theft. Why did they need Bill to fill out paperwork? “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. Besides the fact that I saw him at the raid on the warehouse.
“What do you mean?” Bill avoided my gaze and tugged on jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt.
“Yo, Dodie!” Jackson yelled from the kitchen. “You got thirty seconds until these hotcakes are history.”
Bill gave me a quick hug. “I’ll be back for lunch. See you at Grody’s?”
“Sure,” I said to his back as it moved out the door.
I didn’t have the energy to pursue him to his rental car; I needed calories and coffee in order to do that.
“Here you go. A short stack for short stuff.” Jackson gave me a lazy grin, reverting to an affectionate nickname he’d used in the old days—I wasn’t short, unless I stood next to him—and set a plate of pancakes in front of me. They oozed fat and sugar, dripping blueberry glaze and melted butter. He set a mug of coffee on the table.
“What happened to work this morning?”
“Work’s canceled. The weather,” he said.
I inhaled the aromas of breakfast. My mouth watered. “Where did you learn to cook anyway? You were MIA in the kitchen when you left the shore after the hurricane.” I dove into the pancakes. Utterly scrumptious.
Jackson dismissed my question with a gesture. “I got schooled.”
It occurred to me that Tammy, the bride-to-be, was no doubt his teacher. “She did a first-class number with you.”
Jackson studied me, sipping his coffee. “We called the engagement off right before I came back to Candle Beach.”
I set my fork on the edge of my plate. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Tammy’s idea. She said I wasn’t motivated enough to get married. That I didn’t have any ambition.” He avoided my eyes. “You think that’s true?”
I flashed on Jackson and Vinnie fooling around on the JV, surfing, playing beach volleyball at sunset, drinking on the beach after dark. “Well, you and Vinnie…weren’t exactly the most serious guys. At least you had memorable times together.”
“We did. We were tight.” Jackson stared off into space as though focusing on the past.
“It was a good thing you took off for Iowa. If you’d stayed, you might have gotten roped into Vinnie’s shady deals,” I said.
“What shady deals? You don’t know that he was involved with anything…”
“Illegal? Jackson. Think about it,” I urged.
He hung his head. “I kept hoping it was a simple drowning, you know, he got lit and fell overboard.”
“That would have been less messy.”
“Vinnie and I were opposites. He had to constantly play angles. Me? I went along to get along.”
“Is that why you tried to ditch me in the arcade last week?”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t ditch you,” he said firmly.
“I followed you through the arcade—”
“Like, what was that about? Tailing me?” he asked.
“—and I got intercepted by Tiny. Tiny! Who’s now arrested for his involvement in car thefts? He distracted me until you ran out the back door,” I finished.
“I didn’t run out. I had a meeting with Sam to talk about some work and I got a call from Arlene. She said to go through the arcade and come out the back door. That Baldwin Contractors was doing some cement repair in the parking lot behind the games.”
Legit enough, but why did Tiny waylay me long enough for Jackson to escape?
“You talked to Arlene in the parking lot?”
“Nah. She got a last-minute conflict. Instead a guy who worked for Sam picked me up and he drove to a construction site.” He frowned. “What’re you getting at? First you have Sam mixed up in Vinnie’s murder and now you think Arlene is guilty of…what?”
I didn’t know.
“Any ideas on the black book?” he asked. “Got an appointment with my lawyer this afternoon.”
“I’m working on it. Let’s keep it between us for now. Plenty of time to fill him in later.” I pushed back from the kitchen table. “Thanks for breakfast. Tammy did a good job with you.”
Jackson finished his coffee. “Ha. My luck to hook up with two can-do women.”
“Did you ever think it was our luck to fall in with a surfer boy?” I said lightly.
“Huh.” He cleared my dishes. “I’ll see you tonight at the theater.”
My cell pinged. Lola: some weather…hanging out until tonight…lunch? I replied: maybe. talk later. I helped Jackson clean up. By the time I was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie, he’d left and the bungalow was quiet. I was eager to hear from Pauli but resisted texting him. I knew he’d be in contact when he had something to report. I drummed my fingers on the table, glanced at the wall clock—11 a.m.—and debated another cup of coffee. I was already jittery from a combination of caffeine and adrenaline. No sense in making things worse.
Something nipped at the back of my brain. Did it have to do with Arlene? Jackson said Arlene called him to meet behind the arcade, but I distinctly remembered her saying that she “didn’t know who this Jackson is” when I went to the theater searching for Sam hoping he’d post Jackson’s bail. Was I wrong? No, I knew I was right. Why would Arlene lie? My cell pinged. I was hoping for Bill. Pauli was the next best thing: got some stuff. talk? Yes! I tapped his number.
“Like, hey,” he said. Then his
voice was muffled, but louder. “On the phone,” he shouted. “Okay. See you later.” After a beat, he returned.
“Your mom?”
“She’s going to the boardwalk. Shopping and stuff,” he said.
“What did you find?” I asked hurriedly
He cleared his throat. “So like you got ninety-seven names on the list in the book.”
“Right.”
“And like I did this new thing.” He became animated. “Like I ran this software from my last digital forensics class where we took a bunch of data and figured out commonalities using—”
“An algorithm?”
“If the math is right—”
“Pauli,” I asked gently, “what did you find?”
“Okay, so I started with where they’re from,” he said.
“That makes sense.”
“Mostly East Coast. Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware. Five guys from New York. One from California.” He paused. “Kind of funny that a guy would come all the way from San Diego to the Jersey Shore.”
I’d been to San Diego many times when my brother Andy lived there. It was kind of odd…
“Vinnie had the names so they’re probably connected to his boat,” I mused. “Customers?”
“I’m checking out stuff like what kind of jobs they have.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“And since this is, like, a murder…I’m looking at criminal records,” he added solemnly.
I was thunderstruck. The kid was a genius. “Pauli, that’s fantastic!” Could one or more of these men be guilty of colluding in the car theft ring? If so the state unit would need these names. Not, however, until I knew exactly what they meant to Vinnie.
Pauli assured me that he would keep digging and text later. I leaned back in my chair. It wasn’t much to go on…. Still, I had faith in my Internet guru. He’d never let me down yet. And, frankly, I was at my wits’ end. If nothing materialized as a result of Pauli’s high-tech mining, the investigation was in the hands of the county prosecutor. Even if Jackson’s lawyer was able to get him acquitted, would they ever find out who killed Vinnie? Would his former partner’s death hang over his head indefinitely?
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