AHMM, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "How about the shotgun?"

  "No shotgun."

  "And the bling?"

  "None of that either,” Sandy said. “But what they did find, it was all wet."

  "Wet? What'd he do, fall in the river?"

  "Don't ask me. I'm just telling you what they said."

  "Wait a sec,” I said. “Doesn't getting stuff wet screw up testing for DNA?"

  "Does it?” Sandy said.

  "Excuse me,” the teenage boy said, “but can we go now?"

  "You'll go when the officer tells you you can go,” Sandy said.

  I gave it another minute, looking at the backseat of their car with the flashlight, but then I let them go on. “Not much point looking for the coat in people's trunks anymore, is there?"

  "I guess not,” Sandy said.

  "What about the boots?” I asked. “Did they find boots in the trash?"

  "They didn't say they did."

  * * * *

  "Wait. I've remembered something else,” Doddy said. “He was wearing boots, not shoes."

  "He was?"

  "The front of the coat came apart a time or two. Definitely boots."

  "Good. Well spotted, Doddy."

  "Black boots."

  "How high where they?"

  "Can't be sure. But they looked like, you know, walking boots."

  "Maybe if we catch someone we can set up a boot ID parade for you."

  She stuck her little finger in her ear, because she took it seriously and it was a habit she had while she was thinking. “I'd give it a try,” she said.

  After I'd called the boots through, I said, “Think, Doddy. Is there anything else about this guy you can remember? Anything at all."

  "It was all so fast,” she said.

  "And you were scared."

  "You know, I wasn't, not really."

  "But he had a shotgun."

  "There was just something about him that meant I never believed he would shoot me."

  "Never?"

  "He came in, and pulled out the gun from under his coat. Well, I've been robbed before."

  "I didn't know that."

  "When I worked at the Mini-Mart, on Palace Road?"

  "I know the one."

  "It was the middle of the night and I was there alone and it was a kid who was already high as a kite and he wanted beer and money. Now him, him I was scared of. But not this guy. He just knew what he wanted, and knew I knew the score. He gave me a plastic bag and—"

  "How about gloves? Might there be prints on the bag?"

  "He was wearing gloves. Wait. One glove. On the hand that gave me the bag. Not the hand with the gun."

  "So his trigger finger was always ready and you still didn't think—"

  "Like I said, for some reason I just didn't believe he would do it. Of course, I also did everything he told me to. He gave me the bag and pointed to the trays he wanted. It was all small stuff, but our best quality."

  "They'll want an inventory of what was stolen."

  "That shouldn't be hard. Lew is pretty efficient about stock.” She frowned. “Has anybody told him?"

  "I haven't,” I said. “Have you?"

  "I'll call him when you're done with me, Rose. Not much he can do anyway, if he wasn't even here."

  "I don't suppose,” I said then.

  "What?"

  "This is a bit naughty,” I said, “but how's business been lately?” I only suggested it because Lew is not a big guy.

  "Business? Well, okay, I guess."

  "Lew hasn't been complaining?"

  "Not to me. What are you suggesting? That I wouldn't recognize Lew if he walked in here."

  "In a big coat and a beard?"

  "And pointed a gun at me?"

  "Well, you did say you never believed the robber would shoot you. Lew would never shoot you."

  "Lots of people would never shoot me, Rose. Honestly."

  "Sorry. Sorry. I said it was naughty.” I smacked the fingers of my left hand with my right. “Bad cop. Baddest cop in town."

  "Not while Clayton Bigger's around,” Doddy said.

  Bigger is popular nowhere. Probably not even with that stuck-up wife of his, however loyal she may seem to be in public. I wonder, if they lived on The Island would Bigger order some state cop to search Mrs. Hoity Toity?

  Still, give it to Bigger, probably he would. If he said “everybody” he was not the kind of guy to make exceptions. Not that he and Mrs. Nose-in-the-Air could afford to live on The Island. Not on a lieutenant's salary. Now maybe if he got promoted to captain ... Maybe helping that was behind the roadblocks and house-to-house search thing.

  While some of us would never make it to sergeant, no matter how long we've been here, and how well we do our jobs.

  "Rose?” Doddy said.

  "Sorry, Doddy. I was having a Bigger moment. You were saying this guy gave you a plastic bag."

  "And he pointed to what he wanted. All the gold and platinum wedding bands, all the diamond engagement rings. But I moved to a tiara we have, and he didn't want that."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, he didn't explain it to me,” she said with a little laugh. “But when he told me to stop filling the bag and give it back to him, he turned away for a minute and then he wasn't holding it anymore. So I figure he like put it in his coat or his shirt or something like that. Hid it on his person."

  "What color was his shirt? Did you see?"

  "No. I didn't see anything he was wearing but the coat."

  "And the boots."

  She smiled. “And the boots."

  "And then what? He hid the bag somewhere and...?"

  "That's the only time he said anything to me. He said, ‘Don't call the police or anybody for half an hour.’”

  "'The police or anybody?’”

  "That's what he said. And he waved the shotgun at me, and that meant he was threatening that he'd come back."

  "But I guess you didn't believe that either."

  "Nope."

  "You're quite a tough cookie, Doddy. If they catch this guy and get the stuff back, Lew will have you to thank."

  "It was a made-up voice."

  "What was? His?"

  "He puffed his cheeks up and talked through a lot of saliva. Kind of like you do if you're trying to imitate Donald Duck."

  "Who imitates Donald Duck these days?"

  "Well, I don't. And this guy didn't either, but he was making sure to disguise his voice."

  "Because he thought you might recognize it?"

  She thought about that for a moment, and it seemed to be the first time she was really upset about what happened. “I suppose it's possible it was someone I know or had met. But ... I really doubt it, Rose. Besides, all the people I know are nice people."

  "Except Clayton Bigger."

  "I said people."

  * * * *

  "How much longer do you think it's going to be before he calls this fiasco off?” I asked Sandy.

  "Call it off?” Sandy laughed. “He's got the chief out now, on South Bridge, and they've banned everybody going onto or coming off The Island."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Came through while you were having that black guy get out of his car. You could get done for harassment, you know."

  "Bigger could. He told me every guy driving alone had to get out."

  "The guy only had one leg, Rose."

  "Tell Bigger."

  "I will. Or I'll take a leak. Whichever I get the chance to do first."

  The flow of cars had slowed down—no doubt because cars were being prevented from using The Island to get to the other side. But the next car was a woman alone, about forty. I waved her to move forward. Then to stop. “I'll take this one, Sandy,” I said. “Take a comfort break."

  "You don't want me to send Malcolm over?"

  I gestured to the woman. “Is this our armed robber?"

  He smiled and headed off.

  The woman had rolled down her window. I said, “Sorry to delay you,
ma'am."

  "Has something happened?"

  "There was an armed robbery on The Island. We're hoping to prevent the robber from getting away."

  The woman looked back in the direction she'd come from. “How awful."

  The car was an old Ford. I used to have one like it myself. “Where do you live, ma'am?"

  "Setonville.” About seven miles away.

  "And why were you on The Island today?"

  "My sister lives there."

  "And a couple of hours ago did you, by any chance, see an average-sized man in a long black coat?"

  "No. Is he the one?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She shivered. “I'm going to go home and lock myself in."

  "May I see your registration, please, ma'am?"

  She had it ready, no doubt having seen that the driver in the car ahead of her was asked for documents. Sure enough, she also had her driver's license out.

  "Thank you, Mrs ... Klotz."

  "Only for another month."

  "Excuse me."

  "I'll be Timmins again then. The bastard."

  "And you live at Livingston Court?"

  "Yes. It's—"

  "I know where it is,” I said. And what it is. A block of cheap apartments.

  "Is that it, then, Officer?"

  "I just need to look around the car."

  "You do?"

  "My boss's orders. In case you've got an armed robber hiding in the trunk."

  She shuddered again. “Are you serious?"

  "He is, more's the pity,” I said. “But if I don't do what he tells me, then I'll never get promoted so that I can give patrol officers more sensible orders."

  "You want to look in my trunk?"

  I flashed my light into her backseat. “Yes, please. I'll be as quick as I can. Do you want to give me the keys, or open it yourself."

  "He won't be in there, will he?"

  "Without your knowledge? I wouldn't think so. I hope not, especially if he's still got his shotgun."

  She turned the engine off and passed me the keys. “This is for the trunk,” she said.

  I nodded and went to the back of her car. I saw she was watching me as best she could in the mirrors. I unhooked the flap on my holster, to make drawing my gun easier, if I had to.

  But that was to give soon-to-be-Ms.-Timmins-again another frisson. I wasn't going to find the armed robber in her trunk. Even so, I unlocked it and lifted the lid.

  What I found was ... a trunk. Essentially empty, but also full of bits and pieces. A small cardboard box. One water wing. An old ice scraper. Some newspapers. Maybe cars’ trunks are under-appreciated bits of living history. There are stories in every trunk. The older the car, the more the stories.

  There certainly were stories in this trunk. And there was about to be another.

  I bent in to feel around behind the cardboard box. Then, in a quick movement, I took the plastic bag out from beneath my body armor and hid it where it wouldn't be found by anybody who didn't know it was there. Unless Ms. Timmins-to-be decided to leave her apartment in the middle of the night to give her old car's trunk a thorough cleaning.

  I didn't think she was going to do that tonight. Not with an armed robber on the loose.

  I almost didn't notice Sandy as he came back to join me.

  "Find something?” he asked.

  "Nope.” I banged the trunk shut. I could have taken the trunk key off the ring, but there was no need.

  "What were you looking for?"

  "They didn't find the shotgun with the coat. I thought maybe this guy would have ditched it before he got rid of the coat—because the long coat was what covered up that he had it."

  "In the trunk of a parked car?” Sandy looked doubtful.

  "An old car. Not hard to get into, these."

  "True.” He shrugged. “But no cigar?"

  "No cigar.” Mind you, the shotgun that was used for the robbery was in a car trunk even as we spoke. And only a few yards away, since I'd used my police shotgun to wave at Doddy, however futile any attempt to frighten her turned out to be.

  I went back to the driver. “Clean bill of health, Ms. Timmins,” I said.

  "Thank you,” she said with a big smile.

  "When you get home, don't worry. My boss is sure he'll make an arrest tonight. And nowhere near Setonville."

  She nodded and said, “Thank you.” Her car took a moment to start again, but once it was running she was out of there like a shot.

  And Bigger was sure he'd make an arrest, one that would help his promotion. He wouldn't have called the chief out otherwise. Well good luck to him, the bastard. Take me to bed without telling me he was married? Block my promotions so I'd apply for jobs elsewhere? Do all that without consequences? I don't think so.

  So, once I've been to Setonville to recover my booty, I can take my time disposing of it, building up a little nest egg in lieu of my sergeant's salary. I don't know what it'll come to. If I'm lucky, enough for a deposit on a better house. Not a house on The Island, maybe, but anywhere will be better than the pokey little dump I have now. And with a little more room I'll be able to work out my next crime in comfort. Another crime in Bigger's territory. Another one he'll be in charge of investigating, but unable to solve.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Copyright © 2005 by Michael Z. Lewin.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Yellow Bear is Missing by Mitch Alderman

  It was the first Tuesday in November. Bubba Simms rested in his sanctuary, the powerlifting room at the best gym in central Florida, Big Al's Iron Works. He had finished his eighth set of speed benches with only two hundred twenty-five pounds on the bar, four sets remained. By accelerating such a light weight for only two repetitions each time, Bubba was trying to add some pop to his bench press without putting much strain on the front deltoid that had been bothering him for the last decade or so. More importantly, they were something he could do without a spotter.

  It had been a fine afternoon of lifting alone, until Rachel Thomas walked in. She had on a leotard and shorts, a towel over her shoulder, sweat beading on her face from the aerobics class at the other end of the gym.

  "I'm sorry to bother you like this. I know about having a place to get away from work, but I couldn't take a chance on being seen at your office,” Rachel said. She stopped and wiped the sweat off her face. At least she wasn't a gawker, come to see the animals playing with the heavy weights. And the leotard fit her well.

  "That's all right, Rachel. What can I do for you?” Bubba sat on the bench and flapped the bottom of his gray T-shirt to cool himself. Sitting put him eye level with her. Bubba had met her at the gym last year and then had seen her around Winter Haven on an irregular basis. Rachel was about a third of Bubba's size, her hundred pounds on a classy five-foot frame. She was eye catching, her black hair had a white streak running back from a thin scar high on her left forehead. Bubba was noticeable too, standing six-feet-five with an inelegant frame.

  "I need to hire you."

  "You need a private detective or someone to move something heavy?” Business found him some days when he least wanted it.

  Rachel smiled a smile without humor, more a device to focus another's attention. “I need a private detective. Someone is following me, I think. I want you to find out why."

  "You think, or are you sure?"

  "Sure enough to hire you. Sheriff's Detective Johnson said you were cheap but quality. And that you were a good detective also.” Her smile held humor this time.

  "Robin has always been a fan. How do you know her?"

  "From my work."

  Bubba looked at her expectantly. He felt the sweat drying. He needed to continue lifting while he was warmed up. She held out her hand.

  "Here's my card. Can you call me in about an hour? Then we could meet somewhere. I'd just as soon not discuss anything here."

  Her card contained her name and a phone number. That was all. Drug dealer or telemarketer? Bubba t
hought about his lack of evening plans. He wondered if the hibernation syndrome was taking control; winter was approaching and all he wanted to do was eat and go to sleep.

  "I'll call you, but we have to meet somewhere that has food. Or we can meet in two hours,” Bubba said.

  "Food would be good. Call me in an hour.” She smiled a third time, a tired smile with overtones of sadness. Bubba watched her contained walk as she left. He felt cold, so he started the speed benches again. Twenty sets might work out better than twelve after all. What did he want for supper?

  * * * *

  His triceps were still pumped after he showered and changed. He liked the physical proof he'd worked hard. Big Al was leaning against the door frame of his office, wiping sweat off his bald head, as Bubba headed out.

  "Been counting your money again?” Bubba asked.

  "It's called cardiovascular workout. It wouldn't hurt you at all.” Big Al, who resembled Mr. Clean's bearded brother, loved cardio work. He had probably been walking around the gym on his hands again.

  "What do you know about Rachel Thomas?"

  "Works out hard. Pays her dues in cash."

  "Cash? Nobody pays in cash anymore."

  "She does. Is this work or have you been watching her butt?"

  "Work."

  "Too bad. She's in fine cardiovascular condition."

  The autumn air chilled Bubba as he walked through the parking lot. The day's temperature had never gone above seventy. Everyone had seemed energetic all day long. Bubba felt his personal lethargy fading now that he had something to do instead of driving home, feeding his dog, and heating up Sunday's chili. After Bubba climbed into his Bronco, he dialed the car phone for Robin Johnson at the sheriff's department. She answered on the first ring.

  "Johnson. How may I help you?"

  "Why is the best female detective in Polk County working at her desk this late?"

  "That you, Simms? I'm busy."

  "Is that any way to talk to your old sergeant? The man who taught you all there was to know about police work."

  "I appreciate the thirty minutes of your time it took. Now I'm hanging up."

  "Rachel Thomas."

  "Yes."

  "Did you send her to me?"

  "Treat her like I'm watching. And remember her money comes hard, don't waste it."

  "How do you know her?"

  "Business."