Random Road

by Thomas Kies

  I chuckled and watched the Hampshire Avenue entrance to the parking lot. “What’s to keep him from driving off into the sunset and not showing up at all?”

  “We’ve got him fitted with a GPS and an ankle bracelet, plus I have an officer trailing him,” Mike explained. “Lobel will circle the lot until he hears from the bad guy. He’ll let Lobel know where he is and what kind of vehicle he’s in. Then Lobel gets into the bad guy’s car and he appraises the loot. After money changes hands and Lobel leaves the vehicle, we’ll move in and make the arrest. Here, Lobel’s wired for sound.” Mike handed me a small receiver the size of a cell phone rigged with an ear bud. “I’ve got mine, here’s one for you. Listen to everything that’s going down.”

  “Roger that.” I placed the bud in my ear canal, feeling voyeuristic.

  Mike continued, “The wild card is we won’t know which car the bad guy will be in. We don’t know if he’s already here waiting or if he’ll drive in some time behind Lobel.”

  I gazed around the parking lot. All I saw were regular-looking people, some of them obviously moms with their kids, going into the store and coming back out again pushing carts piled high with groceries. I spotted men carrying out plastic bags of frozen pizza and six-packs of beer. Almost everyone walking into the market held a slip of paper, a list of what they needed to buy. Nobody walked back out empty-handed.

  “Thanks for letting me be part of this, Mike,” I said. “What’s the catch?”

  “Just write a good story, Genie,” he winked.

  What he didn’t say, and what I knew, was that the chief of police was going to retire next year. There’s a review board that recommends who the mayor appoints for that position. Mike Dillon wasn’t stupid. The more good press he got, the better his chances at getting that job.

  I spotted a black Cadillac SUV as it drove into the entrance. It was five after twelve. “That our boy?”

  Mike nodded, adjusting his earpiece.

  Both of us heard the words as they crackled through the airwaves. “I just pulled into the parking lot. I’m waiting to hear from my contact.” It was Lobel talking, his words picked up by the tiny microphone hidden in the pair of sunglasses given to him by the police.

  I glanced over at Mike. Even I could hear the nerves in Lobel’s voice.

  Then, through the earbud, I heard a cell phone, the theme from The Godfather. The bad guy was calling. We could only hear the conversation from Lobel’s point of view, “Yes, okay, a black and silver HumVee.”

  Mike and I both automatically started scanning the parking lot, looking for a black and silver Hummer. The acid in the pit of my stomach started churning hard when I spotted one, parked only one space away from us on our right, closest to my side of the car. The only thing separating us from the bad guy was a Chevy Suburban.

  I couldn’t get a clear view of what he looked like but it was obvious he was talking on a cell phone. Plus he’d pulled into the space nose-first so that he was sitting on the other side of his vehicle. I had to peek through the windows of the SUV between us to see anything. The man was in his mid-thirties, his hair was cut short, military-style, and he was wearing wire-framed glasses. He could have been the branch manager of my local bank.

  “I see it,” Lobel said. “Let me park and I’ll be right there.”

  Then, incredibly, Lobel pulled into the space across the aisle directly in front of us. If we were any closer to all of this, we’d be sitting in the front seat of the Hummer.

  Mike handed me a grocery store supplement that he’d brought with him. “Genie,” he said, calmly. “Pretend like you’re reading this. Rip out a couple of coupons so that we look like we’re about to go shopping.”

  “Really? Think that’ll fool anybody?”

  Through the windshield, I surreptitiously watched David Lobel get out of the Escalade. When he saw us he stopped dead in his tracks, blinking his eyes, not quite believing that we were that close.

  I was silently shouting at him. Keep moving, you dumbass!

  As if Mike heard me, he whispered, “Keep walking. Keep walking.”

  Lobel snapped out of it and continued over to the HumVee. He was wearing a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved, button-down white dress shirt, open at the throat and rolled up at the wrists. There were bandages on his forehead, left cheek and chin, and puffy purple patches under both of his eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, Lobel,” a disembodied voice in our ears said as the fence crawled into the Hummer. “What happened to you? You get hit by a truck?”

  Pretty good guess.

  I could imagine Lobel shrugging. “I got mugged. I was in the city two nights ago, heading down to see some friends in the Village. I got jumped on the subway by a couple of guys who punched me in the face and stole my wallet.”

  “Oh, man, looks like they hit ya’ pretty hard,” the bad guy responded. “How much did they get?”

  “About a hundred bucks and my credit cards, a Visa and my American Express Platinum card. And my driver’s license. That’s gonna’ be a bitch to get replaced.”

  I looked at Mike again. Lobel’s voice was really pitched high, talking way too fast. He was a wired mass of frazzled nerves.

  I could see the bad guy shake his head. “What’s this world coming to, David? World’s full of barbarians. I’m sorry, man. Anyway, I hope you still got some of your money left. Take a look at this, it’s the last little bit of the last job. We’re thinking it’s worth about thirty G’s”

  “Let me see,” Lobel said.

  Over the next couple of minutes, all Mike and I heard was silence. I glanced over at the Hummer. The guy sitting in the driver’s seat was tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.

  Lobel, sitting next to him, had the police sunglasses tipped up on the top of his head and was studying something in his lap through a jeweler’s loupe. A case filled with jewelry?

  Finally Lobel said, “I read in the papers that you guys have done fifteen jobs.”

  Another silence.

  “Is that true?” Lobel asked.

  “What?” The bad guy sounded annoyed.

  “Did you guys do fifteen jobs?”

  “What’s it matter?

  Lobel explained, “You only brought me in on thirteen. If there’s another fence in the area, I need to know. Nobody likes competition.”

  Mike was shaking his head. “What’s Lobel doing?”

  The bad guy responded. “Don’t be a pussy. You’re the only one we’ve been working with.”

  “The papers said fifteen jobs,” Lobel insisted.

  “What…the hell…is…he...doing?” Mike whispered again.

  I heard the impatience in the bad guys’ voice. “Thirteen. We did thirteen jobs.”

  Lobel argued. “The newspapers can’t count? Why would they say you did fifteen? If I got a competitor, I need to know.”

  The driver leaned forward. “Because, you dumb shit, it happens everywhere we go. Somebody reads about our action in the papers or sees it on TV, and they think they can do it as good as we do. Somebody else did those other two jobs. When we start seeing copycats, we move to another location. As a matter of fact, if you can focus and we can get this done, we’re headed out this afternoon.”

  Copycats? Which two jobs did they do? I’ve got a great hook for another story. There’s a second gang of crooks out there.

  “So let’s get down to business, Lobel,” the bad guy snarled. “We’re saying thirty thousand.”

  Lobel looked back down at his lap. “Twenty-seven.”

  Mike shook his head again and whispered, “He’s sounding way too nervous.”

  “How much?” the bad guy asked.

  We heard Lobel clear his throat and say, “Twenty-eight?”

  There was a long silence. Then the bad guy said in a low, careful voice, “Lobel, you’re one of the tightes
t weasels I’ve ever worked with. You’ve lowballed me at every turn, usually insulting my intelligence with an offer that’s about a third of the real price. You’re a professional worm and I’ve respected that out of professional courtesy. So how come now, on our final transaction, you’re offering me a price that’s obviously more than what this shit’s all really worth?”

  There was another silence.

  Mike surprised me. “Buckle up.”

  And then I saw the bad guy lean toward Lobel and snatch the sunglasses off his head. Mike and I both heard him snapping the frames. “You’re wearing a wire? You son of a bitch! You’re dead!”

  I could feel my heart stop.

  The Jeep jerked forward and Mike tore out of our parking space. He immediately slammed on the brakes, stopping behind the HumVee. “Stay down,” he snapped. He was out his door and barking commands into his radio, ordering his men to move in. His gun was in his hand.

  Portable red and blue lights placed atop four unmarked police cars started to flash and whirl almost simultaneously. Mike cautiously moved around his side of the vehicle until he was behind the hood of his Jeep, his gun aimed at the SUV. He shouted, “Police! Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  The HumVee’s engine roared to life and David Lobel leaped out of the passenger’s door, bouncing hard against the parked Suburban, crumpling to the ground.

  The Hummer backed up fast, squealing into my side of the Jeep. The Cherokee rocked sideways, the door buckled and the window glass shattered, shards flying through the air. I was thrown hard against the door, stunned.

  The Hummer pulled forward and then, engine shrieking, it flew backwards again into my side of the Jeep. The impact slammed me sideways, the seat belt and harness digging hard into my shoulder and chest.

  My airbag exploded, blasting against my face and chest like a giant fist, pinning me against the seat.

  The Hummer’s motor screamed and tires screeched and I smelled rubber cooking. The HumVee was pushing against my door, trying to power the Cherokee out of the way. The Jeep shook under the pressure and I felt the world sliding underneath me.

  A single gunshot split the air and multiple voices shouted simultaneously, “Get out of the car, put your hands up, get down on the ground.”

  The howling engine went silent and the Jeep stopped moving.

  I’m not sure how much time passed before I felt hands reach in through my open window and unbuckle my seat belt. Someone else pulled me across the center console and out the driver’s side. Once I was outside in the fresh air, Mike held me, keeping me upright on unstable legs. I could feel drops of rain falling on my face

  People were running and screaming in all directions, mothers with children, old men with shopping carts. People were down on the hard surface of the parking lot, having thrown themselves to the ground when Mike fired a warning shot.

  The bad guy lay on his stomach on the oily asphalt, hands cuffed behind his back, surrounded by cops.

  I spotted David Lobel leaning against a Toyota, both hands clasped against his face, trying to staunch the bleeding from his nose where he’d bounced off the Suburban. He wasn’t having much luck keeping his face in one piece.

  I heard an ambulance siren in the distance.

  “Genie,” Mike asked, “you okay, honey?”

  Taking my camera out of my bag, I said, “I’m fine. Let me get some shots, okay?”

  “Jesus, you’re bleeding.”

  I felt a tiny shard of glass sticking out from my forehead. I gingerly plucked it out, then pulled a tissue from my handbag to put on the cut. Dabbing at it, I checked out the amount of blood on the tissue.

  It was more than I anticipated. I felt woozy.

  “We’re taking you to the hospital,” Mike stated.

  I frowned and shook my head. “All I need is a Band-Aid.” Then I touched him on the arm and brushed a few raindrops away from my eyes. “I’m all right. You want to get out of the way so I can get a couple of pictures?”

  David Lobel walked up to us on legs that wobbled. “So, what happens to me?” He held both of his hands on the sides of his nose, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

  Mike crossed his arms. “Looks like we’re taking you back to the hospital. Then we’ll find a judge to get you arraigned and arrange bail.”

  “I could drive the Escalade.”

  “What are you, crazy?”

  “I get my deal, right? I mean I did good here.”

  Mike squinted at him. “Other than you almost blew it.”

  “I was a little nervous,” Lobel argued. “Is that a crime? And I thought the rotten bastard had cut me out of two jobs.”

  As I snapped photos and took some more notes, I ruminated on what Lobel had just said. There was still another gang of crooks out there somewhere.

  I kept taking photos while they loaded the bad guy into a squad car and drove away. Mike came up to me. “I’m sorry, Genie. There’s about ten acres of parking lot here. What are the odds the bad guy is going to be parked right next us? I put you in danger. That’s unforgivable.”

  Mike wasn’t really worried about putting me in danger. He was worried what the chief would say if he knew there was a reporter in his car during an arrest that got rough. “Look, Mike, I love this stuff. How about I leave out the part about my being in your SUV? It’s really not part of the story.”

  I watched as a broad smile broke out on his face. “I owe ya, Genie.”

  “Nah, I got some great photos and it’s a cool story. Hey, you think there’s another gang doing burglaries?”

  “Sure looks like it, darlin’. Let me get one of the EMS guys to look at your forehead.”

  ***

  Some days are crummy and stay that way. But once in a while, and not very often, you get a day that starts out great and stays that way.

  It all started with Kevin in my shower. And then I got an exclusive on the arrest. True, I had a nasty headache, but it was nothing a tumbler of vodka and an aspirin wouldn’t take care of.

  I didn’t think there could be anything left that could top that.

  Until I got into my Sebring and noticed that I’d gotten a cell phone message. It must have come through at the same time I was getting rammed by the Hummer.

  It was a call forwarded from my office phone.

  “Geneva Chase…I’m the one who called you yesterday. I know who killed those people on Connor’s Landing. I’ll try to call you later tonight. I hope you can be by your phone at nine. That’s when I’ll call again.”

  Just try to keep me away.

  Chapter Nine

  I decided that since I was on a roll, I’d press my luck. Once I was back in my office and I’d finished pounding out the story about the arrest, I punched up Kevin’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Caroline?” I recognized her voice from yesterday.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, honey. It’s Genie Chase. Is your dad around?”

  “No. He’s out bidding on a couple of jobs. You want his cell phone?”

  Her voice sounded a little odd. Like maybe she’d just gotten out of bed.

  “Were you taking a nap? Did I wake you?”

  “No. Let me give you his cell phone.”

  She did and I wrote it down. I asked, “Everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice perked up a little. “Just a little tired is all.”

  It’s the middle of summer. School’s out. The kid’s on vacation. How tired can she be?

  “Well, I’ll give your dad a call. Get some rest, sweetheart.”

  “’Kay…thanks.”

  Weird. Not the same confident, poised young lady that I’d met yesterday.

  I punched up Kevin’s cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Kevin, it’s Genie.” My voice had unconscio
usly taken on a softer, sexier tone.

  “Hi!” He suddenly sounded warmer as well.

  “Hey, I hate to bother you”

  “No bother. It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “My shift started early today so I’m off around six. Want to go grab something to eat?”

  “Actually, I’ll make you a counteroffer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m a pretty good cook. How about you have dinner at my place tonight? I’ll grill some salmon.”

  “Sounds great. Can I bring anything?” Then, without thinking, I added, “Bottle of wine?”

  He didn’t say anything and when I heard the embarrassing silence, I winced.

  Then he quietly said, “Hey, we’re adults. Sure, how about a nice Chardonnay? See you around six-thirty?”

  After we hung up, I put my hands on my eyes and shook my head, amazed at my own stupidity.

  ***

  After my arrest and sentence of sobriety, I started buying my booze surreptitiously. When I’d first moved back to Sheffield, I was a regular customer at Yankee Wine and Spirits over on Walnut Street. It’s one of those liquor super-stores that stocks pretty much anything in the world that has alcohol in it. I liked the broad selection and shopped there often. They quickly came to know me as a regular, greeting me by name when I walked in the doorway.

  But after my trial, that sort of familiarity became a liability. I started shopping at Pete’s Liquors off West Avenue. It was barely bigger than my closet and the representative client demographic purchased malt beverages, inexpensive whiskies, and wines that came in jugs with screw tops.

  Even so, on that evening, I found a nice Chardonnay in the cooler behind a six-pack of hard lemonade. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it was Pete’s only bottle of wine that cost more than eight dollars.

  Feeling self conscious, when I got to Kevin’s house I had the bottle hidden in my oversized bag that also held my notebooks, camera, and cosmetics. After all, we were both supposed to be on the wagon.

  “Genie!” Kevin exclaimed as he opened the door. He had a big smile on his face.