Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery)

by Reinhart, Larissa

  Lord help me, but I didn’t want to speak to any Sweetgum tweakers. If Tyrone’s death didn’t have anything to do with the hijacking, or the “bigger than the hijacking” crime, his murder might never get solved. I put aside thoughts of the Sweetgum mafia and thought about how Max could be tied to the hijacking.

  I tapped my pencil and drew the SipNZip logo and a cranky bear. Did the police’s interest in Max relate to the truck hold up? Why did Max try to hide his ownership? Why were all the employees foreign and living together in an apartment?

  Why did I care?

  Finally, I drew a little hatchback. That particular vehicle stumped me. While Luke watched Max, who watched me? I sketched Shawna’s face next to the car, then added horns and a mustache.

  I heard a shuffle of feet, looked up, and found Todd standing in the kitchen entrance watching me. He wore plaid pajama pants and had slipped a soft gray t-shirt over his sculpted body. I wasn’t sure if I should feel thankful or deprived for his coverage.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Trying to understand what’s going on,” I said. “The government has intervened. Jerell has been placed in foster care. Miss Gladys is sucking on oxygen all by her lonesome. She needs full time care and her main source of income is dead. Never mind that source of income came from larceny and illegal drugs. Miss Gladys is still living in a cardboard box surrounded by cookers and crankers and barely strong enough to heat a can of soup.”

  “What are you going to do?” Todd slipped into the chair next to me and examined my drawings.

  “Now that Shawna has muddied my name, no one will listen to me. At least Leah’s asking the churches to help Miss Gladys. I can’t find Shawna’s photos. And it doesn’t look like Mr. Max is going to help us. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

  “I like being your muse,” he smiled and drew a happy face on my pad. “It looks like you’re figuring more than a charity call. Your bear wants to rip apart the SipNZip.”

  I studied my drawing. “You’re right, Todd. Why does the Bear hate the SipNZip? It must turn a good profit. There’s barely any employees.”

  “The overhead is cheap, too.”

  I studied Todd’s face bent over the paper as he drew a dollar sign. “What do you mean?”

  “When I went there to apply, I went around back to watch them unload a truck. You know, that used to be my job.”

  “I know, honey,” I said and squeezed his hand. “You’ll get rehired as soon as the economy picks up.”

  “Anyway, they were bringing in cases of stock from the back of a U-Haul.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was only a brown box, front door delivery guy. But generally, stores get their stock delivery from company trucks. You’ve seen the commercial where the beer truck drives up to the store and everyone cheers? At the SipNZip, two guys were unloading boxes of beer from a U-Haul.” Todd drew a big U on my sketch pad. “Something’s wrong with that.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Todd, you’re brilliant. I don’t know why you try and hide it. You need to call Uncle Will and tell him what you saw.”

  “I’m pretty sure he knows. Deputy Chris Wellington watched them from his pickup. Like he was doing the plainclothes detective thing.”

  “Hot damn,” I slipped from the chair, avoiding Todd’s reach for another kiss. “That’s why the cops are watching Mr. Max.”

  “Probably why Mr. Max doesn’t want me working there, too.” Todd strummed the table surface, tapping out a happy rhythm.

  “You are right again. Max is protecting you.” I felt so energized, I didn’t bother to stop Todd’s annoying drumming. “And me. He wants me to stay away from him in order to protect me.”

  I ran to the door to grab my boots. “Can I borrow your car? You want to tag along?”

  “Sure, baby,” said Todd. “Where are you going?”

  “The Gearjammer doesn’t open until later and the Sweetgum meth-heads are likely still asleep. My first stop today is Atlanta. Rupert was Max’s immigration lawyer. I bet he’s got a file on Max that will tell me something. Max is somehow tied to this hijacking. All this interest in him and the SipNZip didn’t start until that truck was robbed. If I can’t do anything else for Miss Gladys, I can tell her who killed Tyrone so she can sue them.”

  “She doesn’t care about the killer going to jail?”

  “Prison justice is for folks with money. People like Miss Gladys would rather use the court system for economic retribution.”

  “You think Mr. Max did this?” asked Todd. “I like Mr. Max. I can’t see him robbing a truck or killing anyone. Although I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

  “I agree, Todd. The Bear is a dangerous beast, although his criminal activity seems to be contained to cheating at cards and rigging roulette wheels. Rupert mentioned Max worked for a casino in his younger days. Vice tends to flow to other realms. I hope this is not the case.”

  “If they are stocking the SipNZip with jacked goods, Max is going to prison for a long time,” said Todd. “What if he doesn’t know they’re doing it?”

  “Dammit.” I yanked on a boot. “Am I going to have to help the Bear, too? I swear I don’t know why I care so much, Todd. It’s not like I’m accumulating any accolades around here.”

  “I’ll clap for you, baby,” Todd said and winked. “But I’d rather kiss you instead.”

  At Rupert’s Buckhead McMansion, Todd rang the doorbell. He glanced at me, a smile curling his soft lips.

  Todd’s fondness for adventure almost outweighed his fondness for performing in tight, faux-leather pants. Playing poker gave him a similar adrenaline rush. Todd didn’t need drugs. His body made his own.

  Maybe we should offer this wisdom to the Sweetgum crew.

  “I forgot to ask you how your set went last night,” I said. “I had some trouble with a vehicle following me.”

  “That silver hatchback you mentioned?” asked Todd. “I haven’t seen it, but I think Casey mentioned seeing one yesterday.”

  “Dammit,” I said, then closed my mouth as the door swung open.

  Miss David wore a pale blush velour yoga set. Her impassive expression barely registered the shock of seeing me, but wavered a bit upon taking in the hunk that is Todd.

  “You are the model for the classical paintings,” she said to Todd. “Amazing.”

  “So you’re not a robot,” I said. “I was beginning to wonder. Mind if we come in?”

  “I don’t believe Rupert needed you today,” she said, but stepped aside to allow us entrance. She gave my cutoffs and Daytona Beach t-shirt a sneer. I supposed she didn’t care for stock cars and dolphins.

  “You have come all this way for nothing.”

  “We were in the area. Todd wanted to see where his paintings hung,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers behind my satchel.

  “I’ve never seen myself hanging on a real wall before,” said Todd.

  Miss David’s lower lip dropped. She closed it quickly. “Of course.”

  “Is Mr. Rupert in?” I pointed down the hall. “I left my tackle in his office and need it for another project.”

  “Not now. Shall I fetch the box for you?”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll go grab it,” I said. “You go along and show Todd the paintings. He’ll enjoy that.”

  I waited until they entered the red room and closed the French doors. Running down the hall, I flung open the door to the office and snagged my supply box from its spot near the Christmas tree.

  I tore back down the hall, dropped my tackle box on the floor, and cracked the door to Miss David’s office. I headed immediately past her desk to the file cabinet, opened the first drawer, and began leafing through folders. Avtaikin popped out quickly, and I blessed Max for his convenient initial. Grabbing the folder, I shoved it in my satchel and scooted out of the room. I pulled the door closed and reached to snatch my tackle box from the floor. As I straightened, I found Miss David watching me from the d
oorway to the red room.

  “Find everything you need?” she asked.

  “Yep,” I said. “Where’s Todd?”

  “Here I am,” he said, slipping around Miss David. “I noticed the frame was crooked and while I straightened it, Miss David disappeared on me.”

  “I thought I heard something,” she said, studying me.

  “I think I hear something, too,” I said. The growl of a car engine grew louder. I peered through the bracketing on the front door’s adjacent window. The town car zipped around the donut toward the rear garage. “That’s Nik. What happened to him last night?”

  “Don’t know,” said Todd.

  “Let’s find out.” I didn’t like the way Miss David eyed me. Any woman who wouldn’t stay to watch Todd’s backside stretch over a sofa to adjust a painting had something wrong with her.

  We hustled out the front door and walked down the drive to the rear garage. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Nik wiped the car down with a wet rag. Seeing Todd and I, he dropped the cloth and took a deep drag before pulling the cigarette from his mouth.

  “You have ruined my life,” he said.

  “How’s that?” I halted my gait toward the garage.

  “Your sister.”

  I nodded. Casey was the boll weevil to the cotton hearts of men. There was no hope of recovery once she struck. “Sorry about that.”

  Todd placed a hand on my shoulder. “Too bad, man.”

  I twitched off Todd’s hand. “It’s our momma’s fault. I advise you to move on quickly.”

  Staring at the sky, Nik sucked on the stub of his cigarette and blew a tendril of smoke toward the clouds. “‘Like a spirit of the purest beauty. In the torture of hopeless melancholy,’” he quoted. “Pushkin.”

  “Lord help him,” I said to Todd. “Let’s get out of here before he pulls out a bottle of vodka and starts singing.”

  Nik nodded. “Leave me to my pain.”

  “Maybe you can focus your pain on rebuilding my truck.”

  I pulled on Todd’s hand to reverse our walk to the front of the house. “I picked up some interesting materials. I’m going to read to you on the way home.”

  “I liked Nik’s poem,” said Todd.

  “It’s better than a poem. It’s background information on the Bear.”

  Twenty-Nine

  On the way home, we stopped at the Varsity. Todd drove and munched on fries and onion rings while I flipped through the thick file on Maksim Avtaikin. I rummaged for photos first. His passport pictures disappointed me. No smiles.

  “Keep your eye out for little BMWs, Todd,” I said, taking a sip of Varsity Orange.

  “Do you want me to count them? Two just passed me.” He gave me a lazy smile, and I thought about the plague of Cherry Tucker chomping away at Todd’s heart.

  “Todd, do you feel like you have something in common with Nik?”

  “I think my English is better,” he said. “But we both seem to enjoy driving you around.”

  “Nik does not enjoy driving me around,” I said. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. Just like Casey and Nik, I’m no good for you. I love being friends, but you should think of moving on, too.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he grinned and winked. “You just started talking to me again.”

  “I can fix that right quick,” I snapped and turned to the file to assuage my feelings of guilt. I studied Max’s passport copy. “Holy crap. Max is only thirty-five.”

  “Wow, he’s old,” said Todd.

  “Thirty-five isn’t old. Maybe he seems old because he plays golf with the middle-aged set. Maybe money ages you.”

  I turned over a copy of a diploma I couldn’t read and found a photo of a young, smiling Max in a suit and tie. An older man in flashy threads stood next to him. Max’s thick, brown hair had been longer and his cheeks rounder, but he still towered over the man next to him. His smile had the rakish smirk of an eighteen-year-old who thinks they’ve figured out the world. I knew that feeling. Lost it around twenty-two when I started paying off my student loans.

  I glanced at Todd, shoved the picture in my back pocket, and flipped to the next document. “I can’t believe this. Max went to Emory.”

  “Emory University in Atlanta?” Todd glanced at me before accelerating around a chicken truck. “He never mentioned that to me. I thought he liked the Bulldogs.”

  “No football at Emory. They prefer country club sports.” I glanced through his class listings, mainly history and business. “No diploma.”

  “I guess he didn’t graduate.”

  “No college photos either,” I said. “Unfortunately, most of the interesting parts of Max’s file are written in that alphabet with the crazy letters. Looks like he went back to his home country between Emory and Halo.”

  “Cyrillic,” said Todd.

  I glanced sideways at Todd before leafing through the oodles of citizenship forms. “Found his social security card,” I said and almost gagged upon reading the receipt for Rupert’s filing. “No wonder Max hates Rupert. You should see what he was charged for immigration. There’s processing, courier, visa, fingerprint, and application fees. Those are just for the government. Some are up to six hundred dollars each.”

  “I guess that way immigrants get used to the government taking away their money before they even move here.”

  “The government fees aren’t as bad as these other costs. Rupert’s office charged him for more consultation, filing, courier work, and processing. These receipts begin in the thousands and work their way into double digits.”

  “Damn,” said Todd. “It’s a wonder he has any money left.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “This can’t be normal. How can America open her arms to the ‘tired, poor, and the yearning to be free’ for close to fifty thousand dollars? I can’t imagine the Vietnamese family that runs the nail shop in Line Creek paying fifty thousand dollars for their green cards.”

  “Probably used a different lawyer.”

  “Seems to me there’s only a couple reasons to charge that much money. Either Max is so rich he didn’t care what it cost to get his paperwork squared away. Or Rupert offered a special service.”

  “Like the kind you get at the Happy Massage Spa?”

  “What is wrong with you? No, not that kind of service. One where Max didn’t have to wait in line as long as other people. Or one where the United States government wouldn’t find out about Max’s past and reject his entry.”

  “Oh,” said Todd.

  “Just drive and watch out for silver BMW hatchbacks.” I closed the folder and noticed a name written on the bottom left corner, M. Hawkins. I flipped back through the file, but couldn’t find a match.

  “Do you think I should give this file to Uncle Will?” I said.

  “Didn’t you steal that file?” said Todd. “He can’t use it if you stole it.”

  “Dangit if you’re not right. I might just have to do an anonymous tip.” I tapped my Stargazer blue nails on the folder. “I’ll slip this back when I go to work on Rupert’s portrait. I’m sure nobody will miss it between now and then.”

  “I suppose I should visit with Miss Gladys,” I said to Todd as we turned off the interstate and onto familiar roads. “I am ashamed to admit that I don’t want to face her now that Jerell’s been taken.”

  I examined the SipNZip as we passed. The shiny, new exterior dulled in my eyes. Not even the thought of microwavable sausage biscuits could make me think positively about the SipNZip.

  I wondered if Little Anatoly could freestyle about sausage biscuits.

  “Are you worried Miss Gladys will be angry?” asked Todd.

  “I think it will break my heart if she’s not angry,” I said. “I don’t want to go to that old, rundown trailer and not see Jerell. Maybe I can get Miss April, the nice hoarder in the next trailer, to check on her today. If I had good news to bring Miss Gladys, I wouldn’t feel so bad.”

  “What kind of good news?”

 
“At the very least, I wish I could say I found her a new place to live. I’ve got Leah working on that. What I’d really like to tell her is Tyrone’s killer is in prison and she can start researching lawyers.” I pondered that thought.

  “Tonight I’ll go back to the Gearjammer. There’ll be new truckers there. I can flash around the composite drawing. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  “I’d take you to the Gearjammer,” said Todd. “But I’ve got another gig at Red’s tonight. And this afternoon, Leah and I were going to go over some new songs. I wrote one about an artist who loves abs.”

  “That’s going to help a lot with the morality police, thank you. And if you can’t tell, my tone is sarcastic.”

  “I could tell,” said Todd.

  “I don’t mean to get ugly, but I’ve got enough problems without you writing unflattering songs about me.”

  “I’m flattered you like abs,” said Todd. “Because I’ve got an awesome six-pack.”

  “This is not the conversation I want to have with you.” I rapped on the folder in my lap. “Listen, I’ve got to figure out how Max is involved with this whole hijacking. If he’s guilty, then Miss Gladys will be happy because that’s a big wallet to sue. But if he’s innocent, I am not going to let him take some other perp’s fall.”

  “I thought you liked busting Mr. Max.”

  “For misdemeanors that pull our town into the world of clandestine gambling. This is a whole ’nother ball of felonies.”

  We fell silent, and I watched our town zip by. Halo was no Mayberry, but I still loved her crumbling sidewalks connecting homes to local businesses. The family doctor no longer made house calls, but he was always at the Halo High School football games. And you could call his wife if you needed to lawyer up for a divorce or a DUI. This was a town of decent people and even if they were a tad judgmental―about artists who painted classic nudes, for example―their judgment came from fear of corrupting the small town peace and solitude that was becoming harder to find in this era.