FOOD TRUCK MYSTERIES: The Complete Series (14 Books)

by Chloe Kendrick

  I realized that I would soon have to be here every day, all day. There would be no more excuses; I couldn’t leave the truck whenever I wanted. It had been a two-person business until now, whereas before I’d been able to leave with the knowledge that the business was well taken care of. I had no idea where to look for a hot dog chef who would work for a fair but smallish salary as well as be reliable and responsible. Maybe I could file a missing persons report on an incredible chef.

  After I was done with the cleanup, I made up five hot dogs with all the fixings. I got a carrier tray and a cup of Land’s ridiculously good coffee that was about as black as soot. Closing up again, I strode across the plaza and into the government building like a woman on a mission.

  I remembered my way to the police station in the building. I didn’t bother with a receptionist, but headed directly for Detective Danvers’ desk. He was there on the phone, but I received a raised eyebrow when he saw the food. He made his excuses and hung up within a minute. “So what brings you here today?” he said with something of an attitude, but still with an eye on the food. I might be forgettable, but my food was always a hit.

  “These are for you. A peace offering of sorts,” I said as I set the food on a stack of papers. “Bygones and all that.”

  “Thanks, I think. I didn’t know we were warring.” He opened the bag, and even I could smell the aroma of the hot dogs. Usually working with the ingredients for hours made me immune to how delicious the hot dogs could smell. My mouth watered a little as I remembered that I hadn’t eaten any lunch. I’d have to get used to skipping the lunch meal when Land left.

  “Well, I just wanted you to see that I’m not a bad person and definitely not a murderer.” I gave him a smile. “I’m just a small-time businesswoman in a rather dangerous profession at the moment.”

  He looked at the hot dog for a second, as though it might have been the work of a serial poisoner, but since the heads of the victims had been chopped off in this case, he figured the dogs were safe. He bit into one, and I could hear the sound of his chewing. I had run out of small talk, and I didn’t want to hit him up for my favor until he’d sampled a few of the dogs. I needed all the good will I could secure here.

  I took the time to look around his desk; there were no pictures of children or a wife, so I assumed that he was likely single. He did have one photo of a group of guys on some beach, but I didn’t recognize the place. I wasn’t much on vacations, mainly since I hadn’t been able to afford them since my parents paid for them in high school. He was shirtless in the photo, and I probably spent a few moments too long admiring it. He had a smooth torso that was as well muscled as it appeared under those tight-fitting shirts.

  “So what do you want from me?” Danvers asked, eyeing me again.

  I cleared my throat and waited until he’d started on the third dog. “I was wondering if I could see the police report on the food truck my aunt bought. It was sold at a police auction. I was curious to find out more about its provenance.” I lied, mainly because I didn’t want to tip off Danvers that no one in our family or Shirley’s family could figure out where the $30,000 had come from. It was easier, in this case, to lie and hope for the best. “I know it had to be involved in some sort of crime to have been impounded and sold, but I was curious to find out why it was there to begin with.”

  He licked the homemade relish off his fingers, and then clicked away at his keyboard. The printer behind me started to whir and Danvers pointed at it as he swooped in for a fourth dog. I had originally brought five dogs thinking that would be enough for whomever I had to bribe to get this report. Danvers apparently was not going to share. I didn’t know where he put all those calories. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, meaning that his body was almost as nice as his face. Sigh, why did the pretty ones always think I’d killed someone?

  “You know you could have gotten all this online. Our database is pretty complete and you can search for what you need,” he said around a piece of a hot dog. He went back to munching as I looked over the pages that had printed so far.

  “I didn’t know that,” I lied again. I knew about all of that, but I’d hoped the face-to-face meeting would allow me some time to flirt and possibly procure more information than had been available on the Internet. I found the police reports to be very dry and formal.

  “Yeah,” he said after chewing, “saves on these types of visits, not that I’m complaining. These dogs are delicious.”

  “Thanks. Most of the menu was already in place when I got here, so I can’t take a lot of credit for it. I’m thinking of adding a breakfast menu to go with the morning coffee.”

  He nodded. “Good choice. I work odd shifts, so I can eat hot dogs any time of the day, but a lot of people are pickier about eating these things for breakfast.”

  I gave him a smile. “I’m sure you know that Land is leaving. He’s taking over for one of the Meat Treats trucks as soon as they get it cleared by the health inspectors. He’s going to be in the spot we’re in now and I’ll be back where I was before.”

  He studied me for a second. I wasn’t sure what the look was about, but I had just thrown Land under the truck, metaphorically speaking. I said that I would take him back if need be, but in the meantime, I had no trouble in offering him up as an alternate suspect to the crimes. He’d gained from Fred Sample’s death more than I had. I did recall that Land and Detective Danvers knew each other too. I wasn’t sure about the nature of their relationship; perhaps Danvers was annoyed that I was offering up Land as a suspect if they were on friendly terms.

  I rifled the pages to see if there were any answers that stood out in bright bolded letters, but nothing like that was in there. If someone had put up the money for the truck, there had to be some reason for it. I had trouble seeing why someone would pay that kind of cash, only to see it be bequeathed to someone else in a matter of months, and then bequeathed to me a few months after that. It didn’t seem reasonable.

  Danvers stood up, brushed the crumbs from his lap, and walked me to the door of the office. He wasn’t in the mood for much small talk after he’d finished the dogs. I shook his hand and took the papers with me. He’d been somewhat anxious to get rid of me, but I was also masking my desire to dig into this matter.

  I drove the truck to the lot, drove home and found a comfortable chair to read in. The trouble was that I fell asleep almost as soon as I sat down. I awoke two hours later with a creaky neck and a stiff arm. I’d made it through exactly one page of the report so far. I would never make it as a detective this way.

  I walked to the kitchen and found of box of processed foodstuff. I added water and microwaved it, setting it down on the kitchen table by the report. I ate in silence, wondering what Land would have thought of my dinner. Having eaten, I felt awake and ready to read the report.

  The report itself was fairly thick. Danvers had printed out the details of the sale as well as the underlying police reports for the robberies. There was little in the report that I didn’t know about the sale of the food truck. It had been confiscated as part of the arrests of the people involved in the robberies at city stores.

  According to the additional reports, it seemed as if the police suspected the truck of being used as the “get-away vehicle” or possibly a lookout truck for five different robberies where a food truck had been seen by witnesses around the time of the thefts. The thefts had taken place all over town, so there was no clear reason why one particular vehicle would be at five different places.

  The first theft report held little information about the truck. A witness had been purchasing a sub from the truck when he heard the alarms go off at a high-end jewelry store. The statement only served to set the time for the theft and nothing else. He didn’t have a description of anyone involved in the robbery. He wasn’t even sure what store had been robbed, other than the alarm was loud enough to startle him. He hadn’t seen the thieves appear anywhere near the truck, but he hadn’t been paying much attention to the robbery.
He’d been in a hurry to eat and get to his office. The location had been close to where our food truck had been located before the Samples murder. Just down the street on Elm. I thought that was interesting, but hardly suspicious. It was a great spot with a lot of repeat business.

  The second and third reports mentioned the food truck, but with more details than before. The truck was called A Movable Feast, which I liked for a name because it was likely to attract the hip, literate crowd. It had been seen a block from the Armani store that had been robbed. Over $20,000 in cash had been taken. The police had tried to work the angle that the cash was in the store because the employees had not taken it to the bank the previous night, which hinted at an inside job. On a typical day, the store only had about $1000 in cash on hand. The discrepancy seemed like too big a coincidence. However, they’d not made any headway in locating any store employee who was tied to the people who were eventually arrested.

  They’d moved on to look at people in the vicinity, but few people had come forward with stories. The truck had been mentioned by one man who said that he’d lost sight of the suspects behind a food truck, but he hadn’t mentioned a particular name. Follow-up reports had filled in the name of the truck.

  The third robbery had been at a high-end consignment shop where jewelry, purses and cash had been taken in broad daylight. The thieves all wore ski masks, which would have been less conspicuous in winter. There were three people involved in the actual robbery, two women and a man. The women never spoke, but the man had a deep voice with a slight southern accent. The police had come across the same food truck in another witness’ statement. The perpetrators had run behind the truck on the sidewalk and disappeared down a side street. The police had followed a few minutes later, guided by the witness, but no trace of them was found.

  It was obvious by this third robbery that the police were getting suspicious of the food truck. The owner, a man in his 70s, was called in and questioned. He had gout in one leg that precluded him from running, and a strong Greek accent, so he didn’t seem to be involved in any way.

  By the fourth robbery, the police were just plain angry that the food truck had appeared again just a block from the site of the heist. They had pulled the old man in again, and the interview had lasted hours from the summaries of the statements taken then. He still denied any part in the planning or execution of the crimes. However, by this point, the police were convinced that this was no coincidence.

  They’d finally wised up for the next robbery. They’d started surveillance of the food truck and waited for the robbery to occur near it. Within three days, another robbery had taken place; the police had caught the man with the southern accent almost immediately and taken him in for questioning. The police had also learned that one of the bystanders who had provided a witness statement at the second robbery was actually the truck owner’s nephew, and he had been driving his uncle’s truck to different sites to see how sales compared, or so he claimed.

  That piece of information was enough to get the truck confiscated. The police thought that perhaps there had been equipment or gear of some sort stored in the truck, and they wanted to look for the fingerprints of the two women and anyone else who might have been involved.

  Unfortunately, the truck had provided no answers to the police questions. The truck had been wiped clean on a daily basis for possible health department inspection. So identification from prints was not possible.

  Most of the goods from the robberies were not recovered, which most likely meant that they’d been moved out of state to be sold. High-end items were not likely to fetch their best price in a small market like Capital City. In fact, trying to sell them in this market would have likely resulted in the capture of the two other conspirators and anyone else involved in the matter. The police had sent photos and descriptions of some of the more unique pieces to Los Angeles and New York City, but nothing had come of it. I wondered if those bigger cities had even bothered with a request from the Capital City police for assistance.

  The police had scanned the truck for gear, but nothing had been found. Still, its proximity to so many robberies had made it eligible to be confiscated. The truck was sold to the highest cash bidder two months after the trial was over—to my aunt, with cash that could not be explained.

  Having read all of this, I had to wonder: had Shirley and Alice been the two women involved in the robberies? They certainly fit the descriptions of the women involved, or as much as could be determined from ski-mask covered faces. They’d also shown an interest in the truck as soon as it had come up for auction. I was still bothered that my truck had such a shady past. I could live with the part about it being involved in crimes. I couldn’t bear the idea that my aunt had used dirty money to buy it. The food truck was hardly a memento of her life if she’d broken the law and knocked over stores to earn the cash. I didn’t know when I’d developed such a moral streak, but it still bothered me.

  However, I was puzzled. The deposits had come in three equal payments that were all just below the $10,000 threshold. If she’d been part of the robbery team, that meant someone else had held on to the money until enough had been collected—or my aunt had stashed the cash until it had grown to the amount she’d needed. All of this spoke to someone else being involved, a mastermind who was smart enough to put all of this together.

  The police reports had nothing about the trial of the man with the southern accent, so I Googled the information I needed. He’d been found guilty on all the counts for the robberies. He had maintained his silence throughout the trial and during his time in prison. He was still at the penitentiary upstate; I had no idea how to get in touch with him. However, in the article, I found the names of the lawyers who had represented him. They were from a well-known and very expensive firm in town.

  I thought about calling the law firm, but opted to visit them in person instead. It was nearly 4:30, but I knew someone at the law firm would still be available. Lawyers rarely went home early in my experience, not when there were billable hours left in the day.

  I actually took some care with my appearance before visiting the law offices. My hair went up in a bun. I put on a nice white blouse and a demure, professional skirt. I looked the part of a budding young lawyer, if I did say so myself.

  The offices were on the third floor of the newest skyscraper in town. Even though I was only three blocks off Elm Street, it felt like an entirely different world than my own. I got off the elevator, gave the secretary my card after scribbling the name of the man with the southern accent on the back of it, and asked for it to be delivered to Mr. Smith. Since this was the name of the lawyer and not the client, I assumed it was his real name.

  He scurried out in a few minutes, shook my hand, and led me back to his office. “What can I do for you? I don’t suppose you have any evidence that could help Mr. Jenkins’ case?”

  “Not really. I recently inherited the food truck that was used by one of the conspirators in the robberies that Mr. Jenkins allegedly committed. I’m trying to rule out my aunt as one of the undiscovered perpetrators of these crimes. Is there a way you can help me?”

  He paused for a long time. “Of course, I can’t divulge any information provided to me by a client. You do realize that?”

  I took a deep sigh. “Yes, I do. I knew this was a long shot—”

  He interrupted me. “However, if you could provide me with the name of your relative, I might be able to state that I’ve never heard of the woman before if, hypothetically, that were the case. Would that be of service?”

  I smiled at him. “My aunt’s name was Alice James.”

  “Ms. Kinkaid, I can clearly state that I’ve never heard of Alice James. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more service to you.” He shook my hand again and led me to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  But he had been of help. I felt a huge sense of relief as I rode the elevator downstairs. Whatever my aunt might have done to procure the truck, she’d not been a part
of a gang of robbers. We really set the bar high in my family for values.

  I did wonder, as I drove home, why I hadn’t asked the lawyer about Shirley. Was I afraid of the answer or had I merely not wanted to press my luck? I wasn’t sure I could answer that.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning there was a text on my phone from Land, telling me that I needed to vacate the current spot and move back to my prior location. He actually used the word “vacate” which impressed me. While I had enjoyed the extra cash, if I was going to be working alone, the original Elm Street location would be a better fit for me. I had still gotten up an hour earlier and managed to be at the lot a good 45 minutes earlier than normal. I wanted to have a jump on the morning business.

  I drove the truck to its old location. I had begun to chop the ingredients for the condiments when I heard a click at the door. I started to walk that way, and then remembered that Land hadn’t returned his key. There was no other person who could be here at this time of morning. I checked my phone. It was 4:37 a.m.

  I visually checked the lock on the door. It was in the proper position. I breathed a small sigh of relief, but then the noise returned. It sounded like someone was scratching outside the door. I wondered if someone was trying to pick the lock on the door. The event seemed unlikely to me. No one left a food truck unattended because the security on these old trucks was weak at best. They were definitely not Brink’s armored cars. That meant that the person who was trying to enter the truck wanted me.

  The streets were empty at this time of morning, and no one would notice a person, though in my head it was a man, fumbling with the lock on a food truck. The door had a backup security system of sorts, a metal bar that could be lowered across the door to prevent it from opening. Of course, in my hurry this morning, the bar still stood straight up in the air.

  Moving as quietly as I could, I traversed the length of the food truck. I carefully moved the bar and began lowering it inch by inch. The sound of the clicking was louder near the door, and I could see the door’s knob twitch from time to time. I had the bar almost in place when the metal of the bracket nicked my knuckle, and the bar fell into place with a crash.