Busted

by Diane Kelly

  I reached up and put a sympathetic hand on Dante’s beefy shoulder. “Hate to tell you, but there’s no money in this month’s budget to cover the deductible. We’ll have to sit on the repairs for a bit.”

  Dante sighed.

  I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Look on the bright side. You’ve still got one working light and at least he didn’t shoot out your siren. You would’ve had to stick your head out the window and yell ‘woo-woo-woo.’”

  Dante leaned in through the open passenger door and grabbed an individually wrapped wet wipe from the glove box, holding it out to me. He pointed to my helmet. “Clean up on aisle five.”

  I removed my helmet and took a look. The top bore a smear of Fulton’s blood. Ick. I swiped at the blood with the cloth and dropped the soiled wipe into a trash bag in the cruiser. Dante climbed back into the patrol car while I snapped my helmet on, climbed onto my bike, and eased myself around to return to Jacksburg.

  Holy crap. There he is!

  The Ninja sat fifty yards away at the edge of the dirt road, its rider watching us. My heart rate, which had only just returned to normal, skyrocketed again. I wondered how long he’d been there, what he’d seen, what he’d heard. The world stood still as I stared back at him.

  His tinted faceplate was down so I couldn’t make out his features. He raised a black-gloved hand and gave me a thumbs-up sign followed by a clenched fist in the air, the universal sign of victory. I sat there, dumbstruck, as he started his engine, maneuvered in a half-circle, and took off down the road.

  “Who’s that?” Dante called from the open window of his car.

  “I have no idea.” My eyes followed the bike for the second time that day as it disappeared out of sight. If I hadn’t been caught off guard I could’ve taken down the license plate and run it through the Texas Crime Information Center system, better known as TCIC. The TCIC not only provided rap sheets and details on outstanding warrants, but the system also contained motor vehicle and driver’s license records. Mental note: Next time you see the guy, take down his plate. Then I could determine the identity of my leather-clad man of mystery.

  Dante drove past me and I followed him up the country road, passing a herd of humpbacked white Brahmas standing in a field. They mindlessly chewed their cuds, looking bored out of their skulls, as if waiting for something interesting to happen in their lives. I hadn’t yet developed a hump, but I could definitely relate to their boredom. Other than chasing Fulton, there hadn’t been much excitement in my life lately. On the bright side, it was highly unlikely I’d end up like the cows, slathered in barbecue sauce and devoured. Then again, with the right guy, being slathered in barbecue sauce and devoured could be fun.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE

  Once we were back in town, Dante sounded his horn, stuck a hand out his window to wave goodbye to me, and turned east down Seventh Street to patrol. I beeped twice in reply and continued down Main.

  As the excess adrenaline processed through my body, my teeth chattered so hard it felt as though they’d shatter and my body shook so violently I had to fight to keep my bike under control. This is the payback for an exciting bust. I pulled off the road and into the city park, stopping by a murky pond with a half dozen ducks and an empty Sunbeam Bread wrapper floating on top. In the middle of the pond gurgled an umbrella-shaped fountain. The effect was quaint and charming despite the fact that the actual purpose of the fountain was to keep the water circulating so it wouldn’t stagnate.

  I climbed off my motorcycle and sat down for a few minutes on the grass next to the pond. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I closed my eyes and listened to the soothing babble of the water, rocking involuntarily as if my inner mother were trying to comfort my inner child. I wished I had someone I could talk to, but I didn’t. Dad would worry if he knew how my job got to me like this at times, and my best friend Savannah would tell me to quit trying to save the world and take a teller job with her at the credit union. I’d go nuts if I was stuck in a chair counting bills all day, a fake smile plastered on my face for the customers. But I wasn’t sure I still had what it took to be an effective police officer, either. What if things had gone worse back at the pasture? What if push had come to shove and I’d had to shoot Fulton? Could I do it?

  Wonder Woman’s actions were always quick and decisive. She never second-guessed herself, never looked back. I shouldn’t either.

  I opened my eyes to discover the ducks standing at my feet, staring at me. “Sorry, guys. I don’t have anything to feed you.” One of them emitted an irritated quack before they waddled away and plunked back into the pond. After a few moments, my nerves had calmed a bit and I climbed back on my bike. Doubts or no doubts, there was paperwork to be done.

  As I waited to pull out of the parking lot onto Main, a green John Deere tractor rattled slowly past. Mere inches behind the tractor followed a Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder convertible, top down. The car was dark red. No, make that blood red. I’d never seen the car or the thin, twentyish blonde at the wheel before. Definitely not a local.

  I pulled onto the road behind her. She blasted her horn impatiently and whipped twice into the left lane to try to pass the tractor, thwarted both times by oncoming traffic. The tractor eventually turned off the road and she barreled ahead, never once noticing the cop on her tail. I should have followed her and issued her a ticket, but after the morning’s events I simply didn’t have the energy. She’d be slowed soon enough by the stoplight ahead.

  A deep male voice came over the radio. “Sounds like I missed all the fun.” Andre and Dante were not only identical twins, but they also had identical voices. Since Dante had been with me at Fulton’s bust, it had to be Andre speaking.

  I squeezed the talk button on my shoulder mic. “You picked a fine time to take a potty break.”

  “A dude’s gotta go when a dude’s gotta go.”

  No smart-ass response from Dante. Hmm. I had a theory that Dante and Andre might actually be one person cleverly posing as a set of identical twins in order to collect two paychecks. They were utterly indistinguishable, and in my year on the force I couldn’t recall a single time in which I’d seen the two of them in the same place at the same time. Although they allegedly shared an apartment, they never rode to work or picked up their paychecks together. They claimed they’d been raised in Ardmore, Oklahoma, moving here after they’d interviewed—separately, of course—with Chief Moreno, so nobody in town could vouch for them, either. My theory would be put to the test next month. I’d scheduled both of them to work the same shift at the Jackrabbit Jamboree.

  I turned into the station’s parking lot, pulling my bike under the red metal overhang out front. Our headquarters were situated in a building that had once served as a Dairy Queen. The former police station burned down four years ago after an officer failed to search the pockets of a drunk driver he’d hauled in. Apparently a lit cigarette, an old mattress, and one-hundred-proof puke is all it takes to start a four-alarm fire. The building had been underinsured, and the only available piece of real estate in the department’s price range was the rundown DQ building which had sat vacant for years after the building inspector closed it down for not meeting the safety code. Ironically, municipal government buildings were exempt from complying with local building ordinances. Go figure.

  Surprisingly, the property functioned quite well as a police station. With a cheap metal-framed bunk bed, the freezer served just fine as a holding cell. The place had his and her bathrooms, plus a small office at the back of the kitchen for Chief Moreno. Each officer staked a claim to one of the ten scarred red Formica booths, which served as spacious desks. Selena sat on a stool behind the food service counter working dispatch on an outdated two-line phone, using the cash register to make change for those who came in to pay their traffic fines. We even fired up the grill occasionally to fry a bologna sandwich for ourselves or the rare prisoner we brought in. All in all, it wasn’t a bad setup. The only downside was the
occasional out-of-towner who pulled up to the drive-thru window hoping to score a dipped-top cone, driving away disappointed.

  When I walked in, Selena looked up from the television set tuned to The Price is Right. Selena was nineteen and undeniably cute, with a round, brown-sugar face framed by dark hair cut in a short, sassy flip. A trio of tiny dark moles accented the curve of her left cheek like chips in a chocolate chip cookie and, like a home-baked cookie, she was sweet and wholesome.

  She waved me over and patted the extra stool next to her. “You’re just in time for the Showcase Showdown.”

  I stepped around the counter to watch the show with her. Without benefit of cable, the reception was fuzzy, but we could make out most of the details. By my best estimate, the ski boat, the trip to Acapulco, and the lifetime supply of suntan lotion should be worth at least thirty grand. The pimply-faced college kid on screen bid only ten thousand, having no clue how much things cost in the real world, his room and board no doubt provided by mom and dad. The granny who bid on the second showcase, which included a big-screen high-definition television and a five-piece living room set, won hands down and ran to give Drew Carey a kiss. He drew back in horror when the wrinkled woman tried to slip him some tongue.

  “Way to go, granny.” I stood and headed back into the kitchen, pouring myself a mug of coffee and adding hazelnut creamer from the industrial fridge. Gourmet coffee was the one aspect of big city life I missed. The city could keep its traffic, its crowds, its frantic pace—it could even keep my ex-husband—but I’d kill for a big-city coffee bar. Well, that and a good Italian restaurant. And somewhere to go for entertainment on a Friday night. Okay, okay, so big-city life has some good points. But still, I belonged here in Jacksburg.

  I took a sip of warm, yummy coffee and headed to my booth. A cardboard copy paper box served as my inbox, its lid holding my outgoing documents. Around here, we made no pretense at keeping up appearances, opting instead for frugal functionality. I rifled through my inbox until I found the electric bill. Using a pocket calculator, I balanced the department’s checkbook, pleased to find we could pay the bill and have a whopping eight dollars and thirty-two cents to spare until the city treasurer advanced our next allotment.

  The remaining stack of papers consisted primarily of printouts sent by other police departments with photos of their most wanted. At the bottom was a flyer from the Chicago PD bearing Fulton’s face and personal information, warning that he’d last been spotted heading south through Kansas and might be heading our way. Mental note: From now on check the inbox each morning BEFORE heading out on patrol.

  Although the festival was still a full eight weeks away, the coordinator for the Jackrabbit Jamboree had already dropped off a copy of the parade route and lineup, a map of the festival grounds, and an event schedule. I scanned the listings. There I was. Wonder Woman Performs Motorcycle Stunts. My performance was scheduled for 7:00, the first in the night’s entertainment lineup, right before Gretchen the Yodeling Doberman. Good. I’d seen Gretchen perform. She’d be a tough act to follow.

  The deep rumble of an engine sounded out front as a truck pulled into the lot. A few seconds later, the bell on the front door tinkled and in walked Eric, the blond, broad-shouldered delivery guy who couriered packages from the distribution center in Dallas out to Jacksburg, Hockerville, and other neighboring towns. In one arm he carried a large box bearing the logo of an office supply store. Even with shipping charges tacked on it was cheaper to order our office supplies online and have them delivered rather than buy them at the overpriced store in Hockerville.

  Selena looked up at Eric with long-lashed doe eyes. “Hey, Eric. Looks like you’ve got a big package for us today.”

  Eric cocked his head and raised a thick brow. “You should see my other package. It’s huge.”

  Selena giggled as she took the box from him. “You’re so naughty.”

  Oh, to be nineteen again. So full of hope. So full of dreams. So full of crap.

  Eric handed Selena his handheld tracking device. Selena signed for the delivery, waving the stylus back and forth just out of reach when Eric attempted to retrieve it from her.

  “Tease.” Eric grabbed her wrist gently with one hand and the pen with the other. He gave me a quick nod, turned, and headed out the door.

  “See ya later!” Selena called after him.

  Eric climbed into his truck and rumbled off to continue his deliveries. Selena watched him go, then swiveled on her stool to face me. “Eric’s been sending me signals for weeks but hasn’t asked me out. Think I should invite him to the Jackrabbit Jamboree?”

  I came from the traditional school of dating and held to the belief that the man should do the pursuing, the woman flirting just enough to keep the guy guessing, never letting on whether she was really interested. In other words, toying with him. “Guys like a conquest. Make him come after you.”

  Selena snorted. “How’s that strategy working for you?”

  Okay, so I hadn’t had a single date since I’d moved back to my hometown after my divorce last year. I’d needed some time to sort out my feelings, get over Chet, work through some major issues that Fate—the sick, twisted bitch—had thrown at me. I wasn’t sure whether I’d worked through them yet. Hell, I’m not sure I’ll ever work through them.

  I stuck out my tongue at Selena by way of answer. Before resuming my administrative work, I spent a few minutes perusing the accessories in the latest Harley-Davidson catalog that had come in yesterday’s mail, admiring a shiny chrome exhaust pipe. Biker chick bling. I picked up a pen and circled the pipes. If I scrimped, I might be able to buy them for myself come Christmas.

  Thinking about my motorcycle brought my thoughts back to the Ninja. I had to find out who rode that bike. But how? Then it dawned on me. I didn’t need his license plate number. I could run a computer search by vehicle make and model and track down the Ninja and its owner. Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Good thing I’d never gone for detective when I worked with Dallas PD. My investigation skills sucked. With Jacksburg’s low crime rate, they also suffered from lack of use.

  I maneuvered my computer mouse and clicked on the link to the vehicle registration records. I typed in the make and model. A number of Ninja ZX-14R’s popped up, but none with an address in the area. Hmm. The bike appeared to be new, so maybe the registration paperwork was sitting on a desk at TXDOT waiting to be entered into the system. Mental note: Run the search again in a couple of days. Hopefully the records would be updated by then.

  An hour later, the bell on the front door tinkled again and Chief Moreno walked into the station, a lit Marlboro dangling from his lips. Uh-oh. The chief was a small guy, only an inch taller than my five-feet-five-inches, but his sharp wit and quick reflexes had made him a force to be reckoned with when he’d been on patrol. Like Selena, Moreno had naturally brown skin. With deep lines crossing his forehead, a slight under-bite, and salt-and-pepper stubble, he resembled an aged pug. He still wore his uniform every day even though he no longer patrolled the city. Instead, he spent most of his time on what he called “public relations” but which basically amounted to hanging out at the mayor’s office, reading the newspaper, playing chess, and debating politics with his buddy.

  I took a deep breath, partly to ready myself for the dressing down Chief Moreno surely had in store for me, partly to avoid breathing in smoke.

  “Marnie!” The chief stepped up to my booth and skewered me with a pointed look, his forehead furrowed into deep, angry lines. “What’n the hell were you thinking? You could’ve got yourself killed. I told you to let the men handle the dangerous work.” Though he didn’t actively engage in police work anymore, Chief Moreno carried a radio and no doubt had heard our exchange with Selena.

  His words were unapologetically sexist, but his concern was completely sincere. “Sorry, Chief.”

  He took a drag and pointed his cigarette at me, snorting smoke out his nose. “Sorry’s not good enough. I’d never forgive myself if
something happened to you, Marnie. Next time you let Dante and Andre take care of things, hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I ducked my head and lowered my eyes in a disingenuous gesture of shame and submission, the same way I had back in high school when Dad caught me and Savannah sharing a screw-top bottle of Boone’s Farm strawberry wine.

  The chief’s face softened. “All righty then.” With no ashtray at hand, he ground his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, tossed the butt into the trash, and took a seat opposite me. He pulled a package of Red Vines out of his breast pocket and held it out to me.