One Hit Wonder Read online

  Bob plopped in a chair behind his desk and stretched. “Nah, shouldn’t be too bad. The kids I have from the school are talented mechanics and auto body guys.”

  Bob offered on-the-job experience for kids aspiring to work in his industry.

  A memory from the past sprung forward. “Hey, wasn’t Kevin Greevey in that program?”

  For me, the rumors about Kevin weren’t aligning with the Kevin I’d talk to today. At the hospital, I’d seen an angry guy, not a twitchy drug guy. Though my experience with druggies was limited to portrayals on TV.

  Bob nodded and took a notepad out of a drawer. “Kevin’s a natural with a car. If he went into business with his dad and brother, they’d have an empire.” He gave a sad shake of the head. “Too bad what they say about him.”

  “That he’s a druggy?” Precious asked.

  Bob’s head snapped up, and he looked between us both. “Most asinine rumor I’ve heard yet.” He shook his head in frustration. “Just can’t see Kevin being a druggie. Too tightly wound to give up control. But he’s one heck of mechanic.” He finished writing the receipts then ripped them from the pad. He handed one to each of us.

  “Do you see him coming unwound enough to tie someone to a pole and leave?” Dad was right, tying her to the pole didn’t make sense.

  Bob shook his head, skepticism on his face. “No, I can’t see him doing that. I can see him getting mad. Even shouting at someone and throwing a punch. But to tie someone up? Nah, that comes from a deep-down craziness, and Kevin doesn’t have that. What he has in spades is anger toward his family.”

  “Because his brother is perfect,” Precious said. “My sister is perfect, too, and sometimes it’s super annoying. Same for Rachel, right, Sam?”

  Rachel was my older sister. A recent college graduate in nursing, she’d signed over four years of her life to the US Navy. “According to my mom, ‘Rachel isn’t perfect. She’s ideal.’ ”

  “Same thing,” Bob said.

  “I know, but I pretend it’s not, or else I’d be constantly frustrated with Rachel.” I was not the ideal daughter. Not because I was naughty, but because much of my school career had been a struggle, whereas Rachel had breezed right through everything. “But I don’t hate Rachel. Even if I am frustrated with her.”

  Bob said, “Because your parents don’t play you two against each other like Senior did and still tries to do. Always trying to get one son to up the other. Seen it here myself. Came here to get Kevin riled about being out-performed by Junior. Senior hated that Kevin was working for me and didn’t take the work-study program from his dad’s dealership or brother’s repair shop.”

  “Is that why he got kicked out of his house?” Precious was more in the know than I was.

  Bob guffawed. “As if. Senior loved telling everyone he kicked Kevin out, but the truth is Kevin left on his own. Happened shortly after graduation.”

  I added pieces of Kevin’s past together. “Then Kevin worked here a while, didn’t he? Beyond the school program?”

  Bob nodded. “And I’d still have him here had he not up and quit. Said he had a better gig. He was a whiz with classic and exotic car restoration.”

  “He’s rumored to be boosting those types of cars,” I added.

  Bob frowned. “Restoring them, yeah. Stealing them for parts? Can’t see it. Kevin is a craftsman. An old soul.” His brow furrowed and he squinted. “I just can’t see it.”

  This was not the picture of Kevin everyone else painted. Perhaps Kevin’s anger came from stealing the classic cars he loved but not restoring them.

  I steered us in a different direction. “Do you mind if I look at Ms. Trina’s car? I took the pictures at the scene, and I’d like a second look to make sure I got everything.” I wasn’t planning on taking more pictures. If I did, they’d likely be inadmissible since the car had been moved. Even though Bob’s was technically the police compound for our small town. A look again might be worth it.

  Bob gestured for us to help ourselves.

  Rising from the chair, I said, “Hey, did you hear Junior’s car was stolen last night? First, he hits a deer only to have his car stolen after he tows it to his place of employment. Talk about having a bad night.”

  Bob rose, too, and walked behind us as we exited his office. “I’m not surprised it was stolen. Happens a lot with that specific tow truck driver.”

  I glanced at him over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  Bob snorted in disdain. “Maybe I should say it’s a combo of the tow truck company delivering to Greevey’s dealership. This is not the first car this guy has towed that’s been stolen off the dealership lot. People think Crenshaw is crazy with all his cameras and fencing, but cars he tows and stores don’t get stolen.”

  Precious said, “Maybe it’s because they’re stored at a junkyard and people assume everything there is junk.”

  Another snort from Bob. We must be making his day with our lack of knowledge. “Junkyards are like a giant treasure chest filled with gold. People get rid of stuff without checking its value. Crenshaw once had a guy donate an old 1969 Mach 1 Mustang. Yeah, it was in bad condition, but once restored, Crenshaw sold it for over fifty grand. People are stupid.”

  “What?” Precious and I said in unison.

  Bob looked pleased with our surprise and apt attention. “Yeah, people inherit stuff and have no idea what it is. That old mustang was in a barn out by the Columbia Gorge buried under hay, old tarps, and bird crap. The guy who inherited was trying to sell the land and needed the barn torn down. All he could see was the big sale of the land and not the gem of a car.”

  “Wow,” I said. “No wonder Crenshaw’s junkyard is under tight security. Who knew?”

  “Me.” Bob pointed at his chest. “I knew.”

  I didn’t bother telling him my question was rhetorical. “When will you start working on Trina’s car?”

  Bob said, “In a few days I’ll probably get the okay to start. Typically, the police will want to take another look even though they’ll take the panel when it comes off.” He mumbled the last part.

  “Oh, I thought maybe insurance was holding it up,” I said.

  We stopped short of the bay that held Ms. Trina’s car. A large thick plastic sheet separated her car from the others. A sign-in log on a clipboard hung from a nail in the wall. Bob handed it to me to sign.

  He said, “Her deductible is incredibly high, sadly. More of this will come out of pocket than from the insurance.”

  Precious said, “That’s funny considering her husband was an insurance man. Maybe he knew something we don’t.”

  Bob shrugged. “Bart didn’t keep his deductible this high. I think it’s something Trina changed after he died. Bart wasn’t a gambler and said high deductibles were like flirting with danger, asking for an accident to happen.”

  “Why would she change it?” I asked.

  Bob said. “Usually people do it to save money.”

  Now I understood. Saving money was never a bad idea. Maybe I should change my deductible. “Does a high deductible affect how quickly your car gets fixed?”

  Bob said, “No, repairs slow down when more than one insurance company is involved or getting approval for OEMs. Sometimes parts are out of stock, too.”

  “OEMs?” Precious asked.

  “Original Equipment Manufacturer, basically brand-named parts,” Bob explained.

  I needed clarification. “As opposed to generic parts?” I guessed generic parts made sense. Nearly everything had a generic version these days.

  “Yep,” Bob said. “OEMs are pricier and require insurance approval.”

  I signed the log-in then ducked under the plastic. At Ms. Trina’s car, I stared at the corner panel that had crushed her arm. Everything about this situation was unsettling.

  Precious pointed to reddish pink stains on Ms. Trina’s car. “Is that blood?”

  Ms. Trina’s car was red. Not a hot-rod red but the typical compact car red. Boring red.

&n
bsp; Bob slipped on a pair of readers and leaned in close. “Nope, paint. Maybe transferred from the pole.”

  I pointed to a smudge of brown. “That’s blood.”

  Precious looked at the car, then me. She paled. Several tiny brown smudges were scatted across a large portion of the panel.

  I looked at the indentation in the car. It was slight. How fortunate that only the corner caught her. It was enough to crush her arm, but it could have been worse. “She’s lucky. All things considered.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Bob said. “Had she been sitting anywhere else, had the car been clipped anywhere else, she might not have lived. It’s not every day a two-thousand-pound vehicle gets pushed into someone and only does damage to a small part of the body.”

  I pictured last night, adding the image of the car fleeing the scene and hitting Ms. Trina’s. “Do you think the car that clipped hers peeled out at high speeds?”

  He shrugged. “Depends on the offending car and how close her car was parked.”

  I mentally scrolled through the pictures I’d taken. Ms. Trina drove a VW Rabbit. “Based on the skid marks, her car had been parked inches from the pole.”

  “Wouldn’t take a lot then,” Bob said. “Based on the damage, my guess is the car that hit her was bigger, slightly heavier, so not as much speed was needed as you might think.”

  I moved to the other end where her car had been hit. Two colors. Both red. They’d been hard to see in the morning hours, even with the lights. Too many shadows.

  I pulled my phone out of my bag. “Do you mind if I get a few more pictures. I want to compare them to what I took last night.”

  Bob gestured for me to go ahead.

  The phone’s camera quality was lacking, but it would have to do. I wasn’t my father’s daughter for nothing. Bob’s remark about rub-off paint made me want to see if any color had rubbed off from the hitting car. Just in case my pictures were bad, I wanted a few backups.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning came, and with it, a fever-free body. My fever broke somewhere in the middle of the night. Being on the other side of an illness is glorious even if it leaves you a sweaty, greasy mess. A problem fixed with a shower.

  Eating toast with peanut butter, I loaded the photos from my phone to my computer and compared them to what I took the night of the robbery. My gut about the shadows had been spot on. Though the stains and paint rubs could be seen in my original images, the new ones gave them the definition the originals lacked. I printed out both sets, wrote up an explanation for the images, including how and when they were shot, tucked them in a manila envelope, and stuck them in my sling bag to drop off at the police station.

  I dressed in jeans, Ugg’s, a long fluffy sweater in army green, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Two minutes with my makeup bag put color on my previously sallow complexion.

  Out the window were gray skies and drizzling rain. Soon, those rare sunny autumn days in the PNW would be pushed aside for endless misty rain. Wearing a light gray North Face raincoat, I walked the pictures over to the police station two blocks from my apartment.

  Inside, Pamela Hopkins, police clerk, manned the front desk. The waiting room chairs were empty.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?” She’d graduated with my sister, Rachel, and they’d been on the volleyball team together.

  “It’s going.” She gave a sad shake of her head.

  “Everything okay?” I fumbled with my sling bag and took out the pictures.

  She sighed wearily. “What’s this world coming to? Ya know, if I didn’t work here, I wouldn’t believe half of what I’ve seen.”

  Yeah, Leo had a point about always looking at the underbelly of life. Consistent exposure changes a person, sometimes not for the best. I held up the manila envelope. “I have pictures for Leo or Rawlings. Either around?”

  She jerked her head to the door behind her that separated the lobby from everything else. “Leo is. He’s in the back. Rawlings is off today, but I’m sure they’ll call him in now that we’re shorthanded.” She pressed a button, and a loud buzzing sound filled the space, indicating the door lock had released. I hustled to get to it before she let go.

  Pulling the door open, I said, “Thanks. I hope your day gets better.”

  “Doubtful,” she said over her shoulder.

  Behind the door was quiet. The Wind River Police force was comprised of seven people. I didn’t expect the place to be hopping like portrayed on a TV show. Those were typically big city stations. The office portion of the station was an open room with six cubbies making a square in the center of the room. To the left was a hallway lined by a row of offices. The first office belonged to Chief Louney. The second office was for interrogations. A one-way mirror was cut into the center of the wall looking into the room.

  I circled the cubbies but found no Leo. I found his desk. No surprise his was organized, spotless, and devoid of personal items. Burned coffee was the main scent of the station. The other unidentifiable scents that followed weren’t as pleasant. Since there wasn’t any coffeemaker out by the cubbies, I figured a break room had to be down the hall.

  As I passed the interrogation room, I glanced through the mirror. Expecting the room to be empty, I was shocked to see Chief Louney standing and pointing, yelling at Officer Smith. Smith was in uniform slumped in a chair, his head hung low, his shoulders hunched. The room was soundproof. Next to the mirror was a small intercom box with an on/off button and a dial for volume.

  I checked to see if I was alone as I contemplated pressing the ON button. How would I explain the eavesdropping? At a police station, for cripes sake. Smith was getting his rear end chewed out. Did it have to do with Ms. Trina’s case? He’d been the first officer on the scene. I glanced at the intercom. My finger itched to press the ON button. I was reaching out for it when Leo came out of another room at the end of the hallway.

  “Samantha?”

  I jerked my hand back. “I didn’t touch it.”

  “Good. Because it’s none of your business.” He came toward me, a mug in his hand.

  I jerked a thumb to the window. “Is he getting his performance evaluation? Because I don’t think it’s going well.”

  Leo’s expression remained nondescript. “What brings you here?”

  I held up the envelope. “I took money to Bob’s to help Ms. Trina and looked at the car again. I was worried about shadows on the original pictures so I took a few more. In here are both sets. The new ones were taken with my cell phone. The quality is meh, but shows the damage more clearly. I think the car that hit hers was red.”

  The door to the interrogation room opened, and Chief Louney stepped out. His face was red, and sweat dotted his forehead. He slammed the interrogation room door with such force the mirror shook. He pointed to Leo. “Let him sit in there and stew. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No food, no water. Nothing. When he gets control of himself, let me know.”

  Leo and I looked into the room. Smith was blubbering into his hands.

  Louney turned to me. “And I better not see your dad here probing me about why we’re questioning one of our own in the robbery case. I’ll call him when I’m ready. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I held up the envelope. “I was only dropping off more pictures of Ms. Trina’s car. The new images show two different color red paints. From what Bob told me, I’m guessing one is a rub off.”

  Louney pointed to Leo. “Smith’s off duty vehicle is red, isn’t it? Find it and see if it has damage. See if you can find a link between him and Kevin Greevey.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Jeffrey Smith did this to Ms. Trina? The guy who cried half of kindergarten year because he couldn’t be separated from his mom? My mind stumbled over the probability, generating a thousand questions.

  Louney stomped into his office and slammed the door behind him.

  I faced Leo, incredulous. “I don’t believe it.”r />
  Leo cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “It’s not up to you. The facts will speak for themselves.”

  I scowled. “You believe a guy you worked with posed as one of the Comic Book Bandits and robbed Junkie’s, then chained Ms. Trina to a pole and sped away.”

  “Sped away because he was flustered. As the nearest on-duty officer, he’d been called to the Greevey accident.”

  “But you were at the Greevey scene.” I stated the obvious because I was digesting what he’d divulged.

  “That’s because Smith couldn’t be raised on the radio. Earlier he’d gone on a call out past Junkie’s for some kids drag racing. Rawlings and I were farther out by Graycloud’s, but because dispatch couldn’t get Smith to acknowledge, Rawlings and I had to respond.”

  “Oh,” I said in defeat. “And I suppose, one could speculate, that there were no kids drag racing and the person who called in the complaint about the kids was Smith’s accomplice.”

  I fitted the pieces together. Smith’s accomplice, possibly Kevin Greevey, called in a bogus complaint, and Smith went out. This gave Smith a reason for being in the area and time for him and his accomplice to rob Junkie’s. When the call came in for Junior’s accident, Smith and his accomplice were busy cleaning out Junkie’s and tying up Ms. Trina. Smith didn’t answer. Leo and Rawlings were sent out to Junior’s accident instead. Smith, being a police officer, had known that the Comic Book Bandit robberies were done by more than one person. He’d also known what was left behind at the scene.

  “Wait.” I shook my head, trying to shake a nagging thought loose. “My dad said the Comic Book Bandits leave a page from a comic book behind at every scene. There were no comic book pages at Junkie’s.” None that I saw. Dad said none at Graycloud’s either. Wouldn’t Smith know that? If he was trying to blame the Comic Book Bandits, wouldn’t he make sure to leave pages at the scene?”