...Riley learns the death was intentional...
It was barely light. Riley rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned, watching Susan Fernandez inspect the backpack.
Wearing latex gloves, she lifted it by the straps with her fingers, the left index pointing at the right and vice versa, as if ratting each other out. She unzipped each pocket and probed inside.
A wrinkle formed between the brows of her seamless face, dark eyes inquisitive and lively. Riley thought she looked more attractive in person than on TV.
She zipped the pockets and set it on the coffee table.
“What do you think?” Mara asked.
"Nothing there now, of course. But it held something in the shot.”
Riley looked puzzled.
“The bag had weight to it, so something was taken after he died.”
“It was empty when I found it.”
“I know,” said Mara, reaching out a comforting hand.
“I don’t see what’s the fuss. I’ll take it to the police and that will be that.”
“Riley, it’s a murder case now.”
“What?”
“He was stabbed in the neck. We found out last night.”
He paused to take in the news. “But I’m innocent.”
Susan’s lips slackened as if to mock a bad joke.
“Join the party. The police say they’re innocent of beating him, but film shows them whacking away at the crowd. Nothing shows them not beating him.”
“But you said he was stabbed.” He looked at Mara.
“The public doesn’t know that yet,” Susan interjected. “They’ll announce at a morning conference."
“When they do--“
“It won’t make a difference. Not at first. Those who always blame the police will call for the Chief’s head.”
“What’s that have to do with me?” Riley pressed.
Susan composed herself. Her words were smooth and measured. “You are likely the only lead related to motive. They will hold on to you as long as they can until the public looks somewhere else.”
Riley sunk in his chair.
“That’s why Susan wants to film you at the Hall of Justice. It’s a big story.”
His face flushed. He stammered, “I don’t want publicity!”
His words hung in the air. Susan’s arms were crossed and her lips pressed together. Mara leaned forward and mouthed, “I’m sorry”.
***
“The coroner’s report indicates the deceased died of stab wounds to the neck.”
A flurry of clicks and flashes filled the room, cameras capturing beefy, red-faced Inspector Henderson. He looked at his notes.
“The deceased’s name is Robert Martin, a transient residing in San Francisco. We ask that anyone with information about Mr. Martin or this incident call the police…”
***
Riley watched the news conference from home and wrote down the number to call. Then he took the bus to the Hall of Justice.
He called on his cell from across the street, then approached the imposing granite building, a paper bag in hand. A crowd of protesters had already formed. They chanted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”
Inside, he stood waiting beyond the metal detector as others lined up to pass through to traffic and criminal courts.
From somewhere, Rex was filming. He didn’t like it, but Susan had put in him the fear of a bottomless bureaucracy. At least there’d be proof he’d entered the building of his own free will.
When a sergeant appeared, scanning the lobby, he signaled him and handed over the bag. He motioned him to the head of the line. Riley passed through and followed him down the hallway, sensing another escort behind. Men and women with thick belts and badges gave them wide berth, turning heads, eyes blinking furiously.
The sergeant opened a door to a room with a gray metal table and two chairs. He left him there to wait.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted March 7.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Chapter 2: Backpack
...the backpack's disturbing link...
Riley turned on the six o’clock news. The lead story was captioned, “Death at Protest”. Rex must have shot the footage, because it showed him in the middle of the melee. People ran or tumbled from three grizzled men who screamed and hacked the crowd with sticks. The man whose face would be pushed into the pavement staggered before them. He held out a red backpack, his clenched fists pounding into Riley’s shoulders.
Riley jerked forward, as if struck again. He seemed to push the backpack to him, and now it lay on the floor in the other room. He blushed with shame and fear.
A man died but he was thinking about himself. He felt uneasy being associated with the protest. He’d always hoped his studies would lead to a career with the State Department. Then when 9/11 happened his thoughts turned to things more serious than travel to exotic places. He thought of working with the Department of Defense or the CIA. What would they think about the protest?
He had doubts about invading Iraq. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the attack in New York. But the drumbeat of war obscured the detail, leading the country into action no matter where. He kept those thoughts to himself. It’s what would be expected, he reasoned.
The backpack. He cursed himself for picking it up. He could buy the same thing for twenty bucks. But there it lay on the ground, either lost or discarded. He assumed the attitude of its owner. It served its purpose and wasn’t needed anymore. Or, if lost, it wasn’t valuable enough to make the effort to retrieve. He thought he could put it to use, but now it linked him to the death at the protest.
The TV news moved to other subjects, but Riley tried to conjure the dead man’s image. He saw the expanding pool of blood, his stringy brown hair, long and dirty looking. He wore jeans with holes at the knees and a brown plaid shirt. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t old. The pool of sticky red blood around his head intruded again. He couldn’t see more.
Riley turned off the TV and sat in the fading light. He wanted to talk to Mara. She probably knew more about the dead man than they could say on the air. The authorities wouldn’t release his name pending notification of next of kin. He thought of calling her. She’d probably be busy. He thought about the backpack. He decided to wait.
***
He heard light footsteps bounding up the carpeted stairs. A thud against the door preceded the scratching of a key in the lock. Mara burst into the apartment, dropping a heavy canvas bag in the hallway and running breathlessly into the front room.
“Did you see it? Did you see?” Her words competed with each other to escape her mouth. Riley imagined he could see her throat swell for the congestion.
He smiled wanly, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Yes, he told her. He had seen it.
“You were right there! He touched you. The dead guy! Look!” She popped a cassette tape into the VCR and replayed the scene in the plaza.
The footage was unedited. He saw himself standing beside Susan and then being thrust into her. His eyes grew wide with surprise then seemed to close. When they opened, they showed fear.
He saw the same look in the dead man’s eyes. He was trying to get away from something but he wouldn’t make it.
“I’ve got to get back. I wanted to show you the tape.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Not yet. He could be a homeless.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“They’re not sure. Some say the counter-protesters, some the police. City Hall’s gearing up for complaints about police brutality.”
Riley was deep in thought.
“What’s wrong, Riley?”
He left the room without a word, leaving Mara amazed at his odd behavior. When he returned, he held up the red backpack. Her jaw dropped.
“The dead man’s backpack!”
Riley nodded.
Mara brushed her brow with her hand, pushing up the brim of her blue cap.
“You have to tell the police.”
Riley nodded. His face flushed, nearly matching the color of the bag he ruefully held.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 21.
Riley turned on the six o’clock news. The lead story was captioned, “Death at Protest”. Rex must have shot the footage, because it showed him in the middle of the melee. People ran or tumbled from three grizzled men who screamed and hacked the crowd with sticks. The man whose face would be pushed into the pavement staggered before them. He held out a red backpack, his clenched fists pounding into Riley’s shoulders.
Riley jerked forward, as if struck again. He seemed to push the backpack to him, and now it lay on the floor in the other room. He blushed with shame and fear.
A man died but he was thinking about himself. He felt uneasy being associated with the protest. He’d always hoped his studies would lead to a career with the State Department. Then when 9/11 happened his thoughts turned to things more serious than travel to exotic places. He thought of working with the Department of Defense or the CIA. What would they think about the protest?
He had doubts about invading Iraq. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the attack in New York. But the drumbeat of war obscured the detail, leading the country into action no matter where. He kept those thoughts to himself. It’s what would be expected, he reasoned.
The backpack. He cursed himself for picking it up. He could buy the same thing for twenty bucks. But there it lay on the ground, either lost or discarded. He assumed the attitude of its owner. It served its purpose and wasn’t needed anymore. Or, if lost, it wasn’t valuable enough to make the effort to retrieve. He thought he could put it to use, but now it linked him to the death at the protest.
The TV news moved to other subjects, but Riley tried to conjure the dead man’s image. He saw the expanding pool of blood, his stringy brown hair, long and dirty looking. He wore jeans with holes at the knees and a brown plaid shirt. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t old. The pool of sticky red blood around his head intruded again. He couldn’t see more.
Riley turned off the TV and sat in the fading light. He wanted to talk to Mara. She probably knew more about the dead man than they could say on the air. The authorities wouldn’t release his name pending notification of next of kin. He thought of calling her. She’d probably be busy. He thought about the backpack. He decided to wait.
***
He heard light footsteps bounding up the carpeted stairs. A thud against the door preceded the scratching of a key in the lock. Mara burst into the apartment, dropping a heavy canvas bag in the hallway and running breathlessly into the front room.
“Did you see it? Did you see?” Her words competed with each other to escape her mouth. Riley imagined he could see her throat swell for the congestion.
He smiled wanly, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Yes, he told her. He had seen it.
“You were right there! He touched you. The dead guy! Look!” She popped a cassette tape into the VCR and replayed the scene in the plaza.
The footage was unedited. He saw himself standing beside Susan and then being thrust into her. His eyes grew wide with surprise then seemed to close. When they opened, they showed fear.
He saw the same look in the dead man’s eyes. He was trying to get away from something but he wouldn’t make it.
“I’ve got to get back. I wanted to show you the tape.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Not yet. He could be a homeless.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“They’re not sure. Some say the counter-protesters, some the police. City Hall’s gearing up for complaints about police brutality.”
Riley was deep in thought.
“What’s wrong, Riley?”
He left the room without a word, leaving Mara amazed at his odd behavior. When he returned, he held up the red backpack. Her jaw dropped.
“The dead man’s backpack!”
Riley nodded.
Mara brushed her brow with her hand, pushing up the brim of her blue cap.
“You have to tell the police.”
Riley nodded. His face flushed, nearly matching the color of the bag he ruefully held.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 21.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Chapter 1: Protest
About thirty demonstrators stood on the steps of San Francisco’s City Hall, beneath its signature black and gilt-trimmed dome overlooking Civic Center plaza. Many held signs reading “No War In Iraq”. They chanted, “No War, No More,” following the lead of a white-haired man with a megaphone. A larger crowd in the hundreds stood facing them like a reflection in a mirror, waving the same signs and echoing the chants. Off to one side, police flanked a small group that jeered and mocked the protesters. White media vans bordered the event, their giraffe-like necks stretching toward the sky.
The crowd absorbed Riley Turner as he searched for his friend, Mara Ware. Here, stood a tall black man in a brown leather jacket and thick matted hair, like flattened rope, falling down his back. There, two silver headed women, who looked like grandmothers, clung to each other, chanting. Nearby, a cluster of adolescents, sitting in a circle like a tribe, was oblivious to those around them.
Tall and broad shouldered with short, gel-molded blond hair, Riley was the epitome of Midwestern clean cut good looks. He stood out in the crowd whose personal and political positions ran counter to the mainstream.
In his junior year at State, he was majoring in International Relations. Mara, his housemate, majored in Communications and was interning that summer with a local TV station. She was working somewhere in the crowd.
The closer he approached to City Hall, the more tightly packed people were. Barely able to move, he retreated to the rear.
“Riley! Riley!”
Following her voice, he spotted Mara. Beside her were an attractive woman and a burly cameraman.
Mara was a petite blue-eyed brunette wearing tight jeans with denim jacket and a blue brimmed cap that pushed her hair onto her brow. She introduced him to Susan Fernandez, reporter. She had brown eyes, black hair, olive-colored skin and a finely shaped face. Rex, the cameraman stood beside Susan, waiting for her cue. She fidgeted with a black microphone as she surveyed the crowd.
Mara told him they were doing interviews. Despite his own protest, she insisted he make himself useful. He agreed to an interview. Susan held the microphone towards him. Rex focused the camera.
“Why are you here?” She asked.
“I was checking out the protest.”
“Are you against the war?
Before he could answer a clatter of terror and excitement surged behind him. He felt two fists pound his shoulder blades. He lurched forward and glimpsed blue sky. He bumped heads with Susan. She smelled of lilac perfume. She fell back. Mara yelped. Bodies tumbled like dominoes. Rex kept shooting, pushing a fleeing woman from his lens.
“Fuck you, Commies!” A contingent of counter-protesters charged the crowd. Burly police in blue helmets and black leather jackets struggled to insert themselves, using nightsticks liberally to carve out a buffer. They pushed the counter-protesters to one side as the crowd pulled back. Between them was a gruesome sight.
The man lay on his left side, head pushed into the ground, blood pooling around his head like a crimson nimbus. High-pitched screams filled the air. “No!” A man’s voice shouted. “Murderers!” A woman screeched. An awestruck silence spread through the crowd and around the lifeless body.
Transfixed by death, Riley stood dazed. The police pushed away onlookers, then stretched yellow tape around the scene. Eventually they covered the body under a thin black tarp.
A lanky policeman, approachable in a soft barracks hat and short-sleeved shirt, came up to Riley and asked what he saw. He recounted what he knew, and gave him his name and address. The officer suggested he go home.
He was still numb. The coroner had come and gone, taking away the body. The media vans hadn’t moved. Mara, Susan and the cameraman weren’t around. The others who stood beside him seemed as dazed as he.
He suddenly felt tired and hungry and started home. He walked a short distance when he noticed a red backpack on the ground. It was unzipped and looked discarded. Seeing no one who might claim it, he picked it up. It was empty. He thought he could use it, so he took it home.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 7.
The crowd absorbed Riley Turner as he searched for his friend, Mara Ware. Here, stood a tall black man in a brown leather jacket and thick matted hair, like flattened rope, falling down his back. There, two silver headed women, who looked like grandmothers, clung to each other, chanting. Nearby, a cluster of adolescents, sitting in a circle like a tribe, was oblivious to those around them.
Tall and broad shouldered with short, gel-molded blond hair, Riley was the epitome of Midwestern clean cut good looks. He stood out in the crowd whose personal and political positions ran counter to the mainstream.
In his junior year at State, he was majoring in International Relations. Mara, his housemate, majored in Communications and was interning that summer with a local TV station. She was working somewhere in the crowd.
The closer he approached to City Hall, the more tightly packed people were. Barely able to move, he retreated to the rear.
“Riley! Riley!”
Following her voice, he spotted Mara. Beside her were an attractive woman and a burly cameraman.
Mara was a petite blue-eyed brunette wearing tight jeans with denim jacket and a blue brimmed cap that pushed her hair onto her brow. She introduced him to Susan Fernandez, reporter. She had brown eyes, black hair, olive-colored skin and a finely shaped face. Rex, the cameraman stood beside Susan, waiting for her cue. She fidgeted with a black microphone as she surveyed the crowd.
Mara told him they were doing interviews. Despite his own protest, she insisted he make himself useful. He agreed to an interview. Susan held the microphone towards him. Rex focused the camera.
“Why are you here?” She asked.
“I was checking out the protest.”
“Are you against the war?
Before he could answer a clatter of terror and excitement surged behind him. He felt two fists pound his shoulder blades. He lurched forward and glimpsed blue sky. He bumped heads with Susan. She smelled of lilac perfume. She fell back. Mara yelped. Bodies tumbled like dominoes. Rex kept shooting, pushing a fleeing woman from his lens.
“Fuck you, Commies!” A contingent of counter-protesters charged the crowd. Burly police in blue helmets and black leather jackets struggled to insert themselves, using nightsticks liberally to carve out a buffer. They pushed the counter-protesters to one side as the crowd pulled back. Between them was a gruesome sight.
The man lay on his left side, head pushed into the ground, blood pooling around his head like a crimson nimbus. High-pitched screams filled the air. “No!” A man’s voice shouted. “Murderers!” A woman screeched. An awestruck silence spread through the crowd and around the lifeless body.
Transfixed by death, Riley stood dazed. The police pushed away onlookers, then stretched yellow tape around the scene. Eventually they covered the body under a thin black tarp.
A lanky policeman, approachable in a soft barracks hat and short-sleeved shirt, came up to Riley and asked what he saw. He recounted what he knew, and gave him his name and address. The officer suggested he go home.
He was still numb. The coroner had come and gone, taking away the body. The media vans hadn’t moved. Mara, Susan and the cameraman weren’t around. The others who stood beside him seemed as dazed as he.
He suddenly felt tired and hungry and started home. He walked a short distance when he noticed a red backpack on the ground. It was unzipped and looked discarded. Seeing no one who might claim it, he picked it up. It was empty. He thought he could use it, so he took it home.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted February 7.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Chapter 7: A Parting of Ways
...in which Linda confronts reality...
Linda knew she had to confront Joseph.
She felt a deep sense of betrayal and wanted to hear what he had to say. She didn’t think anything he said would satisfy her, but she wanted to know if he could be honest. Straightforward enough when things were good, he had an aversion to being held to account when they weren’t.
It was twilight when she left the store. She drove towards home, going by way of the garage. His car was parked outside the shop. The bay doors were closed but through a window she saw a strange flickering light. She parked and slipped inside through a side door, the photo clutched in hand.
She had to shake her head to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. Before her, a figure bent over a metallic box. It had a cubed metal head and wide goggle eyes attached to the body of a man. It wielded a wand with a flame like a blue dagger tooth that cut into the box, raining sparks. A steady hissing filled the garage and a thin smoky haze created the sensation of being underwater.
C.V., in t-shirt and jeans, stood off to the side, watching intently. Beside him stood another man whom she didn’t know. Joseph, still dressed in his blue coveralls, stood with his back to her.
C.V. saw her first, his eyes growing wide as he retreated into the shadows. His companion looked to him to see where he was going, attracting Joseph’s attention. He turned to see Linda.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“What’s happening?” she asked in a small voice, amazed by the scene.
Joseph grabbed the photo. He saw himself hand in hand with Stacy. A frown momentarily crossed his face. “What’s this?”
Regaining her composure, she pointed to it. “Your friend’s in jail. They’re coming for you next.”
He studied the photo. “Where'd you get this?”
“The police.”
“No, you didn’t.” He let the photo fall to the floor and looked away.
Linda jabbed her finger in his arm. “Joseph, this isn’t right. You brought that woman to my bed. She was stealing from Rightway. Now you’re breaking into a safe.”
Joseph took her by the shoulders and shook her, his eyes looking deeply into hers. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?” Her head shook side to side as if to wobble off.
He pulled her to him. Her ear pressing against his muscled chest, she heard his heart beat against the background of the hissing torch. She felt his body heat and her body, against her will, began to respond.
She resisted, trying to break free but he squeezed tightly, pinning her arms like the wings of a bird in a snake’s death grip, its hissing filling her ears.
“Have you always been this way?” She asked in a failing voice.
He squeezed tighter and she felt she was suffocating. But from somewhere deep inside, it came.
She screamed.
It startled Joseph and he let her go. The goggle-eyed figure looked up and even C.V. stepped forward to see what was happening.
Her high-pitched cry overcame the hissing of the torch. It cut through all the easy agreements dealing with easy issues that skirted the hard ones. It cut across lives lived in parallel only touching occasionally. It cut through non-responsive answers and to questions never asked.
Linda ran out of the garage, Joseph’s voice following. “I’ll see you at home.”
She got into her car; questions and answers flowed.
What’s the meaning of ‘home’? Love and safety.
What is it to ‘see’ when you see only what you want?
She felt gullible and complicit in the deception. She thought a career, an apartment and her man equaled a life, but she was led astray by smiles and easy yeses.
’You’ should ask the right questions and demand answers.
At the apartment, she grabbed the things she needed most, as if a firestorm were about to descend. She took clothes, important papers and some mementos. She prayed Joseph hadn’t followed. She carried them into the hallway and down to the car. He wasn’t there.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she had to push through today to get there.
THE END
Linda knew she had to confront Joseph.
She felt a deep sense of betrayal and wanted to hear what he had to say. She didn’t think anything he said would satisfy her, but she wanted to know if he could be honest. Straightforward enough when things were good, he had an aversion to being held to account when they weren’t.
It was twilight when she left the store. She drove towards home, going by way of the garage. His car was parked outside the shop. The bay doors were closed but through a window she saw a strange flickering light. She parked and slipped inside through a side door, the photo clutched in hand.
She had to shake her head to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. Before her, a figure bent over a metallic box. It had a cubed metal head and wide goggle eyes attached to the body of a man. It wielded a wand with a flame like a blue dagger tooth that cut into the box, raining sparks. A steady hissing filled the garage and a thin smoky haze created the sensation of being underwater.
C.V., in t-shirt and jeans, stood off to the side, watching intently. Beside him stood another man whom she didn’t know. Joseph, still dressed in his blue coveralls, stood with his back to her.
C.V. saw her first, his eyes growing wide as he retreated into the shadows. His companion looked to him to see where he was going, attracting Joseph’s attention. He turned to see Linda.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“What’s happening?” she asked in a small voice, amazed by the scene.
Joseph grabbed the photo. He saw himself hand in hand with Stacy. A frown momentarily crossed his face. “What’s this?”
Regaining her composure, she pointed to it. “Your friend’s in jail. They’re coming for you next.”
He studied the photo. “Where'd you get this?”
“The police.”
“No, you didn’t.” He let the photo fall to the floor and looked away.
Linda jabbed her finger in his arm. “Joseph, this isn’t right. You brought that woman to my bed. She was stealing from Rightway. Now you’re breaking into a safe.”
Joseph took her by the shoulders and shook her, his eyes looking deeply into hers. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?” Her head shook side to side as if to wobble off.
He pulled her to him. Her ear pressing against his muscled chest, she heard his heart beat against the background of the hissing torch. She felt his body heat and her body, against her will, began to respond.
She resisted, trying to break free but he squeezed tightly, pinning her arms like the wings of a bird in a snake’s death grip, its hissing filling her ears.
“Have you always been this way?” She asked in a failing voice.
He squeezed tighter and she felt she was suffocating. But from somewhere deep inside, it came.
She screamed.
It startled Joseph and he let her go. The goggle-eyed figure looked up and even C.V. stepped forward to see what was happening.
Her high-pitched cry overcame the hissing of the torch. It cut through all the easy agreements dealing with easy issues that skirted the hard ones. It cut across lives lived in parallel only touching occasionally. It cut through non-responsive answers and to questions never asked.
Linda ran out of the garage, Joseph’s voice following. “I’ll see you at home.”
She got into her car; questions and answers flowed.
What’s the meaning of ‘home’? Love and safety.
What is it to ‘see’ when you see only what you want?
She felt gullible and complicit in the deception. She thought a career, an apartment and her man equaled a life, but she was led astray by smiles and easy yeses.
’You’ should ask the right questions and demand answers.
At the apartment, she grabbed the things she needed most, as if a firestorm were about to descend. She took clothes, important papers and some mementos. She prayed Joseph hadn’t followed. She carried them into the hallway and down to the car. He wasn’t there.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she had to push through today to get there.
THE END
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Chapter 6: A Telling of Truths
… Reggie plays his hand…
…and Linda begins her search for truth…
Linda strode down the hall to Reggie’s office, cutting a lean confident figure in a trim dark skirt, white blouse with frills and black high heels. She nodded and smiled to the co-workers she saw everyday. She wondered if anyone sensed the uneasiness she felt.
Reggie’s door was open and she rapped twice on the sill. He acknowledged her without smiling and motioned her to a chair. Something inside her wound even tighter.
“Thanks for dropping by,” he said, rising to close the door. “You don’t mind, do you?” She shook her head.
“What’s this about, Reggie?”
He sat down again and picked up a small stack of hard-backed cards. He shuffled and studied them like a poker player, then he looked up, his brown eyes wide, guileless.
“It’s about work…Joseph…and you.”
Linda flashed hot and shifted in her seat. Then a chill descended on her. He couldn’t be questioning her job, she thought; not like this. When he mentioned Joseph, he was overstepping his bounds. She tensed, ready to set him right.
“Well?”
He shuffled the cards again and turned one over. “This”.
It was a photo of a man and a woman, holding hands. The man looked like Joseph.
“She works at Rightway and has been stealing from us.”
Before she could say anything, he set another photo down. “They met in front of your address and went inside.”
Then another, of the man getting out of Joseph’s car. Linda’s mouth gaped open taking in air, unable to articulate words.
Another photo. “He left at 1220.”
And another. “She followed 30 minutes later.”
Linda felt vulnerable, exposed and embarrassed, and the words burst out. “How dare you! How dare you invade my privacy!” She hunched over, falling silent and employing all her energy to keep from crying.
Reggie leaned back in his chair waiting for the wave of indignation to pass. Then, taking advantage of her silence, he explained about the investigation and assured her it had nothing to do with Joseph or her. No one else knew, he added, about Stacy’s connection through Joseph to her.
She was at the same time relieved and wary. Reggie seemed embarrassed about it. He wasn’t sticking it to her or gloating, but he knew something that could in some crazy way threaten her standing with the company. She took the measure of the large man with the frown on his face and decided she had to trust him.
“Who is this woman?”
Reggie told her more about Stacy Wallop, adding that she’d be brought upstairs to be interviewed and arrested that day.
“Does she know who I am?”
“I don’t know.”
***
Back in her office with the door shut, Linda laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes like she used to do in school. Her mind skipped, back and forth, from present to past and back again.
Joseph was attractive to women, she knew. She, herself, was testament to that. But when they decided to live together she thought his commitment equal to hers. Did she fool herself into believing it? She wasn’t sure.
She thought of her childhood. An only child, when she closed the door to her room, she felt safe and cozy in a world she created. Later she shared a place with girlfriends and new people were always passing through. She liked some; others she didn’t. She longed for that safe, cozy feeling again and, when she got with Joseph, she was striving for it. But he let that woman in her home. Did they talk about her? That bothered her, too.
She thought back to the ruffled bed and how he insisted the only answer was that she forgot to make it. Her face flushed red.
It nagged at her he was with someone who was stealing from the store. She wondered if he knew and if it mattered to him. It should.
Reggie told her Joseph doesn’t have a criminal record according to a cursory background check. He didn’t say if they did one on her. How humiliating.
The line between Joseph and Stacy and she hadn’t been drawn on any paper, but what would Stacy reveal when questioned? Again, her mind nagged: did he know, could he be involved?
A fire starts in a dark corner in a rundown house. It grows until the house is engulfed, then spreads to houses nearby. Soon the whole block is ablaze. The flames are hot and suck up air; the sky is a confusion of black suffocating smoke. Linda wakes up, acrid smoke causing her nose to flare. She falls out of bed onto the floor. Crawling to the door, she prays flames aren’t on the other side. She reaches out to feel the door. If it’s hot, don’t open. It’s warm. She panics. Is warm hot? Is warm not hot? She doesn’t know. Behind: smoke. Ahead: the door. She grows dizzy. She must push through…
She jerked awake, gasping for breath. A thin line of drool stretched from her lips to the desk. She checked her watch; fifteen minutes had passed.
She worked the rest of the afternoon at her desk, waiting for Reggie’s call. About six, the phone rang. Reggie told her Stacy Wallop was being taken to Security for her interview. It could be long or short, depending on her willingness to talk.
Linda guessed short, so she donned her suit jacket.
She took the stairs to the third store level, where major appliances were sold. From there, she rode the escalators down. Stepping off on the second floor, she walked through Men’s Suits and Sports Clothes to the next down escalator. On the first floor she passed Women’s Wear and Men’s Furnishings towards the main entrance.
She noticed several sales people clustered together without pretense of working. They scrutinized her for any clue to what was happening. They didn’t know her but the badge clipped to her lapel identified her as an employee.
She stood waiting, looking towards the escalator. She knew Stacy Wallop would follow the same path through the store, her hands cuffed, being led by a sheriff. It may not have been intended, but it was the best example she knew of a ritual of public humiliation.
***
Gliding down, the green worsted trousers appeared first and then the officer's torso, clothed in a short sleeved khaki shirt. Stacy followed in a short blue skirt and then a second officer. She was sandwiched between the two sheriffs, one male and one female. Her tawny arms pulled behind her, she seemed to gaze without comprehension at the world. Her nose was red and her eyes overflowed with tears. Conversation on the floor ceased in astonished amazement.
Linda stepped into the middle of the aisle, blocking the way.
“Step aside, miss. Please.”
She stood her ground as they approached then jerked to a halt. Stacy blinked, looking at the woman before her. Linda saw a young and frightened girl who didn’t seem to know her. They pushed past and out the door.
Next, she had to see Joseph.
The concluding chapter will be posted by December 31. Thank you for reading my work. You may post your thoughts in the Comments section of any post or by sending an e-mail through my Profile page.
…and Linda begins her search for truth…
Linda strode down the hall to Reggie’s office, cutting a lean confident figure in a trim dark skirt, white blouse with frills and black high heels. She nodded and smiled to the co-workers she saw everyday. She wondered if anyone sensed the uneasiness she felt.
Reggie’s door was open and she rapped twice on the sill. He acknowledged her without smiling and motioned her to a chair. Something inside her wound even tighter.
“Thanks for dropping by,” he said, rising to close the door. “You don’t mind, do you?” She shook her head.
“What’s this about, Reggie?”
He sat down again and picked up a small stack of hard-backed cards. He shuffled and studied them like a poker player, then he looked up, his brown eyes wide, guileless.
“It’s about work…Joseph…and you.”
Linda flashed hot and shifted in her seat. Then a chill descended on her. He couldn’t be questioning her job, she thought; not like this. When he mentioned Joseph, he was overstepping his bounds. She tensed, ready to set him right.
“Well?”
He shuffled the cards again and turned one over. “This”.
It was a photo of a man and a woman, holding hands. The man looked like Joseph.
“She works at Rightway and has been stealing from us.”
Before she could say anything, he set another photo down. “They met in front of your address and went inside.”
Then another, of the man getting out of Joseph’s car. Linda’s mouth gaped open taking in air, unable to articulate words.
Another photo. “He left at 1220.”
And another. “She followed 30 minutes later.”
Linda felt vulnerable, exposed and embarrassed, and the words burst out. “How dare you! How dare you invade my privacy!” She hunched over, falling silent and employing all her energy to keep from crying.
Reggie leaned back in his chair waiting for the wave of indignation to pass. Then, taking advantage of her silence, he explained about the investigation and assured her it had nothing to do with Joseph or her. No one else knew, he added, about Stacy’s connection through Joseph to her.
She was at the same time relieved and wary. Reggie seemed embarrassed about it. He wasn’t sticking it to her or gloating, but he knew something that could in some crazy way threaten her standing with the company. She took the measure of the large man with the frown on his face and decided she had to trust him.
“Who is this woman?”
Reggie told her more about Stacy Wallop, adding that she’d be brought upstairs to be interviewed and arrested that day.
“Does she know who I am?”
“I don’t know.”
***
Back in her office with the door shut, Linda laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes like she used to do in school. Her mind skipped, back and forth, from present to past and back again.
Joseph was attractive to women, she knew. She, herself, was testament to that. But when they decided to live together she thought his commitment equal to hers. Did she fool herself into believing it? She wasn’t sure.
She thought of her childhood. An only child, when she closed the door to her room, she felt safe and cozy in a world she created. Later she shared a place with girlfriends and new people were always passing through. She liked some; others she didn’t. She longed for that safe, cozy feeling again and, when she got with Joseph, she was striving for it. But he let that woman in her home. Did they talk about her? That bothered her, too.
She thought back to the ruffled bed and how he insisted the only answer was that she forgot to make it. Her face flushed red.
It nagged at her he was with someone who was stealing from the store. She wondered if he knew and if it mattered to him. It should.
Reggie told her Joseph doesn’t have a criminal record according to a cursory background check. He didn’t say if they did one on her. How humiliating.
The line between Joseph and Stacy and she hadn’t been drawn on any paper, but what would Stacy reveal when questioned? Again, her mind nagged: did he know, could he be involved?
A fire starts in a dark corner in a rundown house. It grows until the house is engulfed, then spreads to houses nearby. Soon the whole block is ablaze. The flames are hot and suck up air; the sky is a confusion of black suffocating smoke. Linda wakes up, acrid smoke causing her nose to flare. She falls out of bed onto the floor. Crawling to the door, she prays flames aren’t on the other side. She reaches out to feel the door. If it’s hot, don’t open. It’s warm. She panics. Is warm hot? Is warm not hot? She doesn’t know. Behind: smoke. Ahead: the door. She grows dizzy. She must push through…
She jerked awake, gasping for breath. A thin line of drool stretched from her lips to the desk. She checked her watch; fifteen minutes had passed.
She worked the rest of the afternoon at her desk, waiting for Reggie’s call. About six, the phone rang. Reggie told her Stacy Wallop was being taken to Security for her interview. It could be long or short, depending on her willingness to talk.
Linda guessed short, so she donned her suit jacket.
She took the stairs to the third store level, where major appliances were sold. From there, she rode the escalators down. Stepping off on the second floor, she walked through Men’s Suits and Sports Clothes to the next down escalator. On the first floor she passed Women’s Wear and Men’s Furnishings towards the main entrance.
She noticed several sales people clustered together without pretense of working. They scrutinized her for any clue to what was happening. They didn’t know her but the badge clipped to her lapel identified her as an employee.
She stood waiting, looking towards the escalator. She knew Stacy Wallop would follow the same path through the store, her hands cuffed, being led by a sheriff. It may not have been intended, but it was the best example she knew of a ritual of public humiliation.
***
Gliding down, the green worsted trousers appeared first and then the officer's torso, clothed in a short sleeved khaki shirt. Stacy followed in a short blue skirt and then a second officer. She was sandwiched between the two sheriffs, one male and one female. Her tawny arms pulled behind her, she seemed to gaze without comprehension at the world. Her nose was red and her eyes overflowed with tears. Conversation on the floor ceased in astonished amazement.
Linda stepped into the middle of the aisle, blocking the way.
“Step aside, miss. Please.”
She stood her ground as they approached then jerked to a halt. Stacy blinked, looking at the woman before her. Linda saw a young and frightened girl who didn’t seem to know her. They pushed past and out the door.
Next, she had to see Joseph.
The concluding chapter will be posted by December 31. Thank you for reading my work. You may post your thoughts in the Comments section of any post or by sending an e-mail through my Profile page.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Chapter 5: A Flurry of Calls
…Joseph answers a Sunday call…
…prompted by a house call earlier Sunday…
…and on Monday Linda gets a call from Reggie…
Sunday afternoon, the couple sat motionless on the couch watching football on TV. Linda, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, nestled in the crook of Joseph’s arm, his muscular girth easily encompassing the slender woman. He wore green Bermuda shorts and a gray sport shirt.
“Riv-et. Riv-et.” She giggled as he grabbed the croaking cell from the coffee table.
“Joe.”
“It’s C.V., man.”
“Corvalis. What’s up?”
Joseph listened as C.V. explained. When he was done, he rose and, stepping through the sliding door onto the balcony a few feet away, said, “It’s going to cost you.”
“What?”
In a hushed voice, Joseph replied, “One thousand or ten percent.”
“Man, I don’t have that.”
“What do you got in the box?”
“I got to get it open to find out.”
“You’re going to pay the guy who opens it, no matter what. You owe me for the referral. Right?”
“Joe. You know me; we’re all in together. You help me and I help you. You helped my sister get that job. But I can’t come up with the dough if there’s nothing in it.”
“Then, it’s ten percent. Ten percent of a million sounds good.”
“Alright.”
“If there’s nothing in it, you still owe me, though.”
“What?”
Joseph looked out over the balcony into the harsh afternoon light. “Your sister can do something for me at her job. I’ll think of something.”
“OK.”
“Call Jimmy. Here’s his number.”
Joseph flipped shut his cell and, taking a deep satisfied breath, went back inside. That’s the way to do business, he thought, settling in beside Linda.
“Was that Rosalie’s brother?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something was going to cost him. What?”
“Something at work.”
She turned to him, a frown of disbelief creasing her silky brow. “He called you on Sunday about work? You work at an oil change shop.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She pointed an accusing finger. “You know I hate it when you keep things from me.”
“Watch the game.”
He gazed straight ahead at the TV as her dark eyes blazed at his visage, unflappable as a marble bust.
“Remind me why I love you,” she said.
When he didn’t respond, she pinched his arm, twisting the flesh between manicured fingers.
“Look at me!”
He pulled his arm away. “Ouch, Linda. What’s wrong with you?”
“Remind me why I love you.”
He blew a breath, flapping his lips like a horse. He reached over to peck her on the cheek.
Linda crossed her arms, falling back into the couch, staring at the farthest corner of the ceiling while Joseph re-set his gaze on the TV.
***
The pair, dressed in dark clothes, stalked the early morning streets of a moonless night. Stopping now and again, they were attracted by sleek lines and the going market for stolen cars.
Walking on the sidewalk side so as not to draw attention, equal in height and standing about a foot above the car tops, they appeared like wandering bushes creeping down the way.
One traced the lines of a black VW Golf, then tried the door. “Hey, C.V., it’s open, man.”
“Get in.”
A warning “ping, ping, ping” startled them, then they smiled as Hector turned the key in the ignition. A gentle whoosh stirred the morning air, leaving a gap in the line of parked cars.
C.V. noticed the ring held three keys. He fingered what looked like a house key, then explored the glove compartment. He held up a black leather wallet like a trophy illuminated by passing streetlights. Hector’s eyes grew wide.
Sorting through the credit cards and cash, he stopped when he found a driver’s license.
“Riley Turner… lives just around the corner.” He thought a moment, then said, “Let’s get the van.”
An hour later a black van crept slowly down the street and pulled up before the address on the license, a three-story apartment building.
They continued up the street, parking at the nearest corner. They walked the half-block, dark green duffle bags tucked under their arms, looking for apartment four. It was one of those on the side, on the second level. They didn’t see any lights. They climbed about twenty concrete steps along a metal rail that offered no cover.
At the top they listened at the door. C.V. held the key, and nodded at Hector, who nodded back. Hector, the stronger of the two, would take out Riley Turner if he were inconveniently at home.
They pushed through the door into the dark rooms. C.V. crept swiftly down the hallway to the bedroom. No one was home.
“O.K. Let’s do it.”
Hector disconnected the computer, putting the CPU and printer into one duffle and the slim screen monitor into another. Then, he began working on the sound system, the tuner, CD player and speakers. He grabbed at CDs like they were candy, tossing them into the duffle.
C.V. rifled through desk drawers and cabinets. He pocketed a passport. When he reached the bedroom closet he found himself looking down at a gray steel safe. He nudged it with his foot. It was heavy but not bolted down.
“Hector come here,” he whispered.
“Shheeeet. Look at that.”
“Can you lift it?”
Hector squatted down, pushing at it. He looked up doubtfully. Wrapping his arms around the square box, he lifted it a quarter inch before letting it fall, making a loud crash and straining the floor beneath.
“Shhh! Man, don’t make so much noise.”
C.V. surveyed the situation as Hector pulled at the metal handle. It would be tough going to get it out and down the steps, but this could be the jackpot. There had to be something good inside. A field of diamonds dazzled C.V.’s imaginary eye.
Hector pushed the square safe on its side and it thudded to a rest.
“We got to get it out. Look.” C.V. pulled the comforter from the bed and motioned for Hector to help him push the safe on to it.
“Careful.”
Again it strained and pressed the floor as they pushed the cube over. They pulled the blanket and its heavy weight to the front door.
“Take some of the stuff to the van and bring back the rope. The heavy rope.”
When Hector returned, C.V. set about wrapping it like a bulky Christmas present. On the top step, they tied one end of the rope to the railing and then let out the other end until it was suspended above the ground, the grooves on the rope catching and releasing on the ledge. C.V. was grateful for workmen’s gloves.
“Bring the van. Hurry.”
Hector half-ran down the street and backed the van into the driveway. He placed a hand-truck beneath the suspended package. C.V., seated on the ledge, with his legs propped against the railing, undid the securing knot and lowered the safe. Hector guided it onto the truck, which they rolled to the van. They connected one end of the rope to a winch inside and lifted it in. Then they threw in the rest of their booty and headed into the night. It had taken twenty minutes.
C.V. removed his gloves and flexed his sore hands.
“Hey, who do we know can open a safe?” Hector asked.
“I’ll call Joseph. He’ll know.”
Hector nodded and they smiled.
***
Linda took Reggie’s call and said she’d be right over.
It wasn’t typical for Reggie or any department manager, for that matter, to call her to their office. Buying decisions were discussed with departments in scheduled meetings and routine problems, like undelivered goods or inferior products, were handled by established procedure. If her work were being called into question she’d be talking to her own manager, not Reggie Barrow. She had no idea what he wanted. He sounded serious and that made her ill at ease.
The next chapter will be posted Sunday, December 27, and the concluding chapter by December 31.
…prompted by a house call earlier Sunday…
…and on Monday Linda gets a call from Reggie…
Sunday afternoon, the couple sat motionless on the couch watching football on TV. Linda, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, nestled in the crook of Joseph’s arm, his muscular girth easily encompassing the slender woman. He wore green Bermuda shorts and a gray sport shirt.
“Riv-et. Riv-et.” She giggled as he grabbed the croaking cell from the coffee table.
“Joe.”
“It’s C.V., man.”
“Corvalis. What’s up?”
Joseph listened as C.V. explained. When he was done, he rose and, stepping through the sliding door onto the balcony a few feet away, said, “It’s going to cost you.”
“What?”
In a hushed voice, Joseph replied, “One thousand or ten percent.”
“Man, I don’t have that.”
“What do you got in the box?”
“I got to get it open to find out.”
“You’re going to pay the guy who opens it, no matter what. You owe me for the referral. Right?”
“Joe. You know me; we’re all in together. You help me and I help you. You helped my sister get that job. But I can’t come up with the dough if there’s nothing in it.”
“Then, it’s ten percent. Ten percent of a million sounds good.”
“Alright.”
“If there’s nothing in it, you still owe me, though.”
“What?”
Joseph looked out over the balcony into the harsh afternoon light. “Your sister can do something for me at her job. I’ll think of something.”
“OK.”
“Call Jimmy. Here’s his number.”
Joseph flipped shut his cell and, taking a deep satisfied breath, went back inside. That’s the way to do business, he thought, settling in beside Linda.
“Was that Rosalie’s brother?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something was going to cost him. What?”
“Something at work.”
She turned to him, a frown of disbelief creasing her silky brow. “He called you on Sunday about work? You work at an oil change shop.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She pointed an accusing finger. “You know I hate it when you keep things from me.”
“Watch the game.”
He gazed straight ahead at the TV as her dark eyes blazed at his visage, unflappable as a marble bust.
“Remind me why I love you,” she said.
When he didn’t respond, she pinched his arm, twisting the flesh between manicured fingers.
“Look at me!”
He pulled his arm away. “Ouch, Linda. What’s wrong with you?”
“Remind me why I love you.”
He blew a breath, flapping his lips like a horse. He reached over to peck her on the cheek.
Linda crossed her arms, falling back into the couch, staring at the farthest corner of the ceiling while Joseph re-set his gaze on the TV.
***
The pair, dressed in dark clothes, stalked the early morning streets of a moonless night. Stopping now and again, they were attracted by sleek lines and the going market for stolen cars.
Walking on the sidewalk side so as not to draw attention, equal in height and standing about a foot above the car tops, they appeared like wandering bushes creeping down the way.
One traced the lines of a black VW Golf, then tried the door. “Hey, C.V., it’s open, man.”
“Get in.”
A warning “ping, ping, ping” startled them, then they smiled as Hector turned the key in the ignition. A gentle whoosh stirred the morning air, leaving a gap in the line of parked cars.
C.V. noticed the ring held three keys. He fingered what looked like a house key, then explored the glove compartment. He held up a black leather wallet like a trophy illuminated by passing streetlights. Hector’s eyes grew wide.
Sorting through the credit cards and cash, he stopped when he found a driver’s license.
“Riley Turner… lives just around the corner.” He thought a moment, then said, “Let’s get the van.”
An hour later a black van crept slowly down the street and pulled up before the address on the license, a three-story apartment building.
They continued up the street, parking at the nearest corner. They walked the half-block, dark green duffle bags tucked under their arms, looking for apartment four. It was one of those on the side, on the second level. They didn’t see any lights. They climbed about twenty concrete steps along a metal rail that offered no cover.
At the top they listened at the door. C.V. held the key, and nodded at Hector, who nodded back. Hector, the stronger of the two, would take out Riley Turner if he were inconveniently at home.
They pushed through the door into the dark rooms. C.V. crept swiftly down the hallway to the bedroom. No one was home.
“O.K. Let’s do it.”
Hector disconnected the computer, putting the CPU and printer into one duffle and the slim screen monitor into another. Then, he began working on the sound system, the tuner, CD player and speakers. He grabbed at CDs like they were candy, tossing them into the duffle.
C.V. rifled through desk drawers and cabinets. He pocketed a passport. When he reached the bedroom closet he found himself looking down at a gray steel safe. He nudged it with his foot. It was heavy but not bolted down.
“Hector come here,” he whispered.
“Shheeeet. Look at that.”
“Can you lift it?”
Hector squatted down, pushing at it. He looked up doubtfully. Wrapping his arms around the square box, he lifted it a quarter inch before letting it fall, making a loud crash and straining the floor beneath.
“Shhh! Man, don’t make so much noise.”
C.V. surveyed the situation as Hector pulled at the metal handle. It would be tough going to get it out and down the steps, but this could be the jackpot. There had to be something good inside. A field of diamonds dazzled C.V.’s imaginary eye.
Hector pushed the square safe on its side and it thudded to a rest.
“We got to get it out. Look.” C.V. pulled the comforter from the bed and motioned for Hector to help him push the safe on to it.
“Careful.”
Again it strained and pressed the floor as they pushed the cube over. They pulled the blanket and its heavy weight to the front door.
“Take some of the stuff to the van and bring back the rope. The heavy rope.”
When Hector returned, C.V. set about wrapping it like a bulky Christmas present. On the top step, they tied one end of the rope to the railing and then let out the other end until it was suspended above the ground, the grooves on the rope catching and releasing on the ledge. C.V. was grateful for workmen’s gloves.
“Bring the van. Hurry.”
Hector half-ran down the street and backed the van into the driveway. He placed a hand-truck beneath the suspended package. C.V., seated on the ledge, with his legs propped against the railing, undid the securing knot and lowered the safe. Hector guided it onto the truck, which they rolled to the van. They connected one end of the rope to a winch inside and lifted it in. Then they threw in the rest of their booty and headed into the night. It had taken twenty minutes.
C.V. removed his gloves and flexed his sore hands.
“Hey, who do we know can open a safe?” Hector asked.
“I’ll call Joseph. He’ll know.”
Hector nodded and they smiled.
***
Linda took Reggie’s call and said she’d be right over.
It wasn’t typical for Reggie or any department manager, for that matter, to call her to their office. Buying decisions were discussed with departments in scheduled meetings and routine problems, like undelivered goods or inferior products, were handled by established procedure. If her work were being called into question she’d be talking to her own manager, not Reggie Barrow. She had no idea what he wanted. He sounded serious and that made her ill at ease.
The next chapter will be posted Sunday, December 27, and the concluding chapter by December 31.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Chapter 4: A Tangle of Thoughts
…Reggie tries making sense of the numbers…
…which an employee confounds…
…while a photo suggests a disturbing link…
Reggie read the report and frowned. Sales were up but inventory wasn’t where it should be; a spot inventory last month confirmed it. Plus, there were disturbing register mismatches at shift change, especially the evening shift. Cash on hand and credit card slips should match register printouts.
He rose from his chair and looked out the window of his office. The evening shift was made up of some full-time employees but a lot of young part-timers. He ordered refresher training that made a difference for a while, but the problem resurfaced so he started working with Security. They identified some suspicious behavior but he always worried about a concerted effort, so he contracted with a private investigator.
Based on the investigations, he was satisfied the thefts were petty crime not connected to a criminal underground. Those employees would be terminated and prosecuted.
***
Stacy Wallop scanned the floor of the Men’s Furnishing department and sighed. The evening shift was empty of customers. Salespeople wandered idly from table to counter and back again to wait, straighten garments or gossip. She looked into a full-length mirror.
She was just twenty-one. Her silky hair formed an ash-blonde veil sweeping down her back. Her skin was tan with an attractive cluster of freckles under hazel eyes that gazed wide-eyed at the world. She wore a short red skirt that reached to the middle of a fleshy thigh and a white sleeveless blouse.
Stacy thought twenty-one would be more exciting. She could go to clubs legally now, but she’d been clubbing for years. She went to the beach when it was sunny; otherwise she’d go shopping. She never read, because she worried about lines forming on her brow. She waited impatiently for the next thrill to take her out of her boring existence.
She walked to a table of sale ties. Grabbing a handful, she threw them like a tangle of snakes. Lifting one, she held it out, halved then quartered it and neatly lay it back down. When she was finished she looked at her watch and sighed again.
A man approached with two shirts in hand. He was paunchy and gray. She directed him to the table. She laughed when he admitted he wasn’t good at matching colors. She’d be happy to help, she said. She grabbed a satin blue tie and smiled, holding it across her outthrust chest like a sash in a beauty pageant. The man studied it nervously through thick glasses but said he wasn’t sure. After browsing for a while he chose two. She carried his selection to the register. In answer to her question, he said he’d pay cash.
She scanned in one shirt and one tie, then completed the sale on the register. Doubling the figure in her head, she said, “That will be $87.20”. She gave him change from the till which she left open a crack. “Your receipt is in the bag,” she said flashing a winning smile. She folded over the top and handed him the bag. He took it, smiling nervously. After he left, she looked left then right. Not seeing anyone watching, she removed two twenties and slipped them into her pocket.
***
Reggie reviewed a report containing a nugget of information that was either gold or radioactive. He’d have to handle it carefully.
The report stated, in part:
Wednesday, August 19, 2009. This investigator parked outside the target’s home at 1234 Wallingsford Avenue. Three cars were parked in the driveway. They are registered to her parents who are listed at the same address as emergency contacts (Cf. personnel file). The target was observed getting into the silver Toyota Corolla (photo attached).
0900-1130. Target drove to the beach where she sunbathed (photo attached).
1130. Target drove to apartment complex at 4547 Sunnyside Way and sat in her car for about 15 minutes.
1145. Brown Camaro parked behind her car (photo attached) and a white male (black hair, approximately five feet nine inches tall) approached her vehicle. She got out and, holding hands, they went into the apartment complex (photo attached). This investigator could not tell which apartment they went to. The front lobby is secure and no attempt was made to enter the property.
1220. The male exited the complex alone (photo attached). He seemed to be in a hurry.
1250. The target exited the complex (photo attached) and this investigator followed her back to the 1234 Wallingsford Avenue address.
Reggie looked at the photo again. He knew the man and wasn’t happy about it. He put it back into the report folder and dropped it on his desk. It made a slapping sound and, unconsciously, he rubbed his cheek. He enjoyed the company of women, but as he got older he found himself feeling like father or protector. He felt a mix of honor and attraction but, to those young women, he would always be a male with questionable motives. Maybe that was the right call.
He’d have to approach Linda and he knew it wouldn’t be easy.
Chapter 5 will be posted December 20.
…which an employee confounds…
…while a photo suggests a disturbing link…
Reggie read the report and frowned. Sales were up but inventory wasn’t where it should be; a spot inventory last month confirmed it. Plus, there were disturbing register mismatches at shift change, especially the evening shift. Cash on hand and credit card slips should match register printouts.
He rose from his chair and looked out the window of his office. The evening shift was made up of some full-time employees but a lot of young part-timers. He ordered refresher training that made a difference for a while, but the problem resurfaced so he started working with Security. They identified some suspicious behavior but he always worried about a concerted effort, so he contracted with a private investigator.
Based on the investigations, he was satisfied the thefts were petty crime not connected to a criminal underground. Those employees would be terminated and prosecuted.
***
Stacy Wallop scanned the floor of the Men’s Furnishing department and sighed. The evening shift was empty of customers. Salespeople wandered idly from table to counter and back again to wait, straighten garments or gossip. She looked into a full-length mirror.
She was just twenty-one. Her silky hair formed an ash-blonde veil sweeping down her back. Her skin was tan with an attractive cluster of freckles under hazel eyes that gazed wide-eyed at the world. She wore a short red skirt that reached to the middle of a fleshy thigh and a white sleeveless blouse.
Stacy thought twenty-one would be more exciting. She could go to clubs legally now, but she’d been clubbing for years. She went to the beach when it was sunny; otherwise she’d go shopping. She never read, because she worried about lines forming on her brow. She waited impatiently for the next thrill to take her out of her boring existence.
She walked to a table of sale ties. Grabbing a handful, she threw them like a tangle of snakes. Lifting one, she held it out, halved then quartered it and neatly lay it back down. When she was finished she looked at her watch and sighed again.
A man approached with two shirts in hand. He was paunchy and gray. She directed him to the table. She laughed when he admitted he wasn’t good at matching colors. She’d be happy to help, she said. She grabbed a satin blue tie and smiled, holding it across her outthrust chest like a sash in a beauty pageant. The man studied it nervously through thick glasses but said he wasn’t sure. After browsing for a while he chose two. She carried his selection to the register. In answer to her question, he said he’d pay cash.
She scanned in one shirt and one tie, then completed the sale on the register. Doubling the figure in her head, she said, “That will be $87.20”. She gave him change from the till which she left open a crack. “Your receipt is in the bag,” she said flashing a winning smile. She folded over the top and handed him the bag. He took it, smiling nervously. After he left, she looked left then right. Not seeing anyone watching, she removed two twenties and slipped them into her pocket.
***
Reggie reviewed a report containing a nugget of information that was either gold or radioactive. He’d have to handle it carefully.
The report stated, in part:
Wednesday, August 19, 2009. This investigator parked outside the target’s home at 1234 Wallingsford Avenue. Three cars were parked in the driveway. They are registered to her parents who are listed at the same address as emergency contacts (Cf. personnel file). The target was observed getting into the silver Toyota Corolla (photo attached).
0900-1130. Target drove to the beach where she sunbathed (photo attached).
1130. Target drove to apartment complex at 4547 Sunnyside Way and sat in her car for about 15 minutes.
1145. Brown Camaro parked behind her car (photo attached) and a white male (black hair, approximately five feet nine inches tall) approached her vehicle. She got out and, holding hands, they went into the apartment complex (photo attached). This investigator could not tell which apartment they went to. The front lobby is secure and no attempt was made to enter the property.
1220. The male exited the complex alone (photo attached). He seemed to be in a hurry.
1250. The target exited the complex (photo attached) and this investigator followed her back to the 1234 Wallingsford Avenue address.
Reggie looked at the photo again. He knew the man and wasn’t happy about it. He put it back into the report folder and dropped it on his desk. It made a slapping sound and, unconsciously, he rubbed his cheek. He enjoyed the company of women, but as he got older he found himself feeling like father or protector. He felt a mix of honor and attraction but, to those young women, he would always be a male with questionable motives. Maybe that was the right call.
He’d have to approach Linda and he knew it wouldn’t be easy.
Chapter 5 will be posted December 20.
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