Chapter 9

The sign above the small brick building proudly proclaims:

Royalty Car Rental

Where you’re always treated like a King! … or a Queen!

I’m parked in my truck across the street, watching the front door, and sipping my venti coffee.

Normally, I’d do everything in my power to avoid giving a competitor any money, but I haven’t slept, I need the caffeine, and their coffee’s not bad.

“A large coffee, please,” I told the barista.

He smiled at me. “Do you mean “venti”?”

“We’re not fucking doing this today,” I replied.

Once I fiddled with the picture of the car so that I could clearly read the license plate, I went back to the house, and fired up the computer. If I had been trying to find the owner of a car based on the license plate twenty years ago, I would have had to go to the DMV, fill out a form, and wait six weeks for them to get back to me. Now, I can get the results instantaneously online for the low price of $40. Thank God for the internet.

The car rented by the woman posing as Rebecca Lowden belonged to the fleet of Royalty Car Rental in Hammersmith—a short, thirty-minute drive from The Hollows.

I went to the Royalty Car Rental’s website. Thankfully, it was a smaller operation, and not some big, national car rental chain, which would have made things much more difficult. On their website, they had a “Meet the Team” section with photos. There was a group photo on the page and then individual photos of the associates with their bios. I needed to find the associate who stood out from the rest—the one who wasn’t really part of the team. I didn’t want the Employee of the Month—quite the opposite. I wanted the one who was possibly the most willing to break the rules if the price was right.

The horse I picked was a rental associate named Derrick Slauson. From his picture on the website, I’d say he’s in his mid-twenties. In the group photo, his hair and clothes were much less tidy than his coworkers, and his smile was the definition of “uninvolved”. His prematurely aged face also indicated that he was a smoker.

I arrived in Hammersmith well before Royalty Car Rental opened, hit up an ATM next to the Starbucks, and set up shop across the street with my coffee.

I watch the staff arrive and go through the front door. The first person to arrive is Mr Martzen, the manager. Everyone else begins arriving a few minutes later. Nine o’clock rolls around and there’s still no sign of Derrick Slauson. I’m worried that he’s no longer employed by Royalty Car Rental, and they haven’t updated the website.

It gets to the point that I take out my phone and pull up the website to find another target, when a beat-up Saturn turns into the parking lot. Derrick Slauson gets out and hurries through the front door. He’s late, reinforcing everything I had hoped about him.

Perfect.

Now, it’s a waiting game until lunch.

I move the truck, and park in a spot where I can see not only the front entrance, but the side door, as well. I use the time to return some emails and texts, most of which are about the costume contest. Sandy’s written an email. She normally prefers to call or text, so an email is an indication of how worried she is. I briefly write her back to assure her that everything is fine, and that everyone is getting paid while we’re closed. I end the email by encouraging her to enjoy her time off, but I know she won’t.

There’s not much in the way of customers coming and going from Royalty Car Rental. As lunch nears, I put away my phone and keep a constant eye on the doors. Without the busy work of emails and text messages to keep me distracted, thoughts of Murphy creep into my head.

There’s no way she would hurt a dog. No way. No matter how crazy she is, and she has to be crazy, right? She’s gone to these lengths to mess with me; she has to be crazy. But if I’m so convinced that she’s crazy, how can I be certain that she won’t hurt Murphy?

I’m saved from any further mental torture by the emergence of Derrick Slauson from the side entrance of the building. He turns and starts walking to the neighboring strip mall, which is home to a deli, a liquor store, a Chinese take-out, and a Chili’s.

Thankfully, he’s alone.

I hop out of the truck and cross the street. I hastily catch up with him as he reaches for the door handle of the Chinese take-out place.

“Hi, uh, Derrick?” I ask.

He stops and turns to me. He looks around before answering, “Yeah?”

“You work at Royalty Car Rental, right?” I ask, with a thumb over my shoulder towards the building.

“Yeah.”

“Great. My name is Matt Becker. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand. He regards it for a few moments and weakly shakes it.

“Hi …”

“Listen,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“… Okay.”

“Let me buy you lunch?” I ask, holding my wallet open just enough so he can see the multiple one hundred-dollar bills inside.

He’s interested, but still suspicious. “I don’t eat that much.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a business thing.”

*

Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting at a table in Chili’s.

“How long is your lunch break?” I ask.

He sucks on the straw, downing the better part of the blended beverage the Chili’s waitress delivered less than five minutes ago. “It’s an hour. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Great,” I say, over my glass of water. “So, do you like your job at Royalty?”

He blinks, fighting off the brain-freeze he’s brought on himself. “It’s a job.”

“How long have you been there?”

“About a year. Why?”

“I need a favor.”

“What’s the favor?”

“A few days ago, someone rented a car from your place. I’ve got the license plate number. I need you to tell me the name of the person who rented it.”

He shakes off the brain-freeze. “You’re going to need more than three hundred. I could get fired.”

“No one’s going to know.”

“Why do you want to know who rented the car?”

“That’s my business. You can find out, right?”

“Sure. I’m just not sure it’s worth three hundred bucks.”

“Come on. What are you pulling in over there? You’re probably part-time, barely making over minimum wage with no benefits, yeah?”

He shrugs. “That’s my business.” He takes down the rest of his drink, pleased at his cleverness of using my own words against me.

“Go easy on those, okay? I don’t want you getting fired for being drunk on the job.”

“Look, man, I don’t really need this.” He gets up to leave. “So, thanks for the lunch and the mai tais, and you can try your luck with someone else.”

“Fine, fine, fine. How much would it take to make you ‘need this’?”

He makes a show of thinking it over, and sits back down. “How many hundreds you got in there?”

“You’re good, I’ll give you that, but I’m not going to tell you.”

He mulls the slushy remains of his mai tai. “I’ll do it for a grand.”

I quickly grab the attention of our server as she passes. “Can I get the check?”

She nods.

“Wait. Hold on,” he says. “We’re negotiating, all right?”

“Negotiations just ended.”

“You could make a counter-offer.”

“Here’s my counter-offer—I can go into your work, find your boss, his name is Mr Martzen, right?” The fact that I know his boss’s name unnerves him. “I go in there, and tell Mr Martzen that I asked for a customer’s personal information, and you were willing to give it. Then, you won’t have the money, and you’ll be out of a job.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t— I was trying to— We’re just talking, okay? We’re cool.”

The bubbly server returns, drops the check, thanks us, and leaves.

I open the check presenter, eye Derrick, and return the bill to the table. “I guess we don’t have to go anywhere, just yet.”

He sighs. “Good.”

There’s a long moment where we size each other up, waiting for the other to reopen the negotiations.

I need to get this going, so I’m the first to cave. “I’ll give you five hundred. Final offer. For that, I want a name and an address.”

He considers it, and nods. “Deal.”

*

I lead him out of the Chili’s and to the liquor store next to the Chinese take-out.

“You’re a smoker, right?” I ask.

“I quit two months ago.”

“Well, today, you’re going to relapse.” I take two one-hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet, and hand them to him. “The rest you get when it’s done, okay?”

He nods.

I hold the door open and we go inside.

We’re greeted by the bing-bong of the door chimes. I take him over to the counter and point to the various packs of cigarettes in the display.

“Pick your brand.”

“Uh, Marlboro Reds.”

“One pack of Marlboro Reds,” I tell the clerk.

She takes a pack and places it on the counter. I pay for them, and push the pack into his chest.

“How long will it take you to get the records?”

“I don’t know. Like, five minutes, maybe.”

“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” I say, leading him back outside. “Find the records and write them down on a slip of paper. Then, you’re going to have a nicotine fit, and need to head outside for a smoke break. Is anyone going to question that?”

He shakes his head.

“Great. Walk outside and bring me the paper. This will all be over, and you’ll be five hundred dollars richer.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier for me just to text you the name and address, or something?”

“No. I don’t want any records of this, okay?”

For some reason, that rattles him. He still has the two one hundred-dollar bills in his hand, but he suddenly looks at them like their used tissues.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“I’m … I’m having second thoughts.”

“Derrick, in ten minutes, you’ll be five hundred dollars richer, okay?”

He still hesitates.

“I’m kind of in a time crunch, Derrick. I need to know if we’re going to have to go the Mr Martzen route—”

“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He jams the cash in his pockets, and heads off in the direction of Royalty Car Rental.

I watch him disappear through the door, and I begin pacing behind the strip mall, incessantly checking the time on my phone.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty.

I finally stop pacing, and stare at the door to Royalty Car Rental.

Something’s wrong. He got caught, or he’s not going through with it. I don’t know what it is, but something’s up.

I curse under my breath and start trying to think of other options. There are none. This is it.

Thirty minutes becomes forty. Forty stretches into fifty. An hour.

“Fuck it,” I mumble, and start walking.

I reach the entrance of the building. I grip the handle of the door and yank it open.

There’s a reception desk with cubicles arranged behind it. Right away, I spot Derrick, sitting at his desk. There’s a large, windowed office at the back of the room. Through the window, I can see Mr Martzen. He’s talking on the phone, and he damn well sees me.

A charming girl in a button-down shirt, name tag, and khakis, sitting at the front desk tries to engage me.

“Hello. Welcome to Royalty Car Rental. How can I help you?”

I glance at Derrick. He’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t see me.

I point to Mr Martzen, through the window.

“I need to talk to that guy, right there,” I say, loud enough for the whole office to hear.

Looking directly at me, Martzen speaks into his phone and hangs up. He steps out of his office and starts walking towards the main desk.

“Um, sure. I can have Mr Martzen speak to you,” the girl says. “If you’d like to take a seat—”

“It’s all right, Kelly,” Martzen says, cutting her off, while keeping his eyes on me.

I haven’t slept in over two days, so I’m sure my appearance warrants caution.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks.

“Boy, is there ever,” I say, casting a glance over to Derrick.

Derrick springs from his cubicle, and hustles over to us.

“Mr Becker,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you when you walked in. I meant to return your call to let you know that yes, I do have that Ford Explorer you were asking me about buying.” He turns to Martzen. “I’m sorry, Mr Martzen. This is Mr Becker. He and I have been in contact about purchasing that 2015 Ford Explorer from us.” Derrick turns to me. “If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to show it to you right now, Mr Becker.”

I look between Slauson and Martzen. “That’d be great.”

Martzen is baffled.

“Right this way,” Derrick says, motioning to the door.

He leads me out the door and into the parking lot. Neither of us says a word as we head to a corner of the lot and stop next to a Ford Explorer.

“Well?” I ask.

“Just keep staring at the car like you’re thinking about buying it,” he says, gesturing with his hands towards the Explorer, like he’s showing it off.

“What the hell happened?” I hiss. “Do you have the name?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

I wait for him to hand it over.

“Derrick—?”

“Why do you want it?”

I turn to him. “What?”

“Keep looking at the car,” he says.

I do.

“Why do you want the name and address?” he asks, again.

“I told you, that’s not your business.”

He bites his lower lip. “It’s just that I thought you were looking for a guy.”

I don’t reply.

“We keep scans of the driver’s licenses. I pulled up the records and saw her picture.”

“So?”

“She’s pretty.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He hesitates. “You’re not some sort of crazy stalker ex-boyfriend, are you?”

“If I was an ex-boyfriend, don’t you think I’d know her name?”

It wasn’t the answer he’s looking for.

“Listen, Derrick. I promise, I just want to talk to her.”

“Why?”

“Because she has something of mine. I have to get it back.”

He glances over his shoulder towards the building. His frustration builds. He jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Her name is Veronica Sanders.”

I quickly take the slip of paper from his hand and stuff it into my pocket.

“What about the address?”

His jaw hardens. “I’m not comfortable giving you that. I’m sure you have ways of finding that out on your own, now that you have her name. Don’t ask me why that makes me feel better. You say you just want to talk to her? Why should I believe you?”

“Derrick, trust me—”

“Trust you?” he snorts. “Why should I trust you? Is your name really even Matt Becker?”

My hesitation tells him that it isn’t.

“Yeah … So, her name is all you’re going to get from me.” He produces the pack of cigarettes I just bought for him, takes one out, and stuffs one end in his mouth. He also takes out a lighter, lights the cigarette, and takes a long drag. “I’ll keep the two hundred. You can keep the other three, and I never see you, again. Deal?”

I nod. “Deal.”

He takes another long drag, drops the cigarette onto the ground, and crushes it under his heel. He turns and starts walking back to the small, brick building.

“Thank you for showing me the car,” I call after him.

He turns. “You’re welcome, Mr Becker,” he answers, while discreetly flipping me off.