Chapter eighteen

“What’s our next move?”

“Your next move is to go home and stay out of trouble.”

“What? Dude, there’s no way you’re cutting me off like this. I need to help.”

“You need to stay away from me and this mess, Mol. I can work faster if I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Worry about little ol’ me? How sweet. Totally unnecessary, but sweet.” Molly stood tall, her hands firmly on her hips. “I can take care of myself.”

Sam didn’t doubt that for a second. “Sure. But I don’t have anything for you to do right now. Go home. Wait. I’ll call you.”

“I’ve heard that line before. And anyway, I don’t have a phone, so you can’t call me. Nope, I will have to check in on you a little later.”

“No phone?” Sam was incredulous.

“No television, either. It rots the mind.”

“How do you find your hot tips and leads, then?”

“Newspaper, and word-on-the-street news. And I go to the public library when I need to use the computer.” Molly patted her shirt pocket, indicating the article print-out.

“Come on; I’ll walk with you to the car.”

“No car, either.”

“How did you get here, then? I’m a long way from Fourth Street.”

“A friend gave me a lift. You could offer to give me a ride home, if you’re feeling charitable.”

Once in Sam’s truck, Molly gave him directions to Wilmington’s Second Street.

“Just drop me off here. I need to get a few things in town, and this way, it’s a one-way walk.”

Sam did as he was told, leaving Molly in front of a small, antiquated, and rare city market. It was no bigger than many of the neighboring restaurants, but holding its own against encroaching development.

Sam headed to the station’s impound to look for the Camaro.

“Sam, hey, I am sorry about Lee,” George Alston called out as Sam entered the squatty warehouse. “He was a good man. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at his funeral, but I want you to know we all stand with you.”

“Thanks, George,” Sam said sincerely. George was true-blue, and in Sam’s estimation, had seen it all over his long career with the force. Closing in on retirement, George was content to mind the evidence warehouse, tracking everything that came in, day after day after long, boring day.

“What can I help you with today, Sam?”

“I’m on the fire at Golden Sun. Wanted to take a look at the car that nose-dived into the ocean.”

“Oh, that’s already been taken to Wally’s.” George checked his log and nodded like a fake Chihuahua in the back of an Oldsmobile.

“When did it come in?”

“That same night. Ah, here it is,” George pointed to his log. “Two in the morning. But it didn’t stay long. Wally’s guys came and got it.”

“But the case is still open! Why are we disposing of evidence before the case is closed?”

“I don’t know anything about that.” George rarely wanted to know about any of it. He stayed content that way. “You better check with Chief. I’m sure he had all he needed on it.”

“Thanks, George.”

Sam drove to the tidy fenced-in lot of Wally’s just a few miles away. Everything was close in Carolina Beach, though summer beach traffic sometimes made it feel as if everything were miles apart. Wally’s sat on prime real estate; it’d been there forever and wasn’t caving into developers who wanted his location for their own designs.

Wally Ebertson had passed the shop on to his daughter, Stella. In her late sixties, Stella ran a tight ship, with everything where it should be and everything accounted for. But Stella, Sam learned from her less-than-stellar employee, John Henry, was on vacation all week.

“She’s gone to visit an uncle in Minnesota,” John offered. “Something about cancer, she said.” John was a fat, hairy man, one step removed from gorillahood, right down to his knuckles dragging on the sandy patch underneath his latest pickup: a shiny red corvette, probably towed for sport, knowing John.

“Where’s the Camaro that came in a few nights ago?” Sam’s eyes were scanning the neatly stacked rows of car remnants in search of the car. He wondered why Stella kept John around.

“She was ruined, for one thing. No way anybody ever gonna get that car back to running. Sand, grit, mud, water….” John marked off the offenses on his fat, grimy fingers.

“Where is it? I’d like to look at it.”

“Stack twenty-five, Row B.” John didn’t bother to point it out, but he graciously waved his hand toward the general direction of the rear lot. Sam walked in that direction, counting off the stacks, then the ten-foot rows, as he passed them. There, one away from the top of the stack, was the crushed carcass of a car Sam could only guess was the Camaro.

Sam fumed as he jogged back to the gorilla-man. “Who gave the order to crush it? The case is still open; it’s still evidence.”

“Look, pal; if you don’t like the procedure, talk to your boss. I just do as I’m told.” John didn’t bother to stand up this time.

“Who told you?”

“Chief.”

Sam stormed back to his car without a word. Procedure. Evidence. He rolled it over in his mind like a Rubik’s Cube as he drove to the police station. It didn’t make sense.