Megan
The department’s phones lit up for days after the initial report about the Dodge pickup had been released to the public. Detective Bustamente and I followed up on all of the most promising tips first, and when none of those panned out we moved on to explore the more dubious ones.
Every hunter in the state who drove a black Dodge pickup seemed to have been reported by his neighbors as a possible suspect, regardless of whether his truck had ever borne a camper shell. The hunters didn’t much appreciate being questioned about the zoo animals and implicitly accused of breaking the law, either.
It had taken me a number of hours, but I’d used the DMV records and a Google search to identify a couple of welders in the north Texas area who drove black Dodge pickups. Unfortunately, a visit to each of them told me that neither had a camper shell on their truck. Both also had solid alibis for New Year’s Eve, and a number of witnesses who were willing to put them at parties, one of the men later falling drunk into bed according to his wife. “He couldn’t have found his way to the bedroom door, let alone the zoo.”
When two more weeks went by and we’d been unable to identify a potential suspect, Bustamente and I put our minds together again over coffee in his office.
“Maybe the thief didn’t own the truck,” I suggested. “Maybe it was a rental. Or maybe he’d borrowed it from somebody and they had no idea what he’d used it for.”
“He could be from out of state,” the detective added. “It’s also possible the truck wasn’t black, but just looked black in the dark of night. Maybe it was green or blue.”
I groaned. “So what do we do now?”
Bustamente heaved a sigh and slumped back in his chair. “I think we’ve done what we can, Officer Luz.” He gestured to a pile of file folders on his desk. “I’ve got fifteen other investigations demanding my attention, and the captain needs you out on patrol. Neither of us can keep putting the time into this that we have been, especially now that we’d be chasing down information that isn’t likely to get us anywhere.”
“We’re going to give up?” I didn’t like that idea. I’d never been a quitter.
“Part of being a good detective is resource management,” Bustamente said. “You’ve got to know when to cut your losses and move on. Where this zoo case is concerned, it’s time.”
“The bad guys win this one, then, huh?” Another idea I didn’t like.
“If it’s any consolation, they seem to have given up on taking any more animals from the zoo. The three thefts all took place in the span of a month. It’s been more than a month since Dinari was taken on New Year’s Eve. We might not have solved the crimes, but we seem to have deterred them from committing another. It might not be a complete victory, but I’d still call that a win.”
It didn’t feel like a win to me, but what could I say? I stood to go. “Thanks again for including me in the investigation, Detective.”
He offered a small smile. “I’d have been a fool not to. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, good eyes, too. When you make detective, you’ll show the rest of us up.” He pointed to the door. “Now get back out on those streets.”
I gave him a salute, rounded up my partner, and headed out the door.
Brigit and I had been patrolling for over three hours and I was bored to death. Traffic tickets, petty thievery, and noise complaints paled in comparison to working a wildlife trafficking investigation. But when I’d had to U-turn on Vickery to catch up to a speeder and found myself once again in the industrial area flanked by I-30 and I-35, I figured it couldn’t hurt to make yet another cruise through the area.
I hooked a right on south Jones Street, casting casual glances left and right. Some of the warehouses and garages were open and bustling. Others were closed and rusting. Wait. What’s that?
A shiny copper sign on a small garage caught my eye. It read KING MIDAS METALWORKS. Given the name, it must be a welding business, right? The name rang no bells, though. It hadn’t come up when I’d run my search for welding businesses after Dinari had been taken. It must be new.
I turned into the asphalt drive and parked my cruiser in front of the bay door, which was closed. I logged on to my laptop and ran a quick search. According to public records, the business had been formed in early January by a man named Trevor Fleming. The business had several reviews online already. “You can count on King Midas Metalworks!” “Their workers do a good job at a fair price.” “Best in the business!”
Fleming had been slow to put his sign up. Surely I would’ve spotted the sign if it had been up long.
I rounded up Brigit from the back and took her to a small strip of dirt next to the road so she could relieve herself. A little ground beetle meandered along the curb. Brigit gave it a sniff and appeared poised to eat it until I gave her leash a tug and said, “Nuh-uh. Not a snack.”
As the beetle waddled off, my subconscious mind coughed up the Beatles’ song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” that the barbershop quartet had been covering at the mall. I found myself humming the tune as I led Brigit back to the building and circled around to the regular door on the side. I tried the handle but the door was locked. The small window in the door was covered with burglar bars that prevented me from putting my face right up to the glass, but I cupped my hands around my eyes and did my best to see inside.
The place was dark, lit only by the meager sunlight streaming through the dusty window at which I stood. My eyes made out a large rectangular shape inside. Is that a trailer?
I pulled my flashlight from my belt and shined it through the glass. While I investigated with my eyes, Brigit investigated with her nose, snuffling around the edge of the door. Snuffle-snuffle.
The beam of my flashlight landed on a flat piece of white metal. Angling the beam slightly, I could make out a tire at the bottom and a metal tongue sticking out in front. Yep. It’s a trailer, all right. The trailer was in decent shape, certainly not extensively hail damaged like the one used to deliver the springbok to the hunting ranch. There were a few dings along the bottom that could have been hail damage, but given their placement it was more likely the dents had been made by gravel pinging against the metal. What’s more, the trailer bore a logo, a copper-colored crown under which KING MIDAS METALWORKS had been spelled out in black stick-on lettering.
Snuffle-snuffle.
I shined my flashlight about, spotting nothing else of interest, only a pink heart cut from construction paper with a sweet sentiment scrawled across it. I love you Daddy! The artist had signed her name, Harper, giving the p a curled-up tail in an act of alphabetic rebellion.
Brigit was still sniffing along the door frame when I finished my inspection. “C’mon, girl. Back to the car.”
The two of us returned to my cruiser. After loading Brigit into the back, I ran Fleming’s name through the motor vehicle records. I knew Detective Bustamente had said not to devote more time to the zoo case, but it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to run a search and see what might come up. The results showed no trailer or vehicle, black Dodge pickup or otherwise, in his name. Who owns the trailer? And how’d he transport the trailer here? He must drive something, right?
It wasn’t uncommon for married couples to share vehicles. Many times when I pulled a driver over, the car registration they offered me was in the name of their spouse. To determine if Fleming had a spouse, I looked up his driver’s license, then ran the address through the system again to see if another Fleming had a driver’s license at the same address, which was an apartment. Nope. It was possible if he had a wife, that she hadn’t taken his name. I ran a search of the marriage licenses. Nope, again. The guy had never been married, at least not in the state of Texas. Hmm. I supposed he could be driving a car owned by a friend or family member. Younger drivers often borrowed cars, as did people with bad credit who couldn’t get financing on their own.
I made a mental note to make a run by this shop on another day, see if Fleming might be here. More than likely it would lead nowhere, but it couldn’t hurt and nobody could complain. The garage sat within my beat.
Beat. Beatles. There went my brain again, making connections and forming thoughts behind the scenes while my focus was on something else. Again, the lyrics to “I Want to Hold Your Hand” ran through my mind.
I put Brigit in the back and opened the driver’s door. As my butt hit the seat, an epiphany jarred loose in my brain. I started the car, gunned the engine, and, tires squealing, aimed for the mall.