CHAPTER 6

I’d finished filling out all the paperwork and had spent the last twenty minutes waiting in the lobby in case the police officer assigned to the case had any more questions. Good thing I had brought the Chronicle from the Bean Me Up because, with the exception of wanted posters and community announcements hung about the walls, the police station was sorely lacking in reading material. I wasn’t expecting rat-eared copies of Crime and Punishment, but you’d think they’d have old issues of police magazines, with names like Badge and Siren or Patrol Beat, lying about.

I gathered from reading the Chronicle that, aside from the high school football team’s chances for a title once the season started in September, the big issues were increased traffic due to new home development out along Route 83, several home fires suspected to be arson in neighboring Harrisville, and--well, what do you know, a rash of car and farm equipment thefts that authorities believe to be the work of a local criminal ring.

It seemed that for over the past two years, throughout East Hastings and local neighboring towns and communities, tractors, harvesters, and other large farm equipment had been stolen from farms and automobiles had been disappearing from parking lots and garages, off streets, and, in some cases, right out of people’s driveways. At first, authorities attributed the rise in car thefts to young kids stealing the cars and driving them into Philadelphia where they either traded them for drugs or just abandoned them. However, as more area farms began to report missing farm equipment, police and criminal investigators began to believe that the thieves were much more sophisticated than a bunch of kids.

Down the hallway a door, over which a sign reading Criminal Investigations stuck out from the wall perpendicularly, opened and a uniformed policeman came out, carrying a clip board. He glanced my way and began walking toward me. His black shoes were polished to a scuffless sheen, his dark-brown trousers sharply-creased, his light brown, short-sleeved shirt neatly pressed, and his star-shaped badge shined to a bright luster. As he approached, his lips started to curl up into a sneer and, when he got close enough, I understood why. It was Danny Sullivan.

“Well, well, I just couldn’t believe it when I read the report but I’ll be damned--Wus Byrne, crime victim,” he said. He held the document I had filled out earlier that was attached to his clipboard up for me to see. “Says here someone went and stole your nineteen-eighty-nine Camry. That can’t be right, can it--a hot shot reporter like you driving a twenty-year old car?”

Danny Sullivan was one of the members of the “Fearsome Foursome,” who along with Randy Smith, Glen Poppy, and, of course, Tony Augustino shared a common mission of making my life a living hell from elementary school up until the day I graduated from high school. The four had taken bullying to a whole new level where I was concerned. If there was a way to humiliate and degrade a fellow human being that these guys missed, I really wouldn’t want to know about it.

I endured “purple nurples,” wedgies, noogies, pantsings, towel snaps, and swirling, as well as the very hilarious strip-a-guy-down-and-toss-him-into-the-girls’-locker-room stunt. There was no end to the enjoyment those four could find in tormenting me.

I had a feeling this wasn’t going to go very well.

“When did you become a cop?” I asked.

“That’s police officer, Wus.”

“The name’s Wes.”

I could see he was a little shocked by my come-back, maybe expecting the same old “Wus,” and, to tell the truth, I was a little surprised myself. It felt good.

He stepped closer and looked down menacingly at me in my chair. “Once a wuss, always a wuss, and--” he continued, pointing to his badge, “--this here means if I want to call you Sally or Betty, I damn well can.”

“Okay, right, sure. Listen, I just want my car back. Everything I own was in it. Can you put out an APB or whatever you can to find it?” I answered, not wanting to give him any chance to escalate things.

“Oh, of course--whatever you say. Why don’t I just call every officer off every case they’re working so we can find your piece of crap rice burner?” he replied, taking another step closer, now practically standing on my toes.

I took a deep breath. “Look, I just think that the sooner you all start looking for it, the better the chances of finding it, is all.”

His neck muscles tightened, his face reddened and his eyes became little piercing arrows. “You trying to tell me how to do my job, you god-damned son of a--”

“Is there a problem here, Officer Sullivan?”

We both turned to see a policewoman approaching us, and, based on the way Sullivan suddenly morphed from my tormentor into the friendly cop on the beat, I knew instantly that she was the one in charge of the show.

“No problem, Chief,” he said, reaching out and patting me chummily on the shoulder. “Me and Wes here went to school together back in the day. We were just...ah...fooling around...um...catching up...”

“I understand his car has been stolen?” the head honcho asked, giving Sullivan a dubious glance before turning to me.

“Yes, that’s right. Out of a public lot on High Street.” I reached out my hand. “Wes Byrne, Officer...”

“Chief--Chief Roark,” she said, taking my hand. “Sorry to hear that.”

She was stout, not fat but solid. At first blush, I would have said she was ex-military. Her brown hair was cut short, neat, and conservative, and she had the general bearing of a soldier or marine.

She had serious, penetrating brown eyes, and I suspected she didn’t miss much.

She took the clipboard from Danny and studied it. “So you just got into town. Visiting?” she asked, not looking up.

“Yes, well, I grew up here but I’m in town for an old friend’s funeral. I stopped for a cup of coffee and came out to find my car missing.”

“I see. That friend of yours happen to be Steve Darby?” she asked, now looking up, her eyes growing a little bit more penetrating.

“Yeah, and um...I’m afraid I’m going to be late for the service,” I said, glancing at my watch. I didn’t know what she was after and didn’t want to stick around to find out, my car be damned. “Maybe I can call a cab or something and Danny--er, Officer Sullivan--can finish filing my report while I wait for it.”

“No need for a cab. I was just heading over myself--out of respect for the family. Give you a lift.” It was as much an order as an offer. “You about done here, Sullivan?” she said to Danny.

“Yes, sir. Got pretty much everything I need right here,” he said, taking the clipboard back from Chief Roark. “I was just about to put a description of the car out over the wire, in the hopes someone might spot it. Figured the quicker I got the word out, the better our chances of finding it.”

“Well, get to it.”

“Yes, Chief. Right away.” He smiled his best apple-polishing smile at her before heading off down the hallway.

Chief Roark watched him go and then turned to me and cocked her head in Sullivan’s direction. “So, you two old friends?”

I looked over the captain’s shoulder to see Sullivan turn and give me a glance that could melt a glacier before he disappeared through the hallway door.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” I answered.