Marie woke up with a start when her alarm went off at 8:00 am instead of seven.
Omigod! The kids are late for school and Jean’s coming for a tint at nine!
Tom’s side of the bed was empty, but his shoes waited under the chair that held his uniform coat and hat. She heard water running downstairs and threw on her bathrobe to investigate.
Tom stood at the sink washing breakfast dishes, trying to master whistling Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman.” No kids in sight. Marie felt dizzy from her rush downstairs and disoriented from oversleeping.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Where are the kids?”
He shut off the water and toweled his hands, then grabbed her in a hug.
“Kids are fed, clothed, teeth brushed, and at school. James was uncommunicative, Lucy chatty. She must’ve memorized that movie last night because she recited most of it.”
She held him at arm’s length for a good look.
“Who are you?” She looked around the kitchen. “And you cleaned up our mess from last night?”
“I’m the guy who reset your alarm,” he said. “You were so conked out I thought you deserved a little more shut-eye. Breakfast?”
“Just coffee,” she said. “I didn’t clean the shop yesterday before or after our little party, and Jean’s coming for a tint at nine.”
He put an arm around her waist and guided her to the coffeepot where he poured them both a cup. “I can fix something while you sweep your shop.”
Marie shook her head and carried her cup to the bathroom. “I have to get ready for Jean. Maybe lunch?” She shut the bathroom door.
Tom raised his voice so she could hear. “For the lowdown on the muck salesman, you mean?”
“I feel a little weak in the knees,” she said.
Tom tossed the towel onto the counter, raised his cup in a toast and said, “Praise the Lord.”
He checked his phone and found that his day off was now a day on. His patrolman called in sick for the second time in a week. The kid was the mayor’s nephew and scored day shift with minimal experience.
“He’s not getting more experience calling in sick,” Tom muttered. Through the bathroom door he said, “I have to go to work. Maybe see you for lunch.” All he heard back was the shower.
He didn’t have time to go to his place to change clothes or shower. He thought of slipping in with Marie, but that would become more than a shower and neither of them had time right now. Lack of sleep caught up with him when he pulled up at the foot of City Dock beside the station. Instead of going right inside, he leaned against the rail and watched the boats out on the water. A dozen or so fished the mid-channel bank, and he wanted to be there. Cindy, the department’s receptionist and sometime dispatcher, parked beside him and stood with him at the rail.
“Is Mark out there today?” she asked.
“Yep,” Tom said. “He’s the bright yellow boat in the middle. Fishkiller.”
She nudged him with an elbow. “When was the last time you fished with your brother?”
“A month before we pulled that insurance guy’s Navigator out of the drink.”
“You must be in withdrawal,” she said.
Tom shrugged, rubbed his eyes. “A lousy month, in general.”
They walked to the station door and Cindy asked, “No clue at all on that adjustor guy?”
“Nope. He was a loner. Like a transient, only rich.” He opened the door for her. “He was from Portland, so they’re covering that end. Most likely the car was stolen and dumped up here. Putting out the word to the homeless guys to speak up if anybody new has a tent in the woods.”
Cindy walked inside but Tom held the door and kept talking, more to himself than to her.
“His bank account was wiped but no credit cards used. No unusual phone records. Not a trace.”
Cindy sat behind the counter and turned on her computer. She adjusted the volume on the radio and tested her microphone. Tom signed the log sheet.
“FBI says there’s never ‘not a trace,’” Cindy said. “Maybe he’s just fine with his cash and doesn’t want to be found.”
“Maybe,” Tom said. “But if that’s the case, our adjustor leased his car, then drove it into the bay. If he’s not dead, he’ll wish he was when I catch up with him.”
“What makes you think he’s dead?”
“A feeling,” he said. He rubbed his eyes again. “Transients come through town every day. No matter what people think, they never leave without a word to somebody. Without a trace. There’s always something … His credit cards had ten thousand in cash withdrawals he could’ve taken, but he didn’t.”
“If the adjustor didn’t do it, then maybe the killer car thief will hit somebody here,” she said, her eyes wide.
“Don’t even say that,” Tom said. “Besides, you’ve been reading murder mysteries again.”
Cindy’s lips turned to a pout. “Hmph. Don’t mean I can’t be right.”
Tom leaned on the counter and stared past her through the window to the boats on the water.
“Transients get pickup work. If the guy’s smart, he’ll hold off flashing a lot of money and get some work as a cover until things quiet down.” He spoke more to himself than to Cindy. “I checked out all of the building permits in the city for the past month. New guys weren’t seen on any of those jobs.” To Cindy he said, “Get me the permits for the county.”
“The county is the sheriff’s jurisdiction,” she said.
“No kidding. I’ll be darned. Well, as short-handed as he is, he shouldn’t mind me doing some of his footwork, should he?”
“Just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
Tom slapped the counter, louder than he’d intended, and startled Cindy.
“I’m a cop for Chrissakes! I make my living on trouble.”
“Okay, okay!” she said, and waved him away from the counter. “Don’t be a grouch about it!”
Tom headed for the door, then turned to say, “Tell the chief I’m at the courthouse. I’ll get the permits myself.” He strode to the cruiser and yanked open the door.
“Wouldn’t want anybody around here to get in trouble!”
He took one last look at the boats on the water, shook his head and drove off.