Chapter Nine

Over the River and Through the Woods

Zane bleeped the locks on his Tahoe and stepped over to open my door for me.

“No need for the chivalry,” I said. “This is an investigation, not a date.”

“You don’t let me get the door for you,” he said, “you’ll get me killed. My mother taught me to always be a gentleman, and she’s watching right now.”

I glanced back to see Pauline standing at the glass door, looking our way. “How would she kill you?” I asked as I took his warm hand to lever myself up into the seat.

“She’d smother me in gravy, like a biscuit.”

“Eh.” I shrugged. “There’d be worse ways to go.”

He closed the door, circled around to climb in on the driver’s side, and started the engine. We began the afternoon by visiting nearby auto repair shops to look for the man with the paint specks in his beard and to ask them to keep their ears and eyes open for any information about the Barracuda.

At the third shop we visited, we came across a mechanic with light skin, a dark beard, and a similar build to the thief I’d seen in the video clips. There were no paint flecks in his facial hair, but he could have easily washed or combed them out. He had a funny walk though, moving on the balls of his feet with a bouncy gait, like a life-sized marionette. The guy in the video didn’t walk that way. I supposed the mannerism could have been faked, but none of the other guys called him out on it, so it seemed they were used to seeing him move in that manner. Though I couldn’t be certain, I felt fairly sure he wasn’t the guy we were after.

Zane pulled his SUV into the parking lot of a barber shop with the antiquated yet iconic red, white, and blue spinning pole out front. “Let’s see if these fellers might know the guy we’re looking for.”

It was a good idea. Beauticians and barbers crossed paths with a lot of people. Ladies’ hair salons were a prime place for local gossip, and men’s barbershops were surely the same.

We went inside, greeted by the buzzing sound of electric clippers, the soapy clean scent of shaving cream, and a portly sixtyish man who was not only bald but virtually hairless all over. “Hey, there, Deputy Archer. Need a trim?”

“Not today, sir,” Zane said as he stepped up to the counter. He lowered his voice. “Could you round up your guys for a quick discussion?”

The man raised a curious brow, or at least the flesh where a brow would be had he retained any hair. He turned to address the other barbers. “Guys! Come over here a minute.”

The men excused themselves and left their clients in their chairs to join us at the counter. Once they were all there, Zane leaned in and spoke softly, “Keep this to yourselves, gentleman, but we’re looking for a white guy with a dark beard, might have some paint residue in it. Average build. Might know something about cars. Any of you know someone who meets that description?”

One main raised his shoulders and palms. “I got lots of customers with beards. It’s the style now.”

I chimed in to clarify. “This guy doesn’t keep his beard nicely trimmed. He leaves it more natural.”

“No one immediately comes to mind,” said one of them.

“I can’t think of nobody, neither,” said another.

A third just shook his head.

Zane handed the shop owner his card. “Keep this in your drawer there. Any of you think of somebody, or a guy fitting the description comes in, give me a call right away. Keep it on the down low, though. Don’t let him know you’re calling in a report. Okay?”

The men murmured in agreement before breaking our huddle and returning to their posts and their waiting clients.

Zane and I went back to his SUV and continued our investigation by driving up and down the county roads, starting in the area where I’d lost the car. Zane confirmed what I’d assumed, that other deputies had responded fairly quickly to his request for assistance when I’d chased the car into the county, and that deputies had covered the primary arteries for the rest of the week. There’d been no further sign of the car. Though it was possible the Barracuda had somehow slipped through the county, Zane agreed that it seemed more likely the car had been hidden or ditched in the area.

I kept my binoculars at hand, instructing Deputy Archer to slow down and pull over on occasion so that I could take a better look at a property. He drove down several driveways so we could examine a place in detail, going so far as to ask one of the homeowners whether we could take a peek into the barn in back of his property. The homeowner had agreed, no questions asked. All we’d found inside was a riding lawnmower, assorted yard tools, and a garden snake who’d slithered inside, seeking a mouse to munch on.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” I told the man.

“No problem,” he said. “Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you find it.”

“You and me both, sir.”

Down another long, dirt drive, we discovered a car parked in the yard. The car was covered with a blue nylon tarp. I hopped out of the SUV to take a closer look. A quick peek underneath revealed a severely dented Toyota Camry that was missing its windshield, its hood, and three of its tires. Why the thing hadn’t been sold for scrap was beyond me. It appeared to be beyond repair.

Zane and I paid particular attention to areas where the woods were especially thick and the car could have been obscured among the fallen trees and foliage. Unfortunately, it was impossible to see more than forty or fifty feet into the dense woods. We didn’t dare traipse through them. For one, they were too vast to cover on foot. For another, it would be trespassing. We had no warrant to search private property. What’s more, there were ticks, mosquitos, and venomous copperheads to consider.

Various types of gates spanned the entrances to some driveways. Some of the gates were automated and made of ornate ironwork with brick supports on either side. Others were manual gates made of lightweight aluminum and secured by heavy chains and padlocks. While the close-standing trees served as a natural barrier to prevent vehicles from circumventing the gates, some of the property owners had nonetheless added fences around the perimeter of their land, as well as NO TRESPASSING signs. Those were generally people you didn’t want to mess with. Meth manufacturers. Gun nuts with enough AK-47’s and AR-15’s to outfit an army. Purveyors of so-called Southern pride with Confederate flag tattoos and little grasp of basic human hygiene.

The glint of sunshine off metal caught my eye and I made a downward motion with my hand, directing Zane to slow down. “Pull over.” I climbed out of the Tahoe and walked to the rail-and-wire fence at one of the properties, raising my binoculars to my eyes. Through the trees, I saw a glimpse of the roof of a large metal pre-fab building, the type many people used for workshops. While the building might be big enough to hide two or three cars in, such buildings weren’t unusual out here in this rural area, where zoning laws were more relaxed than in the city. Many who worked in construction trades, landscaping, or even some artistic pursuits erected outbuildings on their property for workspace or storage. The gate and fence might have been installed to secure tools and equipment. Then again, it might have been put up to keep anyone from getting so close they could see what was going on back there. The only way to know was to speak with the property owner.

Zane stepped up beside me, putting his own pair of field glasses to his eyes. “Can’t see much from here other than the roof.”

I exhaled sharply. “It would be so much easier to run surveillance if we worked in a desert.”

“It would also be a thousand degrees and smell like sand instead of the fresh scent of pine.”

“Do you always have to be so contrary?”

“I can be agreeable. You just haven’t given me much to agree with so far.”

“Smart ass.” I put my glasses back to my eyes and scanned slowly to the right. The corner of a small one-story wood frame house was visible, along with a foot or so of the front porch farther to the right. What little paint remained on the house was peeling, and the porch railing was giving way to wood rot. “Got any idea who lives here?”

“No,” Zane said, “but we can find out.”

We returned to the Tahoe. He logged into the laptop computer mounted to his dashboard and ran the address through the driver’s license records. I leaned over to get a better look at the screen. No results.

“Huh.” I sat back in my seat. “Think the place is empty?”

“Could be. Let’s see who owns it.” He logged into the property tax records and ran the address again. This time, a name popped up. Elsie Mae Tucker.

“Let’s see what we can learn about Ms. Tucker.” Zane ran that name through the DMV records. The woman’s most recent driver’s license had expired seven years ago. She held only a state-issued ID card now. Not surprising given that her birthdate put her at 94 years old. Zane tapped his index finger on the screen. “This is the address for the Shady Villas Retirement Home over in Siler City.”

The place was a city in name only, having a population of around only 8,000. The town’s founders must have had big aspirations when they’d named the locale.

Zane went on. “I handled a drug case there recently. A nurse’s aide was stealing the residents’ prescription pain meds and selling them on the black market.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Tell me about it. Nobody caught on until a woman reported her mother complaining about the pain from her hip replacement. Turns out the aide had replaced the woman’s Percocet with Pepto Bismol tablets.”

What an absolutely awful thing to do to another human being. I sat quietly for a moment before asking, “Does it ever get to you?”

“Does what get to me?”

“The awfulness of this job, constantly seeing the worst in people, how horrible they can be to each other.”

“Honestly?” he said. “Sometimes it does. But then I have a day like today, and I think maybe this job isn’t so bad after all.”

“You mean a day when you get a big piece of blueberry pie?”

“The pie’s got nothing to do with it.” He slid me a sexy sideways smile that told me I had something to do with him enjoying his work today. A blush warmed my cheeks. I turned and looked out my window so he wouldn’t notice.

He started his engine. “What say we go talk to Elsie Mae?”

“Let’s do it.”

Half an hour later, we pulled into the parking lot of the retirement home. It was a stone building shaped like a horseshoe, with administrative offices and a large multipurpose room in the center, a nursing wing to the right, and an assisted living wing to the left. We stopped at the front desk and the receptionist pointed us to a black woman with white hair seated at a square table. She was playing cards with two other ladies and a man.

We stepped up to the table. “Mrs. Tucker?” Zane said. “May we have a word with you?”

The woman looked up at us, her rheumy gaze roaming over us. “You the sheriff?”

“Deputy,” Zane said, extending a hand. “Name’s Zane Archer.”

After they shook hands, I introduced myself, too, and offered a hand.

Mrs. Tucker turned to her friends. “Excuse me a minute.” She lay her cards down and pointed an accusing finger at the others. “Nobody look at my cards while I’m gone.”

We ventured into the hall, where Zane gave her a quick rundown. “We’re here about your place on Whippoorwill Lane.”

“Nice place, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” he agreed.

“My husband and I raised our family there. The house is a bit rundown now, but the land’s worth a small fortune. I’m hanging on to it so I can pass it down to my kids.”

Zane said, “We noticed you’ve got a large metal building out there.”

“Mm-hm,” Elsie Mae said. “That’s where my husband—God rest his soul— stored his fishing boat. That boat was his baby. Not that he ever had much luck on the lake. Most days he’d come home empty-handed.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”

“We’re trying to locate some property that disappeared in the area.”

“Disappeared?” She frowned. “You mean it was stolen?”

“Yes,” Zane said.

“What makes you think the stolen property’s in the boathouse?”

“Nothing in particular,” Zane said, “other than the fact that your place is close to where the property was last seen and the structure would be large enough to contain it. At this point, we’re just trying to rule out some of the possibilities, narrow down our search. We’re wondering if someone’s living at the property.”

“Sure, we’ve got a tenant,” she said. “Don’t know his name, though. My son handles all of that stuff for me.”

“How long’s the tenant lived there?” Zane asked.

“Six months or so,” she said.

Zane and I exchanged a glance. Six months was more than enough time for the tenant to make a trip down to the DMV to update his driver’s license, and three times as long as the sixty-day grace period allowed under state law. Whoever was living there didn’t seem to want to go on official record at that address.

I whipped a notepad and pen from my fanny pack. “How can we get in touch with your son?”

Elsie Mae rattled off her son’s name and phone number without a hint of hesitation. Her mental faculties remained amazingly acute for someone her age. Heck, I had a hard time remembering my own phone number sometimes, and I was nearly sixty years younger than her.

“You might have a hard time reaching him,” she warned. “He and his wife are on a cruise along the French Riviera for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Reception could be spotty if they’re at sea.”

We thanked the woman for her time and returned to the Tahoe, where Zane placed a call to the woman’s son. The call went immediately to voicemail. Zane left a message, asking the man to give him a call, “S'il vous plait.” He ended with “Au revoir.” He slid his phone back into his pocket. “What do you know? I’d thought those two years of French in high school had been a waste of time, but I’ve used it twice today.”

“Ooh la la.”

We headed back on Highway 64. As a blue Chevy sedan came rocketing toward us, Zane’s gaze shifted to his dash-mounted radar. The LED readout showed 89. The driver must have spotted the light bar on top of the SUV, because he hit his brakes. The car dipped forward for an instant before leveling out and continuing toward us at the speed limit. The fiftyish man at the wheel stared straight ahead as he passed us, another dead giveaway. Speeding? Who, me?

“Busted,” Zane said.

Zane slowed, flipped on his lights, and said, “Hang on!” as he whipped his SUV around on the shoulder to go after the car.

Hanging on to the handle mounted over the door, I said, “What excuse do you think he’ll give you? Full bladder? Family emergency? Broken radar? Late for a funeral?”

He cut me a glance. “Want to make it interesting?”

“Sure. I’ll put five bucks on family emergency.” As the SUV leveled out, I pulled a five-dollar bill from the pouch on my belt and lay it on his dash.

“My money’s on full bladder.”

The driver pulled his car over to the side of the road, and Zane pulled up behind him. After matching my $5 bet, he slid out of the SUV, citation pad in hand. He and Zane exchanged a few words, Zane wrote him up a ticket, and the guy was on his way once again.

When Zane climbed back into the SUV, I said, “Well?”

“His wife called and said the backyard chickens escaped their coop. He’s on his way home to help her round them up.”

“Chickens are family, too.” I grabbed the money from the dash and held it up in triumph before stuffing it into my pouch.

Zane glanced at the clock. “My shift’s up in half an hour. Maybe you should stick around this evening. I could introduce you to the Chatham County nightlife.”

“Can’t,” I said.

“Got a date with your boyfriend?”

“No.”

His brows rose. “Girlfriend?”

“No. Got a swing shift to work.”

“So no date, then.”

“No.”

“What about the boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“Don’t have one of those, either.”

“But if you were to have one or the other, it would be…?” He cocked his head in question.

“It would be a boyfriend. A rich one with a Ferrari and a mansion. He’d look like Joe Manganiello, too, and he’d treat me like a queen, do all the cooking and cleaning while I sunbathed by the swimming pool.”

He cut me some sexy side eye. “Good to know.”

Flirting on the job was extremely unprofessional of both of us. But it was a heck of a lot of fun, too.

We drove back to the diner and climbed out of the SUV. Zane walked me over to my bike.

“You busy tomorrow?” he asked.

“No.” My pulse accelerated. If the organ were a car, its tires would be squealing. Is Zane going to ask me on a date?

“When Mrs. Tucker mentioned her husband having a boat, it got me thinking. I’m fairly certain that property backs up to Jordan Lake. We could take my kayak out tomorrow, find out if we might be able to see anything from the backside of the property.”

So not a date. Dang. Still, it would be a chance both to see him again and to try to catch the car thief or at least eliminate potential suspects. “Not a bad idea. But if we’re going to work this case together, we need to make it official. Have your sheriff contact my captain and request my assistance under our departments’ mutual aid agreement.”

“You women.” He scoffed. “Always wanting to put a label on relationships.”

Though I knew he was only trying to push my buttons, I said, “You’re the one always telling me I’m out of my jurisdiction here. I’m only trying to dot my I’s and cross my T’s.”

“I suppose that beats dotting your T’s and crossing your eyes.” He did just that, rolling his eyes inward to look at his nose and earning himself a well-deserved groan from me. He pulled a business card and pen from his pocket and jotted down his phone number and home address. “Come over around noon. That’ll give you time to catch some shuteye after your shift, but leave us with plenty of daylight hours to explore that part of the lake.”

“Works for me,” I said. “See you then.”

He stepped back but stood watching as I slid my helmet on and climbed onto my bike. I started the motor and gave the engine a little rev. As I drove off, he watched me go. In my rearview mirror, I watched him watch me. Nearly collided with the marquee sign, too. How embarrassing!