Chapter Thirteen

Wild Ride

Zane turned off the leaf blower. “Let’s hustle. We’ve got to move before the guy gets home and notices that someone’s messed with his leaf piles. I’ll round up a search warrant while you run home and change into your uniform.”

What a nice change of pace. Most guys tried to get me out of my clothes, not into them.

Zane and I sprinted through the forest on our way back to the kayak. We paddled furiously once more, loaded the kayak in the bed of his pickup, and raced out of the park.

Back at Zane’s place, I hopped out of the truck and ran for my motorcycle while he ran for his porch.

“Meet me back at the Tucker’s property!” he called.

I slid my helmet on and cranked my engine, zipping down Zane’s driveway and back onto the main road. I rode as fast as I dared back to my apartment, where I exchanged my civilian clothes for my uniform and my Harley for my BMW police bike. I phoned Detective Mulaney and quickly told him about the recent developments. “Okay if I help the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department nab the guy?”

“Hell, yeah, if they’ll have you. You’ve earned this bust.”

“Thanks, Mule.”

In less than an hour, I was back at the Tucker place, motoring down the long drive. I pulled up to find Zane’s SUV parked in front of the house. Has he already arrested the car thief? I hoped I hadn’t missed all the fun.

A glance around told me the Camaro wasn’t on site. The tenant had yet to return. Heaven help us if he’d noticed us spying from the woods behind his house or otherwise gotten wind of our investigation and taken off. We might never find him.

I parked my motorcycle next to the SUV and looked to the left to see that Zane had pulled the camouflage netting all the way back, revealing Jerry Beaumont’s Barracuda. I walked over to take a closer look.

Zane ran a hand over the hood. “This is one cherry car.”

“When we tell Mr. Beaumont we found it for him, I’m sure he’ll offer to take us for a ride.”

“Think he’ll let me drive it?”

“Not on your life. He only lets his wife drive it.”

“Can’t blame him.”

Zane held up a pair of bolt cutters. “Let’s take a closer look at the barn.”

We circled around to the back of the house and stepped up to the door of the metal building. Zane spread the handles and positioned the blades around the heavy-duty chain to cut it. With a clunk and jangle, the chain broke and fell to the ground, pooling on the dirt. Zane leaned the bolt cutters against the outside of the building and pulled the door open.

We walked inside, both of us donning latex gloves so as not to leave our fingerprints about the place. He stopped in front of one of the trunks and opened the lid. Inside was a full-face ventilated mask, the type used for large painting jobs or handling hazardous chemicals. A few small dots of metallic blue paint were visible along the rubber trim.

I ventured over to the canvas tent and lifted up on the roof bracket. It took enough shape for me to realize it was a pop-up work tent. While the outside was relatively spotless, the inside bore tell-tale signs of not only the blue metallic paint, but also red and black paint as well. The car thief had been smart to use the tent to prevent the evidence of his crimes from ending up on the walls and floor of the Tucker’s boathouse. A pair of white hooded coveralls with small spots of paint spray splatter lay folded up inside the tent. Zane pointed to a container of auto paint in a burgundy color called Moulin Rouge. Looked like the thief had been just about to repaint the Barracuda. Good thing we’d found it before he’d finished the job.

Screeeee! The squeal of tires met our ears.

“He’s back!” I yelled.

We ran out of the building to see the Camaro speeding off down the driveway, leaving behind a cloud of smoke. The acrid odor of burnt rubber involuntary crinkled our noses. Damn! We’d been stupid not to have one of us keep a lookout.

I could get my motorcycle moving much faster than Zane could get his SUV in motion. I ran to my bike. “Call backup!” I shouted to Zane as I leaped onto my ride. “I’ll follow him!”

I slung a leg over the seat, started the engine, and was down the driveway in a flash. My head snapped to the left. No Camaro. I turned to look right. There he is!

I cranked back on the accelerator and rocketed out onto the roadway. I flipped on my lights and siren and leaned forward instinctively, as if to close the distance between me and the thief all the faster. He disappeared around a bend, but came into sight again once I’d rounded the curve myself.

In my mirror, I could see Zane behind me. He had less maneuverability on these winding roads in his SUV. Good thing I had my bike. Even a souped-up sports car like the thief’s Camaro couldn’t outrun me.

The thief hooked a sharp right turn onto another road, nearly spinning out before gaining purchase and zooming off. I braked and banked tight, my knee only inches off the pavement. Any lower and the asphalt would scrape the skin from my bones. My body moved at one with the bike, shifting into an upright position as we straightened out again.

The guy took another turn, this time to the left. When we were back on a straightaway, Zane leveled off his speed, maintaining a constant distance behind me for safety. But as the road tapered the Camaro executed another turn, this one onto the narrow shoulder. Red brake lights flashed as he slowed and hooked a turn directly in front of me to go back in the direction we’d come. I executed the about-face easily, but in his oversized SUV, Zane had to make a three-point turn and lost momentum again, lagging way behind now. It’s up to me to catch this classic-car-stealing bastard.

As I edged closer, the driver’s side window came down on the Camaro and a closed hand came out. It opened with a flourish, as if the driver were performing a jazz dance a la Caberet, and tossed a handful of loose change into the air. PING! PING! PING! A bombardment of coins rained down on me, pinging off my helmet and cracking both my windshield and the left side of my goggles. The bastard threw out another handful of loose change. The coins hit me like shrapnel from a bomb, my right arm, left boob, and left leg taking direct hits. Damn, that hurts! This guy could kill me!

Lest he have more change in his car, I backed off a bit. He turned again down a side road, and I made the turn a few seconds after him. In my mirrors, I saw Zane’s SUV drive past the turn, then back up. But he was way behind now.

The driver turned again, then again, and now Zane was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you?” he hollered over the radio, which I’d turned to the Chatham County Sheriff’s Department frequency.

“I don’t know!” I shouted back. It’s not like I had time to stop and read the road signs.

The guy’s hand came out the window again, this time clutching the blue and white jacket he’d been wearing in the video when he’d stolen the Barracuda. He tossed the jacket into the air and it unfurled, large and light, floating in the air as if waiting for me. Shit! I slowed and swerved, but the damn thing seemed to follow me. The jacket came down right across my face, the sleeves wrapping around behind my helmet like a blindfold, flapping in the wind. Flap-flap-flap!

I reached up my left hand and fought with the fabric, eventually pulling the jacket free from the forces holding it in place. I hurled it aside and looked down the road. The Camaro was nowhere to be seen. The road curved ahead after another intersection. Had he continued straight? Turned left? Turned right? ARGHHHH!

I slowed as I approached the intersection and looked both ways, my vision impeded by my cracked goggle lens. I closed my left eye and looked only through my right. The road curved in both directions, disappearing behind the trees. Where had he gone?

After radioing my position to Zane and our backup, I scanned for clues. A swirl of dust and leaves settling on the pavement told me he’d turned to the right. I did the same. When I came around the curve, I saw the tail end of the Camaro go around yet another bend. Damn these curvy roads and damn these woods! While I loved them when out for a pleasure ride, they were doing nothing for me today other than impeding my arrest. I needed some help out here or this guy would get away!

I banked around the bend and Hallelujah, there was the help I needed. The buck with the finger-flipping antlers blocked the road ahead of the Camaro. While the driver might not care if he killed the deer, he was risking his own life if he didn’t avoid a collision. He knew it, too. He swerved onto the shoulder, hit loose leaves and pine needles, and lost control. The car slid straight into the trunk of a solid old oak. BAM!

The airbag deployed, a white puff visible through the driver’s open window. I slowed and pulled in behind the car. The buck ambled safely to the other side of the road, but stopped at the edge of the woods to watch.

I slid off my bike and ran to the window, readying my gun as I went. I reached the window just as the guy managed to fight his airbag back. He looked up to see me smiling down at him, my gun pointed at his chest.

“Hello, there,” I said. “Thanks for the loose change. Most people don’t think to tip their public servants.”

He groaned and muttered a series of choice expletives.

I gestured with my gun. “Hands up. You’re going to get out and kneel on the ground, or you’re getting a bullet in your nards. Got me?”

He snorted derisively. “Loud and clear.”

I opened his door and backed away as he stepped outside. He eyed me before looking about, as if evaluating his chances of escaping through the woods.

“Don’t even think about it,” I spat.

He looked around again, clearly still thinking about it despite my order not to.

“Down on your knees!” I commanded. “Now!”

But rather than get to his knees, he took off running toward the woods. I ran after him and leaped up onto his back to take him down. Only he didn’t go down. He ended up taking me for a piggyback ride. I clung to him, one arm wrapped around his neck, the other keeping my gun held up to avoid accidentally shooting one of us.

He attempted to buck me off him by throwing his hips backward, but I held on tighter, my elbow crooked in a chokehold around his neck. Not easy with my large breasts wedged against his back, forming an obstacle between us. But I pulled tighter, grimacing against the pain in my injured boob. While the thief had refused to drop to his knees earlier, he did so involuntarily now due to a lack of oxygen. I was riding him to the ground when Zane’s SUV pulled to a stop behind my bike.

As the man lay facedown on the dirt, gasping for air, I shoved my gun back into my holster, pulled his hands back, and cuffed him. Click-click.

Busted.