Chapter 32

 

Ron’s suggestion turned out to be the one thing I had not expected to hear from him: report the fraud to the local authorities. Since Livingston’s residence was in Texas, and since the sale of the lesser-value ring had taken place there, we could sic their people on him. When he put it like that, I sort of relished the idea.

I looked up the address of the main police station and let the tiny map on my phone direct me to it. For a city of close to seven hundred thousand people, the police department seemed a bit skimpy in comparison to the nearby federal Border Patrol facility. I supposed that was the impact of budgeting law enforcement resources at the border. I parked and went inside, gave a synopsis of the reason for my visit to an information officer and was directed upstairs to the major crimes division.

Whether I’d caught the lunch hour or whether the division was hopelessly understaffed, I couldn’t tell. The office I entered contained three desks, only one of which was manned at the moment. The guy’s suit jacket hung over the back of his chair and his short-sleeved white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his tie loosened. He had cocoa skin and dark hair with a generous sprinkling of gray. His nameplate said he was M. Lujan. When Lujan asked how he could help me, his voice sounded bored.

I gave the basics: I’d been in contact with a local man with a collectible Super Bowl ring to sell. I’d brought the agreed-upon amount of cash and he’d sold me a ring worth far less. I received a knowing-but-tired look that said: you foolish people never learn to examine the merchandise, do you?

Lujan’s expression closed further when I explained how I’d come back to find the house where we’d conducted this bit of business wasn’t actually Livingston’s house. A wry smile crossed his face when I told how Livingston had tricked the realtor into leaving it unattended long enough to pull his scam.

“I’ll give him a B-plus for creativity,” Lujan said, not looking up as he typed my statement on a form on his computer screen.

He printed the statement and had me sign it. He asked to see the ring—seemed mildly dazzled when the light hit the diamonds—and took several photos of it, including (naturally) the parts I should have looked at more closely before I forked over the cash.

I stepped out into the bright sunshine when it was all over, relieved to have shifted part of the burden to an authority figure, although Lujan had not exactly radiated hope that we would be seeing Bobby Lorrento’s ring anytime soon. The police session had taken longer than I expected, my stomach was churning from the salad at lunch, and I would be late getting home. But nothing about staying away overnight appealed to me. I walked to my Jeep, got in and called Ron to report the last two hours’ accomplishments.

By the time I went through Las Cruces, my gut was in definite rebellion and I pulled over at a gas station/convenience store to see what over-the-counter remedies might be available. With two packets of tummy treatment chewable tablets and a large bottle of water in hand, I continued my journey.

An hour later, a flashing dashboard light caught my attention and I noticed the Jeep’s temperature gauge had gone into the red zone. I edged off the roadway as far as I could and shut down. I hadn’t passed an exit in at least twenty miles and didn’t remember signage promising another anytime soon. I powered all the windows down and hoped for enough breeze to keep me from becoming roasted Charlie out here in the desert.

Well, I’d been paying a little extra on my insurance every month for roadside assistance—this looked like the perfect time to use it. I grabbed my phone and the little card with the number from my wallet. The phone showed one bar of signal strength and the battery had ten percent left.

Crap. Would this fun day never end? Was it some misalignment of the planets or something? I couldn’t seem to catch a break.

I connected—barely—with a perky young woman who wanted to go through a Q&A session, but I interrupted by giving my location.

“Look, I’ve got probably a minute or two to talk. My car’s out of commission and I need to be towed to the nearest garage. I’d appreciate anything you can do to make that happen.”

Her response sounded polite, although the scratchy quality of the signal didn’t exactly assure me she’d heard everything I said. The phone went dead before she finished talking. Double crap.

I took another of my tummy soothers and blew out a breath of frustration.

Okay, Charlie, think.

Somewhere in here I had a phone charger cord. I hoped it was for the current device, as they all seem to have different connection plugs. I rummaged in the glovebox without luck, then tackled the little compartment in the console. Nothing there either. Sometimes stuff found its way under the seat. I leaned over and ran my hand beneath the passenger seat, coming up with a gum wrapper and a gas receipt before my fingers touched a cord. Aha!

I’d started to pull on it when all at once my Jeep rocked violently. I slammed against the dashboard. Something bit into my ribcage and my head whacked the glovebox door. I felt the car move, tires screaming in protest against pavement and gravel. Then it went still.

The whole thing happened instantaneously but it took me a long, stunned moment to figure out that I’d been hit by another vehicle. I groaned and pushed myself upward.

“Shit, man!” came a voice from outside.

“You hit a parked car, dude,” said a second male voice.

They both giggled.

I managed to get myself upright, spun around to see out. My Jeep was no longer parked neatly parallel to the road, but sat nose-down where the verge dropped away, hind end still on pavement. A vivid-orange Trans Am’s crumpled front end had taken out my left rear quarter-panel.

My karma for asking whether this day could get any worse.

A teenage boy stood at the collision point, while the driver was trying to put the car in gear and back away. The passenger spotted me and his eyes got saucer-like. He scrambled to get back in the car, which by now had steam spewing from under the hood.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, throwing my shoulder into my door to shove it open. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I said it with a lot more authority than my pounding head and screaming lower back really felt. I stomped over to his driver’s door and yanked it open. Beer fumes rolled out, and I spotted a half-dozen empty cans in the back seat. Before he could stop me, I reached across the kid in the driver’s seat and twisted his key from the ignition.

“Seriously?”

“Damn straight. You think you’re gonna do this and just drive off?” The day’s frustrations built to a head. “Give me your phone. Right now!”

He actually handed it over. Never in my life had I exerted such power over a teenager, and I have to say it felt pretty good.

I took a step back and pressed the button to activate the phone. It had stronger signal reception than mine had gotten earlier. I dialed 911 and waited for it to connect. The driver squirmed in his seat.

“You two. Stay right where you are,” I ordered.

“I need to—”

“Shut it. You’ve capped off a shitty day for me and you’ll just have to wait it out.” I jammed his keys into my jeans pocket.

The emergency operator came on and I described the location and situation. “We’ll need two tow trucks and the police should take a report.”

My idea of being home drifted away with the steam from the Trans Am. The two boys didn’t look happy. I envisioned lectures from parents, a court appearance on a drunk-driving charge, and whatever else their irresponsible act had brought down upon them. For me, I had a feeling my Jeep was toast. I looked at her and wanted to cry.

By this time, passing traffic had slowed to a crawl, although the accident wasn’t blocking a lane. The impulse to stare couldn’t be helped. I stomped up the road a ways and came back, having blown off only a little of my ire. In the distance, I saw a tow truck coming toward us.

The truck driver pulled to the median and made a U-turn, which really caused the traffic to bunch up. He steered to the front of my vehicle and got out.

“Road Care called and dispatched me,” said the burly man with shaggy brown hair and a beard that seemed too much in the ninety-degree heat. “Didn’t say nothin’ about an accident.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because there wasn’t one when I first called. My Jeep overheated and I was waiting for a tow when these two bashed me.”

He gave a sympathetic nod.

“The police are on the way. At least I hope they are,” I said. A glance toward the Trans Am showed both boys having a nervous conversation inside.

Sure enough, within a couple minutes a State Police black-and-white appeared over the horizon, lights and siren going full tilt. The car made the same move the tow truck had, except it came to a halt behind the teens and a slightly built female officer got out. From the look she sent toward the boys, I guessed this wasn’t the first time she’d responded to an accident involving beer-drinking college kids.

She bypassed the orange car and walked up to me. I went through the story of my breakdown and the crash, handing over the boy’s keys and phone.

“This was good thinking,” she said, indicating the keys.

“I doubt he would have gotten far, but he was sure willing to try,” I said.

“Are you injured?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

The tow truck driver pointed toward my temple and I rubbed it with fingers that came away with a little blood. The officer took my statement and released me to ride along with the truck after he’d hooked onto my Jeep. It was a bit of a process, as he straightened the vehicle’s position and lifted her onto the bed of his truck. Meanwhile, the officer did breath tests with the two kids and they both ended up in the back seat of her cruiser. A second truck arrived to haul their vehicle away as I was retrieving my purse, phone and charger cord from mine. Little black specks danced in my vision when I bent over, and my driver ushered me to his truck and gave me a bottle of water.

“We’ll get you to T or C real soon and you can get some rest.”

Any hope of making it home tonight quickly faded. My head throbbed, and muscles I didn’t remember began to make themselves known. In the one thing I’d done right all day, I remembered to run my hand down inside my purse and make sure the twenty-five-thousand-dollar ring was still there.