Checked Out (15 page)

I
need a break, Helen thought, after her trip back into the past. A walk will clear the cobwebs. The library garden was a cool, green cathedral lit by slanting golden rays of sun. The scent of something sweet drifted on the afternoon breeze.

Helen wandered past the tropical flowers until their outrageous colors brightened her mood.

She heard a car door slam and saw Jared getting out of a black Ford pickup, wearing khakis and a disreputable ball cap. The janitor unlocked the truck bed compartment for his toolbox.

Helen met him near the staff entrance. “New truck?” she asked.

“It’s a loaner,” he said. “Some asshole—pardon my French—sideswiped my pickup.”

“The blue one?” Helen asked.

“Mine’s white,” he said. “Took it to my brother Jeremiah’s shop and he let me borrow this one. Good thing I’m getting a family discount because my truck will be in the shop at least a week.”

There it was again, Helen thought, Jared’s deep well of acid eating his insides. She wondered if the janitor ever had a day when
he wasn’t reminded that Davis Kingsley’s neglect had forced him into a life of hard labor.

“What’s the name of your brother’s repair shop?” Helen asked.

“Kobek’s Kwik Auto Repair,” Jared said. “On Federal near Commercial. Jeremiah does good work, even if he is my brother.”

“Thanks,” Helen said. “My car’s due for an oil change.”

“You should call now,” Jared said. “Oil is the lifeblood of a car, and you got yourself a nice little Cruiser. Tell Jeremiah I sent you. But whatever you do, don’t call him Jerry. He hates that nickname.”

Jared recited the shop number. Helen punched it into her iPhone, and Jeremiah answered. “If you bring in your car now, I’ll take a look at it,” he said.

It was two o’clock when Helen reached Kobek’s auto repair, and she was glad she’d decided to take in the Igloo. The Cruiser’s brakes didn’t feel quite right. She saw a white pickup in the yard with a badly dented fender on the passenger side.

Jeremiah was as tall and thin as his brother, and wore a grimy cap, but he had an Old Testament beard to go with his name. Helen couldn’t tell if he was older or younger than Jared.

“I work with your brother at the library,” Helen said. “Is that Jared’s truck by the fence?”

“Yeah, I’m waiting for parts,” Jeremiah said.

“I need an oil change,” Helen said. “And would you look at the brakes? They feel mushy.”

Jeremiah checked the maintenance sticker on her car windshield and said, “You’re overdue. You know, oil is the lifeblood of a car.”

“That’s what I heard,” Helen said. She popped the hood latch and handed the mechanic her car keys.

He poked around in the Igloo’s innards and said, “You got a leak somewhere in a brake line. I’ll have to keep your car overnight.”

“I’ll call my husband for a ride,” Helen said. Phil answered his cell phone and Helen told him why the Igloo was in the shop.

“I’ll be right over,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes.”

Jeremiah had his head in her car engine, so Helen examined Jared’s dented pickup while she waited. The truck was surprisingly clean. The front bumper was loose, and there were scrapes on the paint, but that was all she could see.

I don’t know what damage from a fatal hit-and-run looks like, Helen thought.

The repair shop lot was chalky white gravel with patches of oil. Helen was wearing a white blouse and jeans. She decided to risk a look under Jared’s pickup.

She made sure Jeremiah was still deep in her car’s guts, then pulled out her key-chain flashlight and crawled under Jared’s pickup. The sharp gravel stuck in her back and neck. Helen’s two-inch flashlight’s beam was a weak, yellow gleam. She didn’t see any dark hair or blood on the undercarriage, but the underside looked like it had been hosed off.

Did Jeremiah clean the undercarriage so he could work on the truck? she wondered. Or did Jared try to hide Charlotte’s murder by washing his truck before he took it to his brother’s shop?

The sharp gravel was digging into her neck, head and back. Helen heard tires crunching and hastily pulled herself out from under the truck. Phil’s black Jeep was idling in the lot. She dusted off her pants, climbed inside and waved good-bye to Jeremiah.

“Hurry, Phil,” she said.

“You moonlighting as a mechanic?” Phil asked.

“That white pickup belongs to the Flora Park janitor,” Helen said. “It was in an accident about the time Charlotte was killed. I was checking underneath for blood or hair. I didn’t find anything. Looks like someone washed it off.”

“He can’t wash it all off,” Phil said. “If he killed Charlotte, a forensics exam will turn up blood and tissue.”

Phil’s Jeep wasn’t air-conditioned. While he drove, Helen tried to brush the white gravel dust off her clothes. The wind whipped her hair, taking more dust with it.

“How’s the pawnshop search?” she asked.

“I’m burning down the list,” he said. “I’ll take the rest tomorrow. This afternoon, I’m trying a new tactic to flush out the thief. Want to go with me?”

“Sure. Where?”

“To catch a cart rustler, pardner,” he said. “We’re going to look at shops selling used golf carts. Those are good places to find stolen carts.”

“Don’t used golf carts all look alike?” Helen asked. “Old white carts driven by old white men?”

“Not true,” he said. “They come in colors now. They’re transportation in rich, private communities, and people like to pimp out their golf carts. I’ve seen some tricked up like Rolls-Royces, ’fifty-seven Thunderbirds, even Ferraris.

“The Coakleys own a white golf cart, but they had the upholstery custom-made to match their lawn furniture. The color is Resort Stripe Hampton—that’s medium blue with wide white and blue stripes. Check out the photo on my cell phone.”

“I sat on that furniture when I talked to Chloe,” she said.

He handed Helen his iPhone at the next red light and she found the golf cart photo, Bree’s father behind the wheel.

“Classy,” Helen said. “But any cart can have blue-striped upholstery.”

“But not every cart has this serial number,” he said. “The Coakleys’ cart is a 2014 Club Car Precedent i2 Excel Electric with its own serial number. I e-mailed the number to your phone.”

Helen looked up the e-mail. “Got it,” she said. “Where do I find the number on the cart?”

“It’s on a bar code decal mounted on a plaque at the lower edge of the dashboard,” he said. “Glad the Coakleys had their owners’ manual.”

“How are we playing this?” Helen asked. “As private eyes or private citizens?

“How about if we go in as a suburban couple?” she said. “If I see a cart that looks like it’s the Coakleys’, I’ll go all girlie, jump in the cart and pretend to take photos while I look for the serial number. If I find it, I’ll say,
This is the one
.”

“That should work,” Phil said. “If the cart’s here, we’ll turn into private eyes. I’m starting at this place here on Powerline Road, because it has lots of new and used golf carts and ATVs.”

He parked in front of the Fore! Sale showroom, located next to a golf course. Window signs proclaimed
NEW MODELS JUST IN
!!!
GOOD
DEALS
ON
PRE
-
OWNED
C
ARTS
!!!
OPEN
7
DAYS A
WEEK
!!!

Six shiny red carts were lined up in front, next to a black golf cart that looked like a BMW with a sign on the leather seats:
LET US CUSTOMI
ZE YOUR CART
!!!

“Fore! Sale sure does like exclamation points,” Helen said, as she combed her windblown hair and added lipstick. “Any gravel dust on the back of my shirt and pants?”

Phil dusted off her shirt and spent way too much time patting her rump.

“That’s enough,” she said.

“It’s just so luscious,” he said.

Helen brushed him off and opened the showroom door. It was a car dealership in miniature, complete with a bald thirtysomething salesman in a plaid sports coat with a red pocket square. He was so short Helen wondered if he made the golf carts look bigger.

“Hi. Dave here,” he said, hurrying over. “I’m the owner. How may I help you folks?”

“My wife and I are looking for a good used golf cart,” Phil said.

“Are you golfers, or do you need the cart for transportation?” Dave asked.

“Transportation,” Phil said. “We’d like a white one with blue seats, if you have something like that.”

“Traditionalists,” Dave said. “We have several pre-owned vehicles that fit your description. They’re in our back showroom.”

The showroom was a cinder-block warehouse with a golf course painted on the walls. Helen wondered if it was windowless so the carts’ former owners couldn’t see them from the road.

“These four here might work,” Dave said.

One cart was a baby blue Yamaha, another was a white E-Z-GO with navy leather seats, the third was a Club Cart with turquoise canvas seats, but the fourth looked like the Coakleys’ cart.

“Oooh,” Helen said. “I love these blue-striped seats.” She started snapping photos of the cart.

“This is a 2014,” Dave said. “Almost new. It seats two and goes nineteen miles an hour, which is top speed.”

“Is it street legal?” Phil asked.

“No,” Dave said. “But there’s not a mark on it. You’re looking at a cart that cost seventy-five hundred dollars new, including the custom upholstery.”

There! Helen found the serial number, checked it against the serial number on her cell, then photographed it.

“This is the one,” Helen said.

Dave broke out in a smile. “I knew you’d find one you like, and I can make you a hell of a deal.”

“Actually, Dave, we can make you a deal,” Phil said. “We’re private eyes and this cart was stolen from the Coakley family last weekend.”

Phil called up the photo on his iPhone. “Recognize it?”

The color drained from Dave’s face. “I didn’t know. It’s not my fault. There’s no way I could be blamed. There are no titles for golf carts, just bills of sale. I took the dude’s word for it, but I was a little naive.”

“Not true, Dave,” Phil said. “Golf carts have serial numbers. Here’s the number for the Coakley cart.”

“It matches this cart’s,” Helen said.

“And where’s this cart’s charger?” Phil asked.

“Dude said it was broken,” Dave said. “That’s why he let me have this cart for only two thousand.”

“Right,” Phil said. “Broken. That cart’s worth more than seven thousand dollars. Where’s the bill of sale?”

“In my office,” Dave said, stammering. “But I’ll have to look for it.”

“We’ll wait,” Phil said. “In fact, we’ll go to your office right now. Unless you’d like us to call 911.”

“I’ll get it,” Dave said, and Helen and Phil followed him to a closet-sized office decorated with plaques from civic organizations. A pressed sawdust desk was buried under an avalanche of paper.

Dave burrowed into the papers and retrieved a pink receipt. “It’s this one here,” he said. The sale was dated the day after Bree’s party.

“You write this name and address?” Phil asked.

“No, he did.” Dave was sweating. “The man who sold it.”

“And you didn’t think there was something odd about a man named Dicque Hardonne?” Phil asked.

“He said his parents were French,” Dave said. He mopped his forehead with the red pocket square.

“The name’s fake and you know it,” Phil said. “So is the address: Sixty-nine Commode Circle. But you’re going to be in the toilet if you can’t describe the man who brought in that cart.”

“I’m not sure,” Dave said. “We get so many.”

“So many stolen carts?” Helen asked.

“No!” Dave jumped and wiped his forehead again. “We get so many people here. In the showroom. We’re next to the golf course and down the street from a gated community.”

“Show us your security camera footage,” Phil said.

“I’m not sure,” Dave began, but Helen cut him off.

“I’m very sure I can call the police right now,” she said, holding up her phone.

“All right, all right,” Dave said. “The security footage is in the computer room next door.”

They followed him into an unpainted cinder-block room with computer monitors and keyboards. He tapped some keys and called up the footage for the date on the receipt, then fast-forwarded through it. They watched the quick, jerky movements of people looking at carts, testing carts, and finally a pickup truck delivering a cart.

“Stop!” Phil said.

Two muscular men in their twenties were unloading a cart that had striped seats like the Coakleys’ cart. The footage was gray and grainy, but both men wore jams and T-shirts. One was short and stocky with a beard. The other was tall and blond with gym muscles and the entitled sneer that irritated Helen.

“That’s him!” she said. “Trey. The birthday girl’s boyfriend. And the guy with the beard is Snake Boy, Ozzie Ormond. We got them.”

“W
hat’s that stuff that looks like dandelion greens on your pizza?” Phil asked. He was tucking into veal and pecorino cheese meatballs.

“It’s arugula,” Helen said. “That way you don’t have to order a salad.”

“Who says I have to order a salad?” Phil said.

“Wait and see,” Helen said. “You’ll have some on your beef carpaccio.”

“The shaved Reggiano will counteract it,” Phil said. “Raw meat is a manly dish.”

“I guess so, if the cheese has to shave,” Helen said.

After their visit to the Fore! Sale golf cart showroom, the PI pair stopped at D’Angelo’s Pizza in Fort Lauderdale, an upscale tapas restaurant. Phil’s dusty black Jeep was the most disreputable vehicle in the valet lot.

They took a table in the restaurant’s cool, spare interior. Helen thought the sleek Italian chairs were surprisingly comfortable for fashionable furniture.

Helen’s white pizza with arugula had arrived along with Phil’s meatball tapas.

“So what’s the next step?” she said, between bites of salad and white cheese pizza. “Can we arrest Bree’s boyfriend, Standiford W. Lohan the Third, and Ozzie Ormond, Chloe’s boyfriend? The Coakley daughters sure know how to pick ’em.”

“We don’t have enough to arrest yet. Not on the basis of that grainy security footage and fraudulent bill of sale,” Phil said. “Dave, the showroom owner, claims he can’t remember if that was Trey and Ozzie who sold him the Coakley cart.”

Helen made a small noise of protest through a mouthful of pizza, and Phil said, “I know he’s lying, and Dave knows we know, but we’ll get them both.

“We’ve got two things going for us. In the security video, I saw what looks like a sign on the driver’s side door of the pickup that delivered the cart. Dave made us a DVD and I’m going to work with it on my computer and see if I can pull anything off it.”

Phil’s plate of carpaccio arrived, the thin slices of red meat artistically arranged and, as Helen predicted, topped with arugula. He poked at the greens with his fork like a boy poking a snake with a stick until Helen said, “I’ll take them.”

She helped herself to his pile of arugula and he looked relieved once it was off his plate. “Really,” he said, “I feel healthier having seen it.”

“Right,” Helen said, as she took a bite of his salad topped with the salty Reggiano cheese. She wasn’t sure truffle oil tasted different from any other, but the name sounded cool.

“Back to the stolen golf cart,” she said. “We also got the truck’s license plate off the security video.”

“But we don’t know if that’s Trey’s truck,” Phil said.

“Too bad we can’t have a friendly cop check the plate for us, like in the movies,” Helen said.

“Cops don’t want to go to jail for helping a PI,” Phil said.

“I thought they just lost their jobs,” Helen said. She decided pizza and arugula was a good combination. The slightly bitter greens went well with the bland cheese.

“Oh, no, the punishment is much worse,” Phil said. “A cop looking through a computer database leaves footprints. And a TAR report—that stands for Transaction Analysis Report, I think—can put lying cops in jail. Remember the flap over the deputy who said he stopped a woman for an expired temp tag? Then he just happened to see an unlabeled drug bottle in her purse and arrested her?”

“Vaguely,” Helen said.

“It was an awful story,” Phil said. “A Fort Lauderdale woman was heading home after dropping her son off at summer school when she was stopped by a Broward County sheriff’s deputy for an expired tag. While she was looking for her license in her purse, the deputy spotted a prescription bottle with no label. She said it was medicine for her son and her ex-husband had given it to her. The deputy called her ex, who did not back up her story. She was arrested and strip-searched.

“Turns out she was set up by her ex, through the deputy. A TAR report showed the deputy had run a check on her a week
before
that surprise arrest. That’s probably how the deputy knew about the expired tag.

“The woman’s charges were dropped. Better yet, she got to see the deputy sent to federal prison.”

“I can see why a cop wouldn’t want to risk poking around in the TAR,” Helen said. Most of her pizza was gone, along with all of Phil’s salad. She was bursting with good health. “But a TAR report showing who owns the truck that delivered the cart would have made our life easier.”

“Oh, we can still get a TAR report,” he said. “Anyone can submit a public records request, and that’s what I’ll do when we get home.”

“A letter takes forever,” Helen said.

The waiter appeared and Helen and Phil ordered black coffee. Helen wanted homemade chocolate gelato.

“We can do it by e-mail,” Phil said. “The request will take about a week. Some personal info is redacted, but we’ll know who owns the truck, and that’s what’s important.”

“What if Dave sells the Coakleys’ golf cart out from under us? This gelato is amazing. Want some?”

Phil took a big spoonful, then said, “Dave won’t dare. He could lose his showroom and go to jail if we report him. We documented our find with photos. There are two of us as witnesses, and he knows he accepted stolen goods.

“He’ll keep the cart in storage and deliver it back to the Coakleys when we tell him to.”

The waiter was back with more coffee. Helen ordered a second chocolate gelato. “To combat the effect of all that salad,” she told Phil.

“So Dave’s out the two thousand dollars he paid Trey for that cart,” Phil said.

“Serves him right,” Helen said. “What do we do in the meantime, while we wait for the TAR report?”

She finished her second gelato without Phil’s help while he paid the check.

“I’ll keep visiting pawnshops to look for the stolen necklace,” he said, “and you’ll go back to the library and catch Charlotte’s killer.”

“Wish it was as simple as you make it sound,” Helen said.