On The Beat (Goosey Larsen Book 3) (3 page)

I did my best to fix a professional demeanor on my face. It was a tremendous effort to steer my brain away from the all-important matter of where to eat dinner, but somehow I managed. Turning back toward Mr. Regan, I asked, “Would you care to join me inside, sir? That way you’ll be able to point out exactly what you think might be missing.” He nodded at my invitation and we stepped through the doorframe. I made sure to let him go first, just in case we’d accidentally caught the crooks by surprise and a gang of hardened criminals was still hiding in the shadows of aisle three. My stomach churned in disgust as we picked our way in through that mess of a salesfloor, but our reconnaissance mission was absolutely necessary. I needed to judge the extent of the crime as soon as possible in order to get a better handle on just how much writing would be required. If any merchandise had actually been removed from the store, that’d make the crime a burglary under South Carolina law. Those cases are always a royal pain in the ass since they require a two page report, with at least one follow-up call from a detective. If nothing was found to be missing, though, it was as simple as tagging the case as a simple vandalism with property damage to the store and its contents. That particular method of cooking the books was an unwritten procedure at CPD, since 34’s don’t look nearly as bad on the weekly statistics as 29’s do. I hoped that wouldn’t have to scribble out more than two or three sentences, tops, and that would only be if Regan’s insurance company demanded some kind of official documentation before reimbursing his loss. And as far as any kind of an actual investigation? Well, our detectives usually tended to blame all the unsolved vandalism cases on some nameless, faceless group of hoodlum teenagers. Damn kids.

My hopes were dashed, though, when Mr. Regan took a few more steps down the nearest aisle. “Jesus, it’s gone! Those bastards stole my new merchandise! All of it!” He turned around, his face pale from shock and his mouth hanging wide open. Strangely enough, the look of blank amazement on his face was a perfect match for the backdrop of all those empty shelves.

I shot back my own look of disbelief, one that I hoped would come across as equally vacant. “All of your new merchandise, sir?” Thinking fast, I pulled back the Velcro tabs on my shirt pocket and dipped a hand in for my notebook. It was a calculated, professional move, one designed to create the appearance that I actually gave a damn about his minor inconvenience. I took another long look around the store, gazing in wonder at the sheer number of ceramic ashtrays and souvenir shot glasses which had been shattered into splintery pieces. “How can you tell with all this mess?”

He stared at me for a moment, and I knew that couldn’t have been a good sign. In most cases, the victim of a burglary will usually say that they’ll need some time to clean up before they can be sure of exactly what was taken. When it comes to property crimes, at least, the messier scenes usually work out best for the responding officer. In those cases, it’s easy enough to invest a few minutes in comforting the victim, then you simply tell them to take all the time they need for a proper inventory before hauling ass out of there. All you really have to write in the incident report is that a full list of stolen property wasn’t immediately available, and with any luck the victim won’t get done taking stock of their losses until after the next shift has checked on duty.

I should
be so lucky,
I thought. I could tell by the way Mr. Regan opened his big mouth with such confidence that my plans for the evening had just gone up in smoke. “I received a new shipment of logo T-shirts this afternoon” he said. “Give me two seconds and I’ll dig up the invoice. It looks as if the thieves could have been after those shirts specifically. I imagine that type of merchandise must be somewhat easy to resell on the black market?”

I couldn’t tell if his last remark was intended as a question or a statement, so I did my best to ignore it altogether. But you know, if there actually had been some kind of T-shirt smuggling ring working its way around the Lowcountry, that would’ve had to have been the absolute lowest-priority case in the history of detective work. I reached down and picked up a stray T-shirt which had been kicked over into a corner and left behind. The fabric was a crewneck style with a snug athletic fit, heather gray with a Jolly Roger skull-and-crossbones flag screenprinted above the words “Buccaneer for Hire: Will Work for Rum.” As I flipped the price tag over, I felt my jaw fall. At a retail price of twenty bucks the real crime seemed to be highway robbery, and my thoughts slipped past my lips before I could hold them back. “Twenty dollars? Geez, what kind of suckers actually buy this crap?”

It was the curse word that caught Regan’s attention. With his eyebrows raised, he glanced over at me to examine the shirt in my hands. “That particular design is actually one of our top sellers, Officer Larsen.” He turned his gaze back towards the sales counter and began shuffling through all the reams of paper stored underneath. “Ah, here it is.” His hands came back up into view, bringing with them a hefty three-ring binder that contained a number of laminated pages. “Let me just find the most recent bill of lading. I’ll bet anything that the thieves must have spotted the truck dropping off this afternoon’s deliveries, and they figured that the store was ripe for the picking.”

I rolled my eyes at his amateur detective work. The conversation was getting way too serious for my taste, so I did my best to lighten the mood. “So…the most likely suspects are a band of bloodthirsty pirates?” I asked, waving the t-shirt above my head. “Some random group of scalawags looking to outfit their motley crew with the very latest in plundered fashions? Arrrrrrrrr, matey, they could be anywhere on the high seas by now!”

Mr. Regan stopped turning pages long enough to cock an eyebrow at me again, clearly not amused by my unique brand of humor. “It’d have to be a pretty big crew” he said. “It looks like the thieves got away with nearly all of today’s shipment. Over two thousand new T-shirts in all. That was supposed to have been enough to last us through most of the summer.”

The gears in my head started turning as I cast my eyes down at the floor and began crunching the numbers. “Sooo… around two thousand shirts, give or take, at around twenty bucks a pop…” I’ve never really had a head for figures, so I looked back up at Mr. Regan for his best guess. “What do you reckon that comes out to in terms of a total loss?”

His eyes went wide with a look of disbelief at my lack of mathematical aptitude. His face betrayed how surprised he must have been to learn that there were still some blue-collar white folks in the city who hadn’t grown up with the benefit of a pricey private school education. Finally, once he’d realized that I wasn’t even going to attempt to crunch the numbers, Regan regained his composure long enough to respond. “Not counting the property damage, or any other merchandise which might be missing? Just from the theft of our new shirts alone, I’d say that I’m out at least forty thousand dollars.”

I couldn’t hold his stare, and my eyes fell away as I flushed with embarrassment. In an unmistakable show of defeat, I finally flipped open my notebook and stood ready with a pen. It looked as if I was going to get stuck fielding an incident report after all, if only because of the high dollar amount involved. I decided to take another long moment to let all the tension pass while pretending to study a box of souvenir salt water taffy which was carried in at least half a dozen other tourist traps nearby. The Scarlett O’Hara’s price tag gave me another case of sticker shock, as it somewhat outrageously declared that four ounces of cheap candy wrapped in wax paper and stuffed into a novelty gift box was a bargain at only $8.95. The rest of the store’s shelves seemed to be strewn with endless quantities of the same low-quality junk– souvenir coffee table books that would never be read, inedible ribbon candy packaged in collectible tins, and glassware with novelty etchings which were destined to be forgotten in the back of somebody’s kitchen cabinet. If the layers of dust covering the shelves were anything to go by, it looked like it had weeks, if not months, since Scarlett O’Hara’s had actually made a sale. I scratched my head in amazement, wondering why a multi-millionaire real estate mogul like Duke Regan would be wasting his time on such a lame business. Who knows, maybe it was all just some kind of a tax write-off, although I was certain that the vandals has actually helped his bottom line by providing the basis for a whopping insurance claim.

After what seemed like a respectable moment of silence, I settled into the familiar routine of gathering all the necessary information. My personal style of interrogation involved sticking to the facts, just the facts, like on that old “Dragnet” television show. It’s been my experience that cutting out all the superfluous details always made for a more succinct report, and it also saved a lot of my valuable time. As I started the interview, my tone of voice shifted into a clipped, no-nonsense cadence. “Sir, you said you left the store right after closing up. What time was that?”

“Six o’clock” he answered. “Although business usually tapers off long before then. We only stay open later during the peak summer months.”

“And what time did you come back here?”

“Just before dialing 911. Seven-thirty, perhaps?”

I scribbled the numbers down in my notebook, then fumbled around on my belt in an effort to reach my walkie-talkie once more. Without looking down, I adjusted the volume knob ever so slightly. Some rookie working patrol down in the East Side projects was taking his sweet time about calling in a traffic stop, so I held down my transmit button to cut him off. “714 to control” I crooned sweetly.

“714, stand by please!” The dispatcher sounded kind of hot, almost as if I’d tried to snatch away her fried chicken or something. “Another unit’s pulling a traffic stop!”

I bit my lip with irritation. It was almost insulting to be reprimanded like a child, so I charged forward before the patrol rookie had time to pipe up again. “Control, just confirming you have a crime scene unit responding to this location? It’s in reference to a 29. Forced entry.”

The airwaves went quiet for another couple of seconds. Finally, just as I thought for sure that the dispatcher must have been giving me the silent treatment as a punishment, she snapped back in a harsh tone. With a voice that was practically dripping pure evil off every syllable, she replied, “I copy, 714. Crime scene is still en route to your 20. Stand by.”

I snapped the radio securely back into its holder and cranked the volume knob down once again. After a second’s thought, a better idea occurred to me and I just turned the damned thing off altogether. Now that any possible distractions were out of the way, I was free to turn my full attention back toward Mr. Regan. “Sir, one of our crime scene specialists is en route now, and he should be here shortly.” I didn’t want to get the guy’s hopes or anything, so I shifted into a canned narrative that I’d developed over the years I spent working as a property crimes detective. “Now I can’t guarantee that we’ll gather enough evidence to identify a suspect, but I can assure you we’ll do everything in our power to make an arrest. However, since this case is likely the work of a gang of experienced professionals…” I said, waving a hand across the ransacked room to emphasize my point, “it’s probable that the perpetrators covered up their fingerprints by wearing gloves.”

Mr. Regan nodded in resignation. It seemed almost strange to me, how easily he accepted my theory of a crack group of seasoned hoods targeting his broken-down tourist trap, but I certainly wasn’t about to second-guess my stroke of good fortune. A grave expression had sunk over his face, emphasizing a deep series of wrinkles that I hadn’t noticed before. Too much time in the tanning bed, most likely. And you know what else, it seemed kind of odd that Regan didn’t act overly broken up about losing the bulk of his store’s inventory, but I figured that was probably only because the dude was dripping with cash to begin with. Between his fat bank accounts and all those slummy investment properties, he could probably afford to take a hit every so often. “I understand, Officer, and I appreciate all your efforts. Do you think there’s any chance of recovering my merchandise, or should I just write it all off as a loss?”

I choked back a laugh. At that very moment, those thousands of novelty T-shirts were probably already on their way to any number of flea markets and garage sales across the Palmetto State. Even as we spoke, some redneck mom in Goose Creek probably had a few of his shirts spread out on the living room floor of her singlewide trailer, picking through the colors and designs while she tried to assemble new spring wardrobes for all eight of her kids. But since there was no way in hell I was stupid enough to share my personal opinion with a damned civilian, I did my best to put a shine on the situation. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Regan. I’ll make sure to give this case my personal attention.”

The intimate yet noncommittal touch seemed to pacify him, at least for the moment, so I went back to picking my way through the mess. It was a slow process since I had to watch my step over the fallen shelves, and it took a great deal of agility to avoid all the loose piles of damaged merchandise which were strewn about the floor. Normally it would have been my golden opportunity to pick up a light injury in the line of duty, and for a moment I seriously considered taking a dive right then and there. Losing my footing and having a slow, controlled fall would have undoubtedly made for another lucrative worker’s compensation claim, especially if the department was willing to throw in a couple weeks off for rest and recuperation. I decided against it, though, since it’s been my experience that it’s always better to score an injury during the early morning hours. There’s a ton of paperwork involved with workplace accidents and besides, the last thing I wanted was to get stuck in a downtown emergency room next to all the whackjobs who come out on the night shift.

3.

Just a few seconds later, my moment of quiet reflection was shattered by a screeching sound in front of the store. The noise was the sound of car tires braking hard, and it echoed up the narrow street. When I turned to look, I was blinded by the flashing glare of a revolving blue light reflecting off the plate glass window. I took a few tentative steps closer in order to steal a quick peek outside, then instantly regretted my move. One of our crime scene station wagons had just arrived and parked with three wheels up on the sidewalk, almost as if it was responding to an active robbery or something. As the driver’s side door flew open, out bounded all five feet nothing of Corporal Jason Mealor. The kid took the shop’s front steps two at a time, his movements powered by an unbridled passion for his criminal forensics. I swear, just the sight of that guy was enough to leave me exhausted.

As Mr. Regan unlocked the door Mealor burst inside with a full head of steam, his enthusiasm leading him on. The pasty little twerp was holding a huge digital camera in one chubby hand and a bright orange tackle box full of crime scene geek stuff in the other. Mealor’s normally pale face was flushed red from the excitement, almost as if he’d been running lights and sirens the entire way over. The kid pumped his head up and down at a rhythmic pace, as if our mess of a crime scene was precisely the situation that he’d been expecting to find. Turning to face me, Mealor let loose with a wide grin which showed off two disgustingly perfect rows of lily-white teeth. “Goosey! How’ve you been? How’s your girlfriend Katie? And you’re working down in foot patrol now? When did you get transferred? So where’s the point of entry?”

Over the years Mealor had earned himself quite a reputation as the department snitch, and all the other cops usually just referred to him by his official nickname of “Squealer.” He and I had been forced to work together on a couple of cases before, and unfortunately that meant we were required to stay on speaking terms. Since I was one of the few cops who were able to tolerate the guy’s presence for more than two minutes at a clip, Squealer must have taken my patience to mean that we’d become best buds for life.

I couldn’t decide which of his questions I should answer first, so I settled for the most recent. “Hey Mealor. Good to see you.” That was a bold-faced lie, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It looks like the thieves made entry from the rear.” Squealer hung on my every word, letting his head fall into a series of quick nods. It looked like he was taking the case much more seriously than I was, so I chose to hold off on any of the obvious homosexual jokes. “They made off with a ton of T-shirts that had just been delivered today. Looks like thousands of dollars worth of merchandise might be missing.”

Squealer cocked his head to the side as he took a few seconds to consider the facts. His neck was twisted into an awkward angle, and there was no possible way it could have been a comfortable pose. “T-shirts? Huh. That’s got to be a first.” He bent over, setting his equipment gently down on the floor before standing back upright and gingerly stepping over to the cashwrap area. After one quick glance at the register, he turned his attention to Mr. Regan. “Sir, loose cash is usually the first thing that any thief will go for, but I see that both these drawers are empty. Do you keep any money at all on the premises overnight? Is there a safe in the back office, maybe?”

Mr. Regan nodded in the affirmative. His nods were much more natural gestures than Squealer’s, whose head movements tended to come across as more like mini-seizures. The dude had a strong chin, the kind of solid facial foundation that made all his expressions seem like he really meant business. “Yes, but we always keep the office locked after hours. I’ve already taken a look, though, and it doesn’t appear as if the thieves tried to get in. We’ve got a reinforced security door there, you see.”

Squealer tapped the nail of his middle finger against his upper teeth. That guy’s most annoying nervous habits always seemed to come to the surface during periods of intense concentration, and I found myself gritting my own teeth since the constant clicking made it impossible for me to think straight. “Hmm….” Squealer muttered. “That’s highly unusual.” After another long moment, he finally came back down to earth. “Do you mind if I take a look over there, sir?”

If Mr. Regan was at all inconvenienced by the odd request, he sure didn’t show it. I’ll say this for the dude, he minded his manners a lot better than I could have. Regan simply turned and headed towards the rear of the store with Squealer falling in on his heels. “Of course, Officer” he said, unruffled. “But perhaps it’s possible that the thieves got frightened away? That they simply fled the store after grabbing the T-shirts and committing their vandalism?”

With all the newly-opened space on the salesfloor, Squealer’s shrill voice carried further than it normally would have. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible…but we’re obviously not looking at a quick piece of work here. It would have taken these people some time to load up all of your new merchandise, and there’s simply too much inventory gone for them to have carried it away by hand. No, these thieves almost certainly would have had to back a truck into the alley. I tell you what, after we finish here I’ll start canvassing the area for any witnesses.”

While Squealer was keeping himself busy explaining the intricacies of crime scene investigations, I did my level best to ignore him. Since I wasn’t technically working as a detective anymore, the case just wasn’t my problem. My only remaining duty was to put one more radio call in to our dispatcher, get a case number for the incident and bang out a report. Barring any unforeseen surprises, I figured that I’d probably be able to hold my narrative to under five lines. Most of the supplemental information wasn’t likely to change much overnight, so it could just as easily be left for the dayshift crew to handle.

The two of them came back only a few minutes later and naturally, Squealer piped up first. “He’s right, Goosey! There wasn’t even so much as an attempt to force that office door open.” The little rat drew himself up to his full height, coming to a stop only just above the countertop. He had to tilt his head up at an impossible angle in order to look Mr. Regan directly in the eye. “Sir, I don’t suppose you take any kind of security precautions with your business? A motion-activated alarm system, perhaps? Video cameras positioned at the front or rear entrances?”

Regan’s face flushed from embarrassment. It was pretty obvious that a man of his standing wasn’t accustomed to being interrogated by a mere public servant. “I’m sorry but no, although I imagine that my insurance premiums are sure to skyrocket once I submit this claim. I’ll make a note to have my accountant perform a cost benefit analysis this week, in order to determine if it’d be worthwhile to install a security system. I have to admit, though, I never thought that such a crime might happen in a safe area like this! After all, aren’t your officers required to perform routine patrols throughout the City Market?”

This time it was my turn to feel embarrassed, and my face went hot. I had to move quick before my personal patrol tactics became the main focus of our little chat, so I injected myself into the conversation without further delay. “Here you go, sir” I said, stuffing a business card into Mr. Regan’s open hand. “I should be able to have the initial report turned in before close of business this evening. Just give your insurance company this case number, and that should be all they need to start the claims process.”

Regan took my card and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “Thank you very much, Officer Larsen. Or do you prefer to be called by your nickname. Goosey, was it?”

My cheeks were positively burning with rage at how Squealer had outed me. I certainly wasn’t proud of either my unique nickname or the circumstance behind its origin, so I usually only accepted the ribbing from very close friends. I certainly didn’t know Regan very well, but since the guy was causing me to do work he was in serious danger of making it onto my enemies list.

Taking absolutely no notice of my warning scowl, he carried right on with his sob story. “I’ve already alerted my insurance carrier’s incident response team, as a matter of fact. There’s a maintenance crew on the way here now, and hopefully they’ll be able to get that back door secured for the night.”

So what do
you need me for
, I wondered to myself. It sounded as if Regan had things pretty much under control, so I guessed the whole process of calling the cops was probably nothing more than a formality. Somebody has to sign off on all the paperwork, after all. But now that the bulk of my heavy lifting was done, I did my best to stall for a few more minutes. This case was a rare opportunity for me to rub shoulders with one of Charleston’s most powerful businessmen, and I certainly wasn’t about to let it slip past. A lot of the other cops at CPD ran these little side businesses during their off time, and I’d been kicking around the idea of hanging out a shingle myself. The ideal gig would be a lucrative one, of course, some kind of part-time hustle that I could work entirely during the course of my regular patrol shifts. “That’s excellent, sir” I said, in an effort to butter him up before I delved further into his brain. “I wish that all of our citizens were as proactive as you.”

Regan flashed a polite smile at the compliment. I noticed that his teeth were perfectly aligned and dazzlingly white, even more so than Squealer’s, to the point where I had to charge ahead with my line of questioning before I was blinded by the way his fangs shimmered under the fluorescent overhead lights. “Sir, I’ve investigated a number of property crimes, but I’ve never had any personal experience with the whole claims process. How quickly do you think that your insurance company will respond once you’ve totaled up all your losses?”

Mr. Regan’s smile widened. It was clear that the world of legitimate business was a much more familiar territory for him than was the city of Charleston’s murky criminal underworld. “Well, Officer, the representative that I spoke to said they’ll be sending an adjuster by the store first thing tomorrow morning. Once he assesses the damage and confirms the scope of the loss, I should receive an initial settlement check shortly thereafter so as to begin replacing the stock. In sales, you see, time is money.”

I nodded sagely, saddened by the fact that it would still be another six days before I caught sight of my own paycheck. As much as I loved the bi-weekly ritual of watching my checking account bounce back into the black, it was always a sobering experience when I read my paystub and saw just how little the Department valued my time. “I see. Well, sir, I certainly hope they’ll be able to get you back on your feet soon.”

Regan’s smile hadn’t lost any of its confidence. “I’m sure it won’t be long. In fact, I might even be able to receive an advance payment as soon as tomorrow morning. With luck, we may only have to keep the store closed through the weekend.”

I nodded again as I felt my attention drifting away. I’d really been hoping for some more insight on how much loot a place like Scarlett O’Hara’s could haul in, but it didn’t seem likely that old Duke Regan was about to crack open his ledgers for me. Besides, I still hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so my blood sugar was dropping to dangerous levels. It may have only been my imagination, but I swear I started to feel a little light-headed. “Outstanding. Well sir” I said, flipping my notebook firmly shut before sliding it into my shirt pocket with a show of finality, “thank you so very much for your time. One of our detectives should be in touch with you tomorrow.”

Mr. Regan reached across one of the downed shelves to snatch a souvenir pen up off the floor. It featured an image of the famous Rainbow Row townhouses splashed across its side, and it boasted five different colors of pastel ink to choose from. He fished my business card out of his shirt pocket and held the pen poised above it. “And his name is?”

I shrugged my shoulders, since getting kicked out of Central had been kind of a traumatic experience for me. As a result, I’d done my best to sever all ties with those backstabbers up on the second floor. Those investigative jerks went their own ways and I went mine, and the mutual silent treatment had actually proven to be a pretty effective coping mechanism. I looked over to Squealer. “Do you know who’s been filling in up in property crimes, Jason?”

He smiled at the use of his first name. “I’m not completely sure, but I think it’s still your friend Debbie Carlson.”

I couldn’t hold back a shudder. Fat Debbie Carlson had been my professional arch nemesis ever since we both started working together. Even though I’d never been able to come up with any kind of concrete proof, I’ve always suspected she’d been gunning for my recently-vacated spot as the missing persons detective. That’s not because it was interesting work or anything–let’s face it, tracking down runaway kids and lost Alzheimer’s patients is hardly what anyone would consider a glamour job– but because my old desk was located directly beneath the office’s only air conditioning unit. As an added bonus, I’d long ago inherited one of the most comfortable chairs in the office. That thing was so old it was practically an antique, but its worn-down cushion sat atop a solidly constructed metal frame with reinforced armrests. Even better, the legs were supported by rolling steel casters which handled beautifully on the slick linoleum floor. The industrial-strength springs which supported the seat were reinforced for extra strength, and they would have provided all the extra support that Debbie’s wide bottom demanded. Yeah, as much as it stung to say goodbye to that sweet nine-to-two work schedule with weekends off, the thing I missed the most about being a detective was definitely my trustworthy old chair.

Mr. Regan clicked his index finger to select a shade of light blue ink before scribbling Debbie Carlson’s name on the front of my business card. I clenched my fists in anger at the sight of all those chubby blue letters in such close proximity to my own good name. “And what time of day should I expect Ms. Carlson to get in contact with me?”

He shot me an expectant look, but my mind had already started drifting away from the conversation. The image of Debbie Carlson’s wide posterior was firmly embedded in my mind, and it was nearly impossible to pull my thoughts away from that train wreck of a body. “Knowing that gal? I’d guess sometime after lunch, sir.”