He snorts and takes another bite of French toast.
Five minutes later the crossword puzzle is finished. I stuff what’s left of the muffin in my mouth and chase it with orange juice as Jimmy wipes his hands on a baby-blue napkin and grabs his Fossil briefcase.
A smoky sky weeps as we exit the lobby, casting down a host of tears the size of cherry pits and sending us scurrying across the parking lot, our heads hunched low between our shoulders—as if that’s going to stop the creeping wet. The forecast called for a partly cloudy day with a 10 percent chance of rain.
They were 100 percent right.
Our rental car is a blue Ford Escape and it looks miles away through the downpour. As usual, the rental agreement’s in Jimmy’s name, since he’s the one with the expense account. He’s also the only authorized driver, since it costs eleven dollars a day to add a second driver.
Jimmy assures me this isn’t intentional, it’s just that he wants me to be free to watch the road, the vehicles, the people, and the places; like I’m going to suddenly spot Sad Face thumbing a ride as we cruise down some backcounty road.
I suspect Jimmy doesn’t trust my driving …
… which is ridiculous.
I’ve never been in an accident and I’ve only ever gotten one ticket, and that was for doing twenty miles per hour under the speed limit, which shouldn’t even count. It was like a reverse speed trap: a slow trap. The speed limit changed from twenty-five to forty-five, and a half mile down the road Bubba Gump was waiting for me in a turnout.
I feel edgy just at the thought.
It happens every time I see a traffic cop. Guilt sneaks up from behind and shanks me in the kidney. It doesn’t matter that I’m in law enforcement; primal instincts take over. On that particular day I crept by Bubba at twenty-five, my eyes glued to the speedometer. I made sure I used my blinker well before the next turn, kept my wheels between the lines, and tried not to drift back and forth too much in my lane of travel.
Intense driving.
Religiously adherent to the rules of the road.
Suddenly lights were behind me, followed by a short brrpt brrpt of the siren. I was still swearing at my speedometer when he got to my window; and when he told me what I was getting pulled over for, I must have said, You’re kidding, a dozen times.
I just paid the fine and told no one.
Something like that can ruin your reputation.
Jimmy’s an alpha male, so I let him drive. Alpha males don’t like the passenger seat because it doesn’t fit well. If they’re forced to sit in the passenger seat they just squirm and complain. I’m pretty sure I’m not an alpha male. I mean, I’ll take charge of a situation if no one else steps up, but I prefer to be the guy in the background.
I’m probably a bravo male.
Bravo males are important because they help out the alpha males and say, Bravo! Bravo! whenever they do something right, even if it’s infrequently. This positive reinforcement is vital because alpha males have large egos that constantly need refilling.
This morning the rain drives any thought of alpha males and bravo males from my mind, leaving only wet males in its wake. Despite a shielding hand, the morning storm consumes my special glasses and turns the world into a warped and fragmented kaleidoscope. Halfway across the unending parking lot I take them off and slide them into my shirt pocket. I’m ten paces from the Escape when something catches my eye.
No.
I stop abruptly; the rain beats me down. Jimmy’s still hunkered down, eyes to the pavement, when he runs into me from behind. Like a pinball, he bounces off and tries to go around, his only thought to get out of the rain. I reach out and grab his sleeve, pulling him up short.
“What?”
The shine glows boldly through the rain, bursting forth with intensity. It’s new, maybe three hours old. Jimmy sees it in my eyes, in the creases of my forehead, but I say it anyway. “It’s Sad Face. He’s been here.”
In an instant his gun is out and at a ready position. Sweeping left, he clears the front of the vehicle and the bushes beyond while I sweep right. There are two distinct and separate tracks; one is coming and going from the landscaping at the front of the nosed-in Ford, the other is in the parking lot near the rear of the vehicle.
Neither track is connected, which is odd. I stare at the parking lot track for an eternity, oblivious now to the rain. All of a sudden it clicks. It makes sense.
I wave Jimmy over and raise my voice above the rain. “He must have our license plate number.” I point to the pavement at our feet. “He drove through the parking lot looking for our SUV, then, when he thought he had the right Ford Escape, he got out right here and walked over in the dark to check the plate number.” Pointing to the right, I continue. “He got back into his car and parked somewhere else, then came back on foot.”
I open the Ford’s passenger door and my gut convulses. He’s all over the inside: in the seats, under the seats, on the visors, in the glove box. An ugly swath of brilliant amaranth and rust lays across the interior, a hideous beast asleep on the leather.
Inside the glove box, every document has been handled and searched. Most are irrelevant: owner’s manual, satellite radio instructions, that type of thing. One piece of paper, however, is covered in amaranth.
“Jimmy,” I say, holding the paper aloft, “it’s the rental agreement; he was really interested in it. Looks like he was holding it with both hands, and he turned it over and over, like he was looking for—”
Of course
“—the renter’s name.” My words are a whisper.