Another Big Bust Read online

  Passing motorists turned curious heads as the Dangerous Curves merged onto Interstate 40, heading east. In three hours we’d be back home in Durham, where we’d disperse until next month’s ride. But now, a beep-beep from behind us said that someone needed a potty, smoke, or coffee break. At the next exit, we took the ramp and proceeded to a truck stop, where each of the Curves could indulge as she saw fit.

  We lined up our bikes along the side of the building. I lifted the faceplate of my pink cat-head helmet, which came complete with pointy ears on top. Two guys wearing faded jeans and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut out climbed down from a rusty pickup and glanced my way. Their eyes zeroed in on my breasts, which strained the fabric of my denim jacket. Typical. My bust often rendered men incapable of coherent thought. Simple creatures.

  After lingering much too long on my chest, the driver’s gaze moved up to my face, a lustful grin spreading his lips to expose teeth that would’ve been at home on a rodent. His eyes flickered to the feline ears on my helmet. “Nice pussy. I’ll give you five bucks to pet you.” He waggled his fingers and thrust his pelvis forward. “We can see where it goes from there.” He and his buddy snickered.

  I rolled my eyes, but otherwise ignored them. They were looking to get a rise out of me. I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. You have to choose your battles in life.

  As the men headed into the truck stop, Trixie turned to our fellow Curves, who comprised a varied assortment of shapes, sizes, and colors. “Fifteen minutes, ladies, and we head back out on the road.”

  Murmurs of acknowledgment filled the air, along with the smell of cigarettes being lit up. This being North Carolina, home to Big Tobacco, our group had its fair share of Marlboro ma’ams. Other members of the Curves headed inside to use the facilities or buy a drink or snack. I was among them.

  The inside of the truck stop smelled like motor oil and fried foods. I aimed for the refrigerated case at the back to round up a bottle of Cheerwine, a cherry-flavored soda made right here in the state. It might be full of sugar and empty calories, but I’d been raised on the stuff and was hopelessly addicted. Besides, I did Zumba to offset the effects of the sugary soda. Everyone’s entitled to at least one vice, right? The two men from the parking lot passed me on their way back up the aisle with a six-pack of cheap beer in their hands. They treated me to another lecherous leer.

  As I emerged from the store a few minutes later, the men drove away in their pickup. Words written in lipstick on their tailgate announced BIG ASSHOLES WITH TINY DICKS. I recognized the coral shade of the lettering. It was the same color currently tinting Trixie’s lips.

  I turned to her and she treated me to a broad smile, holding up a tube. “Speak softly and carry a big lipstick.”

  “I owe you a new tube of Kissable Coral.”

  She applied a fresh coat to her lips and smacked them. “You owe me nothing, Shae.”

  Trixie was both a good friend and the grandmother I’d never had. I’d discovered the Dangerous Curves years ago, when they’d met up for a few games at the bowling alley where I’d been slinging beer and nachos in the snack bar. Back then, I’d still been riding the barely street-legal dirt bike I’d bought with my meager earnings. On learning that I, too, was a biker chick, Trixie had invited me to go on a ride with the Curves through the sandhills. She later took me under her wing. In fact, it was Trixie who’d first suggested I apply for the police academy. “You’re the first to step up when any of the gals need help with something,” she’d said. “You’d find a career in public service rewarding. Besides, what other job would pay you to ride around on a Harley all day?” I’d given her words some thought and, a few days later, submitted my application. Luckily for me, the Durham PD didn’t require a college degree. I’d been just 21 at the time, but wise for my years. What I lacked in book smarts I more than made up for in street smarts. Yep, I had Trixie to thank for helping me find my purpose in life.

  I cut her another grateful glance. “Thanks for organizing the ride today. This is just what I needed.”

  “Glad I could help,” she said. “But you realize this is just a temporary fix, don’t you? You’re going to have to confront this problem head on.”

  “I already confronted my problem head on,” I said. “Friday night. Filled his sinuses with pepper spray.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t mean your father. I meant your feelings about him.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “You need to find a way to forgive him so that you can let go of your resentment. If not, it’ll just keep festering.”

  “How am I supposed to forgive someone who just disappeared? Who’s never said he’s sorry?”

  “That makes it harder, for sure,” she said. “But have you ever wondered why he abandoned his family? What made him such a lousy father? Your mother must have once saw something good in him, or she wouldn’t have fallen in love with him. What went wrong?”

  A couple of the Curves walked up, putting an end to our private conversation and leaving me with something to think about. We ladies climbed back onto our bikes, got our motors running, and set back out on the road. Back in Durham, the ladies peeled off one-by-one, or sometimes two-by-two, to return to their homes. I raised a hand in goodbye to Trixie and the remaining Curves as I took the exit for Fayetteville Road.

  My home was a first-floor apartment in a mega-sized complex in the southern part of Durham, relatively close to Southpoint Mall, but not so near that I paid a premium for it. The location was perfect, as it was sat within my beat and had easy access to I-40. I turned into the parking lot and swerved to miss a suicidal squirrel who scampered into my path, an acorn in its teeth. Circling around to the back of the complex, I slowed as I approached my apartment. After cutting the motor, I climbed off my motorcycle, walked the bike to the door of my unit, and rolled it inside, careful to keep the tires on the rubber runners I’d laid down to prevent dirt and oil from marring the carpet in my place. My Harley was my baby. No way would I leave my precious motorcycle outdoors to be subjected to the elements and lookie-loos who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Ditto for my police motorcycle. The two sat side by side in what would have been a dining room had I owned a table and chairs. I made do with a single barstool at the breakfast bar.

  My tuxedo cat padded from the bedroom. I’d taken him in after his former owner abandoned him at the apartment complex along with a broken chair when he’d moved out. He’d been skittish and scrawny, hosting a party for all sorts of parasites when I’d finally caught him. I’d taken him to the vet, nursed him back to health, and named him Oscar in honor of the male celebrities who donned tuxedos and posed on the red carpet before the Academy Awards. The cat cast me a look of utter disgust, and issued an irritated, insistent trill that said, “You’re late serving my dinner. Get it now or I’ll nip your ankles.”

  I gave the pompous puss a salute. “Yes, sir!”

  He proceeded into the small galley kitchen, looking back to make sure I was following him. I retrieved a can of his favorite fishy food, opened it, and upended the can on a saucer. I knelt down and set it on the floor in front of him. “Your order, my lord.” As he dug in, I reached out and scratched his head. He growled as he ate, letting me know he was only tolerating my affection because he was too hungry to sink his teeth into my hand. I chuckled and stood. “I love you, too, Oscar.”

  #

  After donning my uniform Monday morning, I twisted my long hair into a low bun on the back of my head, slid my helmet over it, and hopped onto my police bike to swing by the District 4 substation for the 8:00 AM roll call. I was scheduled to work the day shift this week. Not generally as exciting as the swing or night shifts, but much easier to stay awake for.

  Our station was supervised by Captain Carter, a fiftyish fireplug who’d blazed trails by becoming one of the first black female SWAT officers in the city years ago. We street cops formed a perimeter around the small co
nference room. I stood in my usual spot along the back wall beside Amberlyn as Captain Carter briefed us from the podium.

  “We’ve had reports of a group of teenaged girls shoplifting from various stores at Southpoint Mall. Mostly jewelry and accessories, small things they can shove into their purses and pockets. If you’re in the area after school hours, run a foot patrol and make your presence known to the shopkeepers and any kids you come across. Let’s nip this in the bud. There have also been three reports of classic cars stolen around the city. A 1964 Aston Martin, a ’68 Charger, and a 1955 Bel Air. Two classic cars are missing in Raleigh, too. All had been restored. We suspect there’s a theft ring targeting valuable older vehicles. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

  While car theft had been a staple of police work years ago, vehicle theft was less common these days. Many newer cars featured tracking systems, making them riskier targets. Late-model cars also had keyless entry and ignitions, and high-tech skills and devices were necessary to break into them and start the engines. Unlike older cars, more recently manufactured models could not be hot-wired. These facts might be why the thieves had decided to target classic cars rather than newer vehicles. My heart went out the victims. Thanks to an unfortunate series of events in my childhood, I knew what it was like to discover your car missing.

  Captain Carter ended the briefing the way she always did, by leading us in an abbreviated pep talk and cheer. That’s what happens when your police captain was also once captain of her high school’s cheerleading squad. “Who’s got the best cops in Durham?” she called.

  “District Four!” we called back.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “I can’t hear you!” she hollered. She cupped her hands around her ears now as we shouted, “District Four!”

  “You know it!” She took a place by the door, and raised her hand with her thumb tucked in and fingers upright. As we exited the room, she treated each of us to a high four, her special version of a high five for District Four. As her hand met mine, her pointed gaze met my eyes. “Be careful out there, Officer Sharpe.”

  “I will,” I promised. Serving as a motorcycle cop came with some inherent risks not faced by cops in cruisers. What might only be a fender-bender for a squad car could be a fatality on a bike. I’d have no vehicle to shield me should I end up in a shootout, either. Still, I wouldn’t trade the freedom of roaming the beat on my bike for anything.

  Out in the parking lot, I donned my helmet, climbed onto my bike, and headed off to patrol my beat. As a motorcycle cop, I was not equipped to transport suspects, which left me handling a disproportionate share of traffic matters, noise complaints, and alarm calls, most of which turned out to be false alarms. At this time of the morning, with rush hour at its peak along I-40, traffic mostly regulated itself. Not easy to speed when you had a wall of cars doing a mere 20 mph in front of you. Rather than waste my time on the freeway, I headed over to the local high school. Between the number of kids walking to school and the inexperienced teen drivers behind the wheel of many of the cars, the school zone could be a dangerous place. Still, I wasn’t one of those cops who lay in wait, trying to catch someone screwing up so I could issue them an expensive ticket. I preferred to sit out in the open, my presence a deterrent to bad driving and a way to keep everyone safe and encourage good habits.

  I parked my bike near the main entrance to the school parking lot, where I could keep an eye on the traffic approaching from both directions. I pulled my bullhorn from my saddle bag and rested in on my thigh. A golden yellow school bus lumbered up the road, creaking on its chassis and spewing exhaust as it passed me to turn into the bus-only lane farther down. A teen girl driving a beat-up Subaru cut the turn too close and rolled up on the curb for a second or two before the car bumped back down onto the asphalt. She cast a nervous glance in my direction. I smiled to relieve her anxiety and motioned with my hand for her to continue. No harm, no foul, no ticket.

  A harried mother who didn’t see me swung into the oncoming lane to circle around the cars turning into the lot. She slammed on her brakes when she spotted me, her two children rocking forward in their seats. I raised my bullhorn to my lips and pressed the button. “Take it easy, Mom!”

  She raised contrite shoulders and mouthed the word “sorry!” through the windshield.

  Two minutes before the bell was scheduled to ring, both foot and road traffic had dwindled to a trickle. A skinny girl came sprinting up the sidewalk, hanging on tight to the backpack flapping against her shoulders. Just after she cleared the crosswalk, a boy in a sporty red Mitsubishi 3000GT squealed around the corner.

  I reached out, switched on my lights, and started my motor. The boy’s eyes met mine through the glass, only the word he mouthed wasn’t sorry. It was the F-bomb. I followed after him as he pulled into the parking lot. He eased over to the curb by the gymnasium and I climbed off my bike.

  He unrolled his window and rested his arm on the ledge. He wore a letterman jacket. Football. A patch on the arm identified him as an all-state quarterback.

  I stepped up to his door. “License and insurance.”

  He pointed to the school building. “It’s only a minute until the bell. How about you do me a solid and let me off with a warning?” He cocked his head, batted his green eyes, and flashed me his best smile, as if a gander at his perfectly straight pearly whites was going to get him out of trouble.

  “That face might work for your mother and the girls in your class, but it doesn’t work for me.” Though I was tempted to take him down a peg or two, life would teach this kid soon enough that, while he might be a big fish in a small pond today, his pretty face and ability to handle a pigskin would only get him so far. “How about you show me your license and insurance like I asked, kiddo?”

  Sighing, he rummaged around in his glove box and wallet before handing me the requested documentation.

  I took the paperwork from him. Everything appeared to be in order. A search in the system indicated he had no prior traffic citations. “What’s your hurry this morning?”

  “I overslept.” He pulled a piece of paper from his backpack. “I was up until midnight working on this. It’s impossible!”

  I looked over the homework handout. It was all X’s and Y’s and numbers and parentheses. “Algebra?”

  He nodded and grimaced. “It’s kicking my butt.”

  “It kicked mine, too.” I handed his paperwork and homework back to him. “Those math problems are punishment enough. But slow down. You’re not just endangering yourself, you’re endangering others. Next time I won’t go easy on you.”

  “Thanks!”

  An hour later, I was riding north on state highway 751, my view obscured by the delivery truck in front of me, when dispatch came over the radio to announce a vehicle theft, what we beat cops referred to as a rollin’ stolen. “Be on the lookout for a 1970 lime green Plymouth Barracuda. The car was just taken from the Duke Health Center parking lot. License plate is DV CUDA.”

  The fact that the license plate number included the letters DV meant that the vehicle was owned by a disabled veteran. It was bad enough someone had stolen a car, but to take it from someone who’d been injured in war? That was especially low.

  While a lot of crime happened at night while people slept, a surprising amount happened in broad daylight. Residential burglaries were common mid-day. Few people were at home to witness the crimes or, if they were home, they weren’t looking out their windows where they might spot a thief. Muggings in busy parking lots happened during the daylight hours, too. Still, it was a bold move to snatch such a brightly painted vehicle in the daytime from a public parking lot. The thief must really want the car to take such chances. A lime green Barracuda would be like a neon light going down the road.

  Holy crap! There it is now!

  Chapter Three

  The Buck Stops Here

  The green Barracuda passed me, heading south. The delivery truck in front of me had obscured my view, and I hadn’t
spotted the car until it was right on me. By the time it registered in my brain that it was the stolen car, it was a hundred yards behind me, too late for me to get a look at the driver.

  I slowed, waited for three more oncoming cars to pass—hurry up, slowpokes!—and hooked a tight U-turn, putting a leg out to steady myself. I flipped on my lights and headed after the muscle car. I thumbed the button on my handlebars to activate the mic attached to my helmet. “I’ve got eyes on the Barracuda. Heading south on 751 approaching Stagecoach Road. Unit M2 in pursuit.”

  Three cars separated me from the Barracuda. The person driving the SUV in front of me eased over to the right and I cranked my wrist back, gunning my engine to pass. The man driving the next car that stood between me and my quarry was looking down at his cell phone, weaving back and forth in his lane, totally oblivious to my presence. Sheesh! I flipped on my siren—WOO-WOO—and he reflexively tossed his phone into the air and hit his brakes in response. Luckily, I’d anticipated his moves and had put more space between us. He eased over, too, and I sped past him. The final vehicle began to move over as we came upon Stagecoach Road, and I pulled up beside it to pass. Tires squealing and burning rubber as it fishtailed, the Barracuda turned onto Stagecoach. Once the car gained purchase, it roared and took off at warp speed, leaving an acrid-smelling cloud of dust and smoke in its wake.

  “He’s making a run for it!” I hollered into my mic.

  Argh! The turn was blocked by the final vehicle, preventing me from following the stolen car and forcing me to continue down 751. As soon as I could, I whipped another U-turn and headed back to Stagecoach, my siren woo-woo-wooing all the while.

  I vectored off for the turn and pulled back on the accelerator, my bike rocketing forward as I straightened out. I leaned forward for better aerodynamics, my boobs brushing the fuel tank in front of the seat. The Barracuda had a good lead on me now and was nowhere in sight. While I normally loved the lush woods that covered the Raleigh-Durham region, today the trees were a nuisance, limiting my view. This chase would’ve been easier if the landscape were clear and open, like a Texas plain or an Arizona desert.