My Favorite Suspects: Part 11
"This is your chance," Luna said. "You can get back at Miller for firing you. You can make him pay for pinning the Ghost thing on A.J. Remember A.J.? Is he out on bail yet, you think?"
In this cozy noir, amateur sleuth Terry Perez revisits his first case in which he investigates a series of crimes at his supermarket. Can he solve the mystery before he loses his job at the store? Who in his circle will turn out to be the criminal?
Use the Previous and Next buttons at the end of each post to navigate through all posts on My Favorite Suspects, or use the Story Guide for an overview of this book and list of all chapters.
I had a simple plan. Luna proceeded to make it more complicated. For one thing, I was basically going to wear a hat. Luna insisted it wouldn't be sufficient. She said I needed to be blonde. Luna seemed to think it was the best way to go.
My main problem with Luna's plan was that she refused to tell me the whole thing. She gave out details with the care of a chef sprinkling sea salt on chicken tagine.
While the salon's stylist prepped my hair, I ran through every grain Luna had dropped, looking for hints.
I sat backward with the back of my head against a smooth head-shaped pocket in the sink. The stylist ran her fingers through my wet hair. She smiled down at me: warm, inviting, straight white teeth, dimples, the kind of smile engineered to generate tips. I could tell because I had my contact lenses in. My attention wandered off of Luna momentarily as the stylist rinsed my hair. You can't really blame me; I hadn't had a girlfriend in a while.
And Miller. Right. Miller had to be Ghost. My theory was that he skimmed cigarettes off the trucks and the cartons never touched the case. Theories are interesting. Proof is better. I had no proof. And on top of that, I'd been banned from the store. If I set foot inside, I would be trespassing. That meant uncomfortable conversations with the police, at least.
Luna also assured me that her plan had a better chance of succeeding than my plan.
At the end of the salon visit, the great-smelling stylist held up a mirrors so I could appreciate her artistry from all angles. My hair was a light brown with sandy streaks. I hoped that would be sufficient for Luna. The stylist had also matched my eyebrows. I'd gone in with a close shave, too. Without my typical five o'clock stubble and the dark wavy hair, I hardly recognized myself. The stylist also gave me an updated cut. When she finished, I paid the bill and gave her a nice tip. Luna had made it clear the payback of my favor didn't include payment for services. She didn't want to owe everyone in Rochester for stuff.
"I'm paying you back in the form of advice," she'd told me, after we'd wrapped up our conversation in her apartment.
Per Luna's instructions, I grabbed a bus and then walked a block or two to the Ugly Duck, where Luna and I'd planned to meet for lunch after my stylist appointment. I showed up as instructed, with my new hair, contact lenses jammed into my eyes, clean T-shirt, cargo pants, brown leather work boots, and tan leather work gloves.
And a pay-as-you-go burner phone. It felt odd not having my personal phone.
I walked in. It was mercifully cool inside. Outside, on the sidewalks, that section of Rochester had trees that didn't offer any shade. Not that shade would've helped. Above frail branches, bulging dark clouds threatened Old Testament rains. Below, heat and humidity, hot and sticky, the sensation of swimming through hot syrup. I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and resisted the urge to rub my eyes.
Aside from the glistening barista, who stood behind the counter fanning herself with a laminated menu, four college students were scattered around the perimeter, focused on their laptops, and a nanny sat by the door at a small table. Hidden speakers played the fuzzy guitar-based rhythms, atmospheric synth, and British small-town street punk vocals that were unmistakably The Chameleons. Someone liked classic alternative, a lot.
No Luna anywhere.
I did a double-take at the nanny.
It was Luna.
She smiled and pushed her tortoiseshell sunglasses up on top of her head. She'd taken a seat by the front door. Her hair was pulled straight back into a no-nonsense ponytail. She had on a comfortable t-shirt over tan knee-length shorts that rocked functional pockets. Topping off the ensemble: sturdy white cross-training shoes and a distressed leather belt pouch. All she needed was a rich woman's toddler wearing a Shan & Toad bucket hat with a pair of sewn-on fabric rabbit ears.
"I barely recognized you, Price Check," she said, reviewing the work of her stylist. A look up and down, as if appraising a used car. "You understood the assignment, too. The gloves and boots look convincing. Where'd you find them?"
"They're mine. I do demo for extra cash."
"If you can do that, why do you work at the supermarket?"
"Health insurance."
"Are you sick?"
"No. It's in case I get sick." I also needed the money, and potentially the healthcare coverage, for my brother, if the state didn't come through on its promises. I also had a feeling that I didn't want to make my brother part of Luna's world so I left it at that.
She considered my answer and responded by taking a sip from her iced coffee. She gathered up her phone and car keys and slipped her Wayfarers back over her dark brown eyes. "Ready?"
"I thought we were meeting for lunch? I haven't eaten anything."
"What gave you the idea we were meeting for lunch? We aren't doing a thing, Price Check. We're working." She frowned and urged me over to the counter with a preschool teacher's triple hand clap. "Go on. Grab a coffee and let's go. Time's wasting."
Back out in the heat.
Luna had parked her car out back, behind the Op Shop next door. I expected a Miata or possibly a VW Cabriolet. To my surprise, she strolled up to a silver Kia sedan with a child's car seat. She was leaning hard into the nanny vibe today.
We got in. I had to move the passenger seat back for my height.
"What's the deal?" I said, jabbing a thumb at the child's safety seat.
She didn't answer. She held the key fob in her hand for a moment, looking confused, or maybe looking for the engine start button. After a really long pause, she found it. The motor kicked on and she gave me a fierce sideways glance.
Was this her car? I didn't want to ask.
We turned left, instead of right, and merged with the late afternoon traffic on East Ave. "Are we taking a detour?"
"No," she said. "This is phase two."
"How many phases are we talking?"
"You'll see when we're done."
"How much longer is this going to take?"
She didn't answer.
She entered the parking lot of the Annunciation Church and we bumped over the broken concrete to a public parking lot behind the church. The other end of the lot opened to University Avenue. I recalled the name of the church from her list on her fridge.
The lot had a few older, solid American sedans, the kind driven by older, solid church people. Luna parked next to a rust-streaked white utility van with rusty steel wheels and a sun-bleached red logo on the hood that read "COMMAND I.T. SYSTEMS."
"There," she said, pointing to the van.
I couldn't read her expression behind her Wayfarers.
"Gimme your burner," she said.
I handed Luna the pay-as-you-go phone and looked the van over from the passenger seat of the maybe-not-her Kia.
"What am I looking at?" I said.
"The van, Price Check."
I found myself tilting my head, like a golden retriever.
"It's your cover," she said slowly, as if I were, in fact, a golden retriever.
"Ah."
She jabbed buttons on the phone with her thumb. I watched her lips move, silently repeating the phone's number. Memorizing it. Then she scrubbed the phone with a disposable baby wipe and gave it back to me. "One more thing. If you do this, you owe me."
"I thought you owed me a favor."
"The disguise, the hair, that was payback for what I owed you. A simple payback for a simple favor. But this… this is one you're gonna owe me. Remember what I said? The more you want me to do, the more it could cost you. This is part of that."
I looked the van over again and drummed my fingers on the armrest.
"The plan we discussed is illegal," she said. "Get it? You think you can do what you want to do in the supermarket without raising suspicion? You want to get arrested for trespassing? Or worse?"
"What's the big deal? I don't work days. Nobody knows me on days."
"You can't guarantee that. Somebody will know you. You need a cover. Something that will let you pass through unnoticed."
I pointed to my hair.
"You'll need more than that. There should be a pair of coveralls, gloves, and a hat on the front seat of that van. Put them on. And take this." She pushed a small paper shopping bag against my chest.
I hesitated.
"This is your chance," Luna said. "You can get back at Miller for firing you. You can make him pay for pinning the whole Ghost thing on A.J. Remember A.J.?" Sarcastically. "How's he doing these days? Is he out on bail, you think?"
I got out. Winced from the blast furnace heat in the parking lot. The driver's side door of the van creaked open, metal-on-metal. I dutifully slipped into the coveralls, gloves, and hat. The coveralls smelled of Nick Tahou garbage plate, french fry farts, and cigarette smoke and I wondered who had recently occupied them. Someone close to my size, thankfully. Coveralls without any room in the crotch, I would discover on another day, are basically useless.
I tapped the passenger window of her car. Luna lowered it an inch. A refreshing cool breeze, carrying the light floral scent of her deodorant, escaped through the gap.
“This van is full of gear,” I said.
“Forget about that. Only use the step ladder. Nothing else. Wear your work gloves at all times."
"But what about—"
"It's in the bag. No, don't open it here. Do it when you get to the supermarket."
I pointed, palm up, at the van, the bag, and lastly the coveralls, which I had the crawling-skin feeling someone else had been wearing a few minutes ago. "How did you…?"
"I called in a favor, OK? Get moving, Price Check. The van has to be back here in forty-four minutes. Undamaged. Nothing missing. Leave it here when you're done. Grab a bus. I don't care where you go. I'll text you with our next step.”
If traffic cooperated on 490 getting out of downtown, and 390 wasn't backed up with people running home to Greece or Gates, that would leave me 12 minutes at the supermarket. Fifteen if I was lucky.
"I gotta get to the other side of the river," I protested. "I can't make it in forty-four minutes."
She had the car in gear, hand on the steering wheel, foot on the brake pedal. She leaned across the seat. Pushed up her sunglasses. Her eyes smoldered behind black eyeliner.
"I saw your fight," she said. "I was running late from paying back a favor and I was in the supermarket later than usual. I saw you dive in to save Miller. You did it without your glasses. Legally blind. Don't even know how to fight. And you went in anyway. And wrestled A.J. to the ground. Couldn't have been easy taking down a combat vet. But you did it."
"What are you saying?"
"You're taller than you think, Price Check."
She flipped her sunglasses down and sped out of the parking lot.
Please like this post if you enjoyed reading it. I’d love to hear your comments, too!
Use the Previous and Next buttons at the end of each post to navigate through all posts on My Favorite Suspects, or use the Story Guide for an overview of this book and list of all chapters.
Stay tuned for the next chapter!