My Favorite Suspects: Part 5
Men are only as far from our base instincts as an edge is from a blade.
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?
The Thursday shift ended, which meant that it was Friday morning. I had today and tomorrow left to find Ghost.
I watched the shift-change ritual from the manager's office windows: Miller and the day shift manager walking the store. Reviewing inventory counts. Checking the cigarette case.
Miller glaring up at me through the camera.
No sign of Ghost.
I rode the bus home.
Who was Ghost? The needle leaned toward Luna, and that didn't sit well with me. I also hoped it wasn't A.J.
My brother messaged me. I called from the bus.
"I'm worried about the people," he said.
"What people?" I said, weary of this conversation but not giving it away in my voice.
"The Amtrak train. It's late.
"This happens."
"The people are waiting. They're sad."
My brother could see the tracks from his bedroom window. He lived in an assisted living place in Henrietta. I set it up for him after Mom died. That's where my parent's life insurance went: assisted living, doctors, health care, meds. I hoped he wouldn't get wound up about the damn train. Sometimes he would break things, like PlayStations, which I'd have to replace.
"That's not your problem," I said. "We talked about this with Dr. What's-her-name."
"The people want to get home. It's not fair for them. I mean, they can just get on the train when they want to, right?"
"You know they can't get on the train if it's not there."
"I don't want the train to be late. I don't want all those people being sad."
"You can't worry about them. You have no control over them. Or the train."
He didn't answer for a while. I scrolled through Luna's web site on my phone. She had all kinds of stuff for sale. I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe clues. I barely understood how investigations worked.
"I hear the train!" my brother said, letting out a relieved breath. "I can hear the horn. It's coming. I hear the people. They're happy. They're all going to make it home. Safe and sound."
"You can hear them?"
"Yes. I have to go now. The RTS shuttle bus is leaving for work. It's the red one with the good driver."
He ended the call before I could respond.
I found an odd photo on Luna's site. She sat on the edge of a theater stage, bare feet crossed, leaning back on her hands, smiling a crooked smile at the camera. She had her hair in a pixie cut, black powder smeared across her cheeks, and she wore a collar-less shirt, waistcoat, wool pants. She looked like a Dickensian pickpocket.
Maybe she was Ghost and I didn't want to admit it.
A reminder popped up on my phone: the church picnic. A.J. said it would be Friday afternoon. I'd forgotten.
A.J. sounded pleased when I texted that I wanted to go. An unfamiliar feeling popped up at the end of that thought, one I would identify later as cynicism: the feeling that as a deacon, it made him look good to gather lost sheep to the flock.
A.J. assured me Vanessa would be there.
I made a "baa" noise under my breath.
He picked me up at the planetarium. His mom's SUV rocked three rows of seats and ice-cold AC. I sprawled in the front passenger's seat. Sometimes I forgot I was tall until I had room to spread out.
He drove with both hands on the wheel. Sitting at attention. I figured that's how ex-military guys drove. He never once checked his phone. That watch rested proudly on his wrist, almost too bright to look at.
"Gotta stop at my mom's house," he said. "Can you help me load up stuff for the picnic?"
The sun beat down on my side of the SUV and I wished I could afford prescription sunglasses. A.J. streamed contemporary Jesus music through the speakers, the kind of music that has the arrangements, instruments, and rhythms of what you'd hear on normal radio stations, but instead of covering some aspect of the human experience, all the songs are about this one special guy who's better than free ice cream and never, ever lets you down. Not my style but I had my mind on other matters. Specifically, which smooth lines I could use on Vanessa, the unobtainable princess of the day shift. Vanessa Butterfield, whom everyone on night crew called Vanessa Butterthighs, because men are only as far from our base instincts as an edge is from a blade.
The weathered office buildings and Victorians of downtown Rochester gradually shifted to worn-out strip malls, and then to a rat-warren suburb of Cape Cods. A.J. backed the SUV into the driveway of his mom's house. It was a modest home with enough of a back yard for two sons. I glimpsed a rusty swing set beyond a tall wooden fence.
He pushed a sweaty can of RC Cola into my hand and said, "Could you get the big insulated chest in the garage by the back corner?" He strutted into the house, a young man who didn't want for money. Who had Jesus, Friday picnics, and women like Vanessa.
Why would he lift cartons of Luxury Kings at 2 am from a supermarket?
The garage door was locked. I went in the side door. Typical two-car layout. Oil splotches on the concrete floor. Metal shelving. Workbench of 2x4s and plywood. His dad, he'd mentioned, had been handy. Well-worn tools hung on pegboards above the bench.
The chest wasn't were he said it would be.
I sipped the cola and looked around.
A narrow tire poked out from underneath a tarp. I pulled aside the tarp to reveal a grimy chrome wheel, the twin tubes of a motorcycle front fork, low-slung handlebars, and the rest of a Harley Davidson with a solo saddle, straight pipes, sweeping fenders.
It smelled of gasoline, leather, and cigarettes.
At the time, I'd only started thinking about motorcycles as a way of getting around and making myself more interesting to women. I had no idea what bikes felt like, let alone what they smelled like. I only knew Harleys weren't cheap.
I eased my leg over the saddle.
I'd never mounted a bike. I lifted my foot too high and too far over so that my foot hit the shelf on the other side. I knocked over boxes. They didn't make much noise, thankfully. I quickly dismounted. I picked up the boxes. They held empty plastic pots for gardening, work gloves, and a pair of mud-stained sneakers.
Behind those boxes were more boxes.
The top of a cigarette carton poked out from a large box.
I pulled that box out.
Inside were empty cigarette cartons, flattened and crammed together, and a few loose packs. I barely made out the names on the cartons in the dim light of the garage: Luxury Kings.
From behind me, I heard A.J. clear his throat.
I slowly turned and began to stammer my way through an explanation.
A.J. interrupted with a slow shake of his head.
“Surprise." He slipped his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and chuckled softly. “The Jesus freak has secret sins."
"I thought…"
"Trying to quit? I am, my friend. I'm working on it with the help of Jesus. Because I can’t do it alone. No one can.”
"No, I mean I thought…"
"Go on. Ask," A.J. said, quietly, holding his palms up, surrendering. "I'll admit, I invited you to this picnic so I could witness to you, brother. I know you've been going through some rough times after your mom died, so I wanted to share some of my story with you and hope that would inspire you. So go ahead. Ask away."
I took a deep breath and said, “Are you Ghost?”
He tilted his head. “Who in God's great name is Ghost?"
"A shoplifter. Been hitting the store almost weekly. We can't catch him. Not even on the cameras. Whoever's doing it knows the store and how we work. Has to be a regular customer. And prefers to take these." I held up a pack of Luxury Kings.
"Why do you think I'm a thief?”
"You're hiding these."
"Everyone's hiding something, brother. Doesn't mean I'm a thief. Just means I'm human."
I swallowed hard. "Where did you get that watch?" I said, voice shaky. "Where'd you get this motorcycle? How much does the church pay deacons?"
"The watch was my grandpa's. The motorcycle was my father's. Beast doesn't run, anyway, or my mom and I would've sold it by now."
He didn't sound upset or irritated. He seemed happy to answer my questions. I don't know how he managed that.
"The pay for a deacon isn't much. The Lord provides." He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "My mom's an IT project manager. And my dad had a big policy."
"Why hide cigarettes here?"
"Are you kidding? My mom would kill me."
From the cool confidence in his voice to the aw-shucks way he stood, leaning against a shelf, hands in pockets, it seemed like he had nothing more to hide.
A.J. took the box of cigarettes, replaced it on the shelf, then carefully arranged the other boxes to conceal it. As he put the finishing touches on his deception, he said, "Terry, you come to the picnics. You hang with me and my friends. You've been to my church. What's holding you back from your faith?"
"It's complicated."
A.J. sat on the motorcycle with practiced ease. "There's different kinds of Christians, you know. There's the kind that carry around a Bible, go to church, put the fish sticker on their car, and listen to Christian radio, but inside they haven't changed one bit. Then there's the kind that sweat out their place in the Kingdom every day. Wrestle with what the Lord tells 'em. Work on themselves, you know? Try to make themselves strong in faith." He leaned his forearms on the handlebars and pressed his calloused hands together as if in prayer. "I'm the second kind. If you think I don't struggle, well, I struggle every day. My eyes wander. My body betrays me. I fight to walk the narrow path. So… I know when I see a lost brother." He sat up and adjusted that big watch on his wrist, thinking. "You're lost, Terry. Have you tried asking yourself some hard questions? You might see that you could be Ghost, too."
I laughed awkwardly. "I don't smoke."
"You sure?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you talking to Luna last night. In the parking lot. I saw the way you looked at her. You think you're above it all, right now, but I gotta tell you, you're one step away from falling into the pit, man."
A few months ago, his words would've moved me. However, after trailing employees and customers, I found myself reading our conversation from different angles. What did he want from me? Was he trying to confuse me? Was he distracting me from something I hadn't even thought of?
Everyone's hiding something, brother.
I rubbed my eyes. My headache, at least, was genuine. I made up an excuse and started for the garage door.
"I got my eye on you, brother," A.J. said. He touched his cross and held up his hand, another benediction. "When you're ready to talk, you know where to find me."
He lowered his hand and lit up a cigarette.
I took an Uber back to my place, polished off a six-pack of Genny Cream Ale and fell asleep to home renovation shows.
Tomorrow, someone was going down: Luna, A.J., or me.
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