But a fast-talking lawyer had gotten the attempted burglary charge thrown out of court, and Jeff knew it was only a matter of time before Tanninger would be leaning on him again. One of the daggers’ leaves had missed slicing out Tanninger’s eye by a gnat’s breadth, leaving a deep scar along his cheekbone. Jeff, on his way to Murley’s Used Cars every weekend, had to bike right past the Exxon where Tanninger pumped gas.
Packet had returned from the squad car with a pair of thin rubber gloves. Now he slipped them on and grasped the Jaguar’s door handle. The door swung open.
“Guess you won’t need the slim jim,” Murley said. “And look there, the keys’re hanging right there in the ignition.”
The officer removed the keys before copying down the chassis number and strolling across the shell drive to call it in.
Turning on the hand vac, Jeff ran it over the Chevy’s floor mats, hoping the noise would keep Murley from asking why the car’s detailing was taking so long. He watched the side mirror until he saw the officer’s reflection returning, then clicked off the vac and began polishing the inside glass.
“No report on any stolen Jaguar,” the officer said, glaring at Murley like maybe he thought somebody was pulling his leg. “Computer’s running the body number.”
Murley swiveled the carrot to the other side of his face. “Suppose nobody claims it? Guess by rights that makes it mine, wouldn’t you say?”
The officer didn’t say anything, his smirk indicating he thought Murley was a card or two shy of a full deck. He leaned inside the Jaguar to look around, not touching anything, then squatted to run his gloved hand under the driver’s seat and came out with a pint-size bottle of Wild Turkey. Holding it up by two fingers, he checked the contents — half empty — and put the bottle back where he found it.
“Don’t make sense,” Murley said. “Anybody losing a car like this would be tearing up the police station trying to get it back.”
Once again the officer didn’t say anything. Jeff figured he agreed, though, that it was strange, the car’s loss not being reported.
“Unless the owner didn’t know the car was gone,” Murley added.
“What time did you open this morning?”
“Noon. Always open at noon on Saturdays and stay open till midnight. Folks buy a lot of cars after a Saturday night date, a nice meal and a few drinks.”
Jeff checked the Chevy’s dash clock. Nearly three thirty. Even a late sleeper should’ve noticed by now that his big-shot Jaguar was not parked where he left it.
The officer opened the passenger door, ran his hand under the seat, and came up empty. He opened the glove box, thumbed through the papers, closed it.
“You sure you didn’t take a peek inside here before calling it in? Maybe thinking one of your sales boys had played a little prank?”
“Hell, they ain’t got time for no pranks. They’re busy selling cars.” Murley pointed across the lot to where one of his salesmen was showing a Toyota to a young couple. His gaze fell on Jeff, sitting inside the Chevy, and he frowned. “Hey, boy! Come outa there.”
Jeff scrambled out. The police radio let out a loud squawk, and the cop went jogging toward the squad car.
Murley waved Jeff closer. The stumpy carrot between his fingers had turned brown and looked so much like a dead cigar that Jeff half expected smoke to curl up from it. After fishing a role of bills out of his pants pocket, Murley peeled off a twenty.
“Run over and get us some burgers. My stomach thinks I forgot how to chew.” He glanced at Packet, mike in hand, standing outside the squad car. “Get a couple for him, too.”
Jeff shoved the bill deep in his pocket, thinking it was just his luck the case would probably bust wide open while he was gone. He shuffled past the squad car, headed for his bike.
“Sangriff?” the officer was saying, writing it on his notepad. “S-a-n-g-r-i-f-f, Corland. You notified him his Jag turned up at Murley’s Used Cars?”
The radio squawked in reply, but Jeff was already on his bike and racing down the shell driveway.
Corland Big-shot Sangriff and Arnold Tanninger. Nobody would ever’ve paired those two. Jeff had seen Sangriff at the Exxon often enough, though, Tanninger airing the tires and checking the hood, golden boy Sangriff standing around with his hands in his pockets. The day after returning from one of his buying trips, Sangriff always turned up bright and early at the station, getting the Jaguar serviced.
Jeff wished he knew what Sis saw in the creep. If Dad were still around, he wouldn’t be taken in by the flashy car and designer clothes; he would’ve noticed Sangriff’s too-bright eyes after one of his long stints in the john. The day his father died, he’d made Jeff promise to take care of his older sister, but that was tough with Mom working against him, thinking Sangriff was Sis’s ticket to the good life.
Jeff slowed at a stop sign, checked both ways, and sailed through the intersection. Murley would be ticked off that he stopped at Jack-in-the-Box instead of going two blocks farther to Burger King, but Jeff could see the drive-through was empty. With luck, he could be in and out and back at Murley’s before anything important went down.
One more month and he’d be driving his own car right now. One month until his sixteenth birthday, when he’d be old enough to get his driver’s license. By then he’d have enough money socked away to buy that honey Mustang on the back lot — not on one of Murley’s sucker plans but straight-out cash. He’d miss the wind in his face and the music of his spoke flaps, but having his own car was a milestone right up there with finishing school and becoming a cop.
When he sailed into the car lot and braked beside the office, another squad car was parked on the shell drive, and Sangriff was climbing out of it. The rookie cop had the Jaguar’s trunk open.
“You must have a lot of tire trouble,” he said as Sangriff walked up. “Carrying around two spares.”
Sangriff grinned, teeth lined up and gleaming like new piano keys. “I spend a lot of time on the road late at night. Can’t be too careful.”
Jeff wandered closer, holding the bag of burgers. Besides the two tires, the trunk held a bumper jack, a pouch full of wrenches, and several boxes of odds and ends that belonged in a garage. One of the spares was a small emergency model, good for a few miles at best. The other was full size. Both were mounted on wheels that matched the four on the ground.
“That little doughnut won’t be doing you much good,” the cop said. “Got a hole in it as big as the one up front.”
Sangriff’s smile dimmed a notch. He walked to the front of the Jaguar to stare down at his ruined tire. A flicker of real anger hardened his mouth for a moment; then the lips pulled back and quirked up at the corners, and he turned on the old charm brighter than ever.
“I suppose I should count my blessings that the car wasn’t stripped. Isn’t that what usually happens?”
The officer from the second squad car, older and stockier than Packet, walked along the other side of the Jaguar, looking it over. Jeff wondered whether he was admiring the car or hanging around for more official reasons.
“This theft has a few other peculiarities,” Packet said. “You know a man named Arnold Tanninger?”
“Tanninger?” Sangriff hesitated an instant. “Yes, I suppose you could say I know him. He takes care of my car, changes the oil and keeps it roadworthy.”
“Tanninger’s been picked up for questioning,” the second cop contributed. “Heard it called in. He denies knowing anything about the theft.”
Jeff watched a bead of sweat travel down the side of Sangriff’s hairline. His golden tan seemed suddenly paler against the stark white of his shirt collar. He unbuttoned his snappy blue Italian sport coat and adjusted the knot of his signature tie.