The woman sank into the closest chair and clasped her hands together on the table. Looking into her face, Casey thought the poor woman was getting even less sleep than she.
Mrs. Halveston looked furtively around the library, as if expecting someone else to come jumping out of the stacks. “Why did you call me?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Casey said. “Why did you call back?”
Her mouth twitched. “I’m just…it’s just…”
“I know about Class A Trucking.”
Mrs. Halveston’s eyes filled with tears. “Class A Trucking.” It sounded like she wanted to spit. “What is it you know?”
“What do you want me to know?”
Mrs. Halveston reached into her purse and pulled out a wadded tissue, which she used to angrily wipe away tears. “It depends who you are, doesn’t it? If you’re with them, or if you’re not.”
“Class A?”
Mrs. Halveston waited, chin up, tissue clenched in her fingers.
“I’m certainly not with them, “ Casey said. “In fact, I’m doing everything in my power to stay away from them. But…I would like to catch them at whatever they’re doing and stop them.”
Mrs. Halveston sniffled, and held the tissue against her eyes for a few moments. When she looked back up she said, “They drove him to it, you know.”
Casey blinked. “Who? Drove him to what?”
“Patty.” Mrs. Halveston closed her eyes. “Poor man. I never thought he’d do it.”
Patty. “Pat Parnell. He killed himself?”
“Killed hims—No. Heavens, no. He just ran away. Left it all. Called Mick, said he was getting out, that he wasn’t up for it anymore. Left his truck at the lot and took off. He’s…he’s completely broken.”
Casey could’ve told her that.
“I’m not going to let them do that to Mick.”
Mick. “Tell me what’s going on, Mrs. Halveston. Please. I don’t understand.”
The woman gazed out the large window beside the table, which overlooked the back parking lot and the tops of several homes, but Casey didn’t think she was seeing anything other than her own thoughts. Casey kept herself from pushing—the woman would tell her story in her own time.
“Mick had…an accident. With his truck.” She glanced at Casey, and Casey nodded to show she knew of the crash that killed an entire family. “After that he couldn’t get work anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be driving with his condition, but driving truck is…it’s what he does.” She turned pleading eyes on Casey, and Casey tried to remain expressionless. While she felt sorry for Mick, she felt ten times sorrier for the family he’d killed when he’d known he had a potentially fatal medical condition.
“He could only find odd jobs,” Mrs. Halveston said. “I was clerking at the grocery store, but that wasn’t enough to pay the bills. He felt responsible, and he tried to find something different, really he did, but nothing came up. Class A called him. Said they were a new company and were willing to use him as a driver, even with his…shortcomings.”
Shortcomings that killed people. “So he took the job?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Halveston’s voice was a whisper now. “I tried to get him to say no, but he wanted to drive. Needed to drive. So I did what I could—I quit my job and said I was traveling with him wherever he went to make sure he didn’t…to make sure he was okay.”
So Class A Trucking hired a man who legally shouldn’t drive. Why? “How did they get around the legalities?” She asked, but she already knew.
Mrs. Halveston hiccupped. “They gave him false identification. A new driver’s license. Made his alter ego younger, healthier. He was so much happier than he’d been in the years since the accident. He was driving again, and everything was going great.”
And everyone on the road was in danger of being crushed when he fainted and his semi crashed. “What was his name on his new license?”
“Simon. Simon Rale.”
A match to one of the names in Evan’s packet. Casey wondered which names fit the other drivers. What had Pat Parnell’s fake name been? Hank Nance’s? And what was keeping them legally off the road?
“So,” she asked, “what happened? Why are you even talking to me?”
Mrs. Halveston pierced her with her eyes. “Because things didn’t stay great. First it was just a gift we had to deliver to the boss’ nephew across state lines. It was wrapped up all pretty in a bow. We didn’t think twice about it—we were just happy to help out, since Class A had helped us. We took it, and that was that…” She paused, looking down at the table.
“Until the next time,” Casey said.
Mrs. Halveston wouldn’t look up.
“And each time it got a little worse,” Casey continued, “and soon you were transporting things you knew were wrong. What was it? Weapons? Drugs?”
“Oh, no!” She did look up at that. “We would never—”
“What were you hauling?”
“Nothing illegal. Just TVs, and frozen cauliflower, and…whatever they wanted.”
“So the present to the nephew was just a test?”
Mrs. Halveston’s lips pinched into a hard line. “I guess. To see if we’d do what they asked without question. We’re not supposed to transport things, you know, other than what’s listed on the manifest.”
Just like they weren’t supposed to drive with a false license.
“So…I don’t understand. Why did they need to test you to see if you’d drive legitimate loads?”
Mrs. Halveston sighed heavily. “Because half the time they’re not legitimate.” Her shoulders slumped. “They’re stolen goods.”
“What?”
“It’s a huge money-maker, apparently.”
Crime often was. “How does it work?”
“A couple of ways. One is to simply show up at the warehouse with what looks like a real order. They load the merchandise onto your truck, and you leave. They don’t even know they gave it to the wrong person.”
“Don’t they recognize drivers?”
“Oh, honey, do you realize how many drivers there are?”
Tom had told her. What had he said? One and a half million trucks on the road at any given time? Which meant there were many more drivers than that.
“Some suppliers might use only the same drivers from the same trucking companies, but these guys would know that. They go for the places that see different faces every day. Besides, the drivers are driving for Class A Trucking, too, so if they seem familiar…” She shrugged. “It makes sense.”
“So Class A isn’t doing the stealing?”
“Not technically. When we drive a legitimate load it’s through Class A. When it’s stolen…we’re on our own as an independent driver.”
So for Class A’s real orders they would put the logo on their trucks. When they drove a bad shipment, they took it off. “What’s the other way to steal loads, other than just showing up and taking it?”
“Paperwork.”
“How so?”
Mrs. Halveston leaned her elbows on the table, her head sinking down. “It’s all so complicated. But if I sell you a load of soup and I don’t have soup, I’m going to have to get it from somewhere. I buy the soup from another place, get it, and then sell it to my customer at a mark-up.”
“Not exactly stealing.”
She gave a little laugh. “Not exactly. But my customer has no idea where I’m getting the soup, and the people selling me the soup don’t know I’m selling it again for a profit. They could be selling directly to my customer, but I’m getting in the way.”
“Sounds like regular business.”
“It could be if it were up front, I guess. But the way it’s done here, it’s harming both the original seller and the customer through a dishonest business practice. I told you it was hard to explain.”
But Casey did understand the term stealing. And she thought she knew what was going on with the drivers. “Class A hires drivers who can’t drive elsewhere, then blackmails them into hauling stolen goods.”