Chapter 7
Tessa
“You’re saying there were twenty-three luxury vehicle thefts in the past six weeks in the Rockwood area alone?”
Steve Haynes sounds incredulous. I have to admit, that sounds like an awfully high number for a relatively low-density area of the city.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Detective Zuri Warner confirms with a slight edge to her tone.
She seems a bit offended her claim was questioned.
Or perhaps something else is going on between these two. There has been a definite tension since Haynes and I were greeted by the young, gorgeous, willowy detective in charge of the theft case. The woman makes me feel every single one of my forty-something years.
I ignore the two trying to stare down the other, and focus on the printouts Zuri shared with us. Twenty-three vehicles, ranging from a MINI Cooper convertible to a Cadillac Celestiq, which apparently is the most expensive vehicle made in the U.S.
Detective Warner had also provided a detailed map of the neighborhood, marking each location of the thefts with the date.
“You think these are all connected,” I observe, studying the map.
“I do. If you look at the dates, you’ll see the thefts occurred in clusters of two or three around the same date, but in different areas of the neighborhood.
” She points at the different “clusters” as she calls them.
“I think they probably occurred on the exact same day at the same time, but on different streets to spread the risk.”
That would make sense—hedging their bets—but that would imply something more organized. I’m about to point that out when she beats me to it.
“Of course that would suggest more than one perpetrator and requires some coordination. I’m pretty sure we’re talking about a targeted gang.
The information we have from the victims also suggests there was some surveillance done on the locations.
Most of the exterior security cameras were disabled one way or another.
It appears a signal jammer may have been used in some cases where wireless cameras were installed.
In other locations they sprayed paint to obscure the view, or they somehow managed to change the direction the camera was aimed in.
I’m pretty sure those vehicles were loaded into some enclosed trailer, to be shipped off to God knows where to be sold.
All of it suggesting some preparation went into these thefts. ”
“So, there’s some money behind it as well,” Haynes concludes.
“I would think so. This isn’t some dinky operation by a few teenagers run amok,” Warner agrees.
“They were also thinking when they picked the neighborhood. Houses and even streets are spread out, with a ton of mature trees, providing a pretty thick canopy. The whole operation is well organized, well executed. Despite the clear patterns, we have little to no information to go on. Only in four of the thefts were we able to get some video feed, and most of it is useless.”
She turns on a large screen TV mounted on the wall of the meeting room she showed us into. Then she returns her attention to the laptop on the table, hits a few buttons, and suddenly a grainy image appears on the TV.
The next ten minutes she takes us through the four video clips, all grainy, and all at a fair distance from the actual theft. In three of them we see no more than a glimpse of a dark figure, before the targeted vehicles back up or turn onto the street and drive off.
But the last video she showed us gave up a little more.
In it we get a better image of the figure, who appears to be dressed in dark clothing.
There is one moment in this clip where the perp turns his head in the direction of the camera—perhaps alerted by some sound—and for just a moment, we get a closer look at the guy.
“Wait!” Haynes barks as he surges to his feet and walks up to the TV screen. “Rewind and freeze it.”
I’m not sure what he thinks he sees, most of the suspect’s face is covered by a dark balaclava, leaving only the eyes visible.
“Can you zoom in on his eyes?”
Detective Warner does as he asks, but it does little to improve the quality of the footage.
“There.”
Haynes points at the screen, his index finger indicating the person’s left eyebrow.
“It’s him. His mother mentioned he got a baseball to the face in high school that left a scar.”
“Ryan Wells?” I ask, standing up myself to get a closer look at what Steve Haynes is pointing at.
“Yes. Look, you can’t see the color but you can tell he’s got the light-colored eyes. His physical description matches, so does the scar. This is Ryan.”
“When was this footage taken?” I ask Zuri.
She consults her file before lifting her eyes to me. “Two days before the missing person report was filed.”
I nod, a few puzzle pieces falling into place. Nowhere near a full picture, but something to work with.
“Play the video,” I suggest.
We watch the TV as Ryan disappears under the cover of some low-hanging branches obscuring the driveway. Moments later, we see the back of a vehicle roll into view.
“I’ll be damned,” Haynes mutters under his breath.
On the screen a familiar Mustang turns onto the street.
If I didn’t have kids to feed at home, I likely would’ve stayed in Spokane for the night.
It feels like the case is gaining some momentum. There are still a ton of questions, but it looks like Spokane and the surrounding area may be where we’ll find our answers, and I don’t want to miss anything.
Despite not getting off to a good start, Warner and Haynes plan to work together to once again have a closer look at Ryan’s circles.
Someone has to know something. They plan to interview his friends again, but this time bring them into the station and see if that might shake loose some more information.
I’ll be exploring the car theft angle closer to home.
There’s a reason that Mustang ended up on an abandoned mountain logging road, smack-dab in the middle of our county.
It’s easily an hour’s drive from the city, where it was stolen.
It makes me think perhaps this car theft ring operation is wider spread than just Spokane and the surrounding area.
My first step in the morning will be contacting sheriff’s departments in neighboring counties. I’d like to have a look at any car theft reports to see if perhaps there are any parallels.
The other thing I want to look into is the possibility that those stolen vehicles were taken from the greater Spokane area to a less densely populated or policed area to be processed.
Often times these stolen luxury vehicles are stripped of identifiable markings and shipped overseas to foreign markets.
It would require a location that could facilitate a larger number of vehicles, and would have to, at least occasionally, see tractor trailers with shipping containers coming and going.
Perhaps an abandoned manufacturing plant or a large farm facility.
It’s already dark by the time I hit the highway.
I’ll probably get home too late to get an organized dinner on the table, so I hope the boys looked after themselves.
There should be food in the fridge, I’m pretty sure we had a few frozen pizzas in the freezer, and they can always make themselves a sandwich.
Still, I give Linc a quick call to check in.
“Yo, Momma. What’s up?”
My firstborn has his father’s deep voice.
Luckily, any resemblance starts and ends there.
Linc is far from perfect—I’m not blind to the flaws of either of my boys—but he’s a good kid with a good heart, who suffers from a surplus of confidence and a healthy dose of selfishness.
Remi is more complex; he is more tenderhearted, was far more impacted by family dynamics, and has big feelings I don’t think he knows what to do with.
Linc is one of those kids who’ll likely always end up on his feet with his cocky charm, whereas I see Remi struggling at every crossroads he meets.
“Checking in, buddy. I’m just on my way back from a meeting in Spokane and didn’t notice ’til now how late it is already. I hope you guys found something to eat.”
“I don’t know about the brat, but I made grilled cheese.”
“Please, don’t call your brother that, Linc,” I admonish him.
He loves to poke at Remi, and calling him a brat usually does the trick. It wouldn’t be the first time it ends in a physical altercation when I’m not around to intervene, and I won’t stand for that.
“Relax,” my eldest moderates. “He’s not even home.”
For a brief moment I panic, but then I remember he was supposed to be out with Clem this afternoon, heading to some junkyard.
“I’ll give him a call. Are you staying in?”
“Yeah, I’ve got to get started on an essay due tomorrow.”
I shake my head and groan.
“And you’re just starting now?”
“I’ve got it all in my head, Momma. No worries.”
That kid, always walking the edge. So far he’s gotten away leaving shit until the very last minute—he still scores high marks—but I’m pretty sure next September when he starts college, this lack of work ethic will come and bite him in the ass.
He ends the call before I can remind him of that.
I immediately dial Remi’s number but, after several rings, I’m bumped to his voicemail. If he’s still with Clem and on the road, they may simply have hit a pocket without cell reception.
His recorded message greets me.
“Yo, you know what to do.”
“Hey, kiddo. Give me a call when you get this. I’m on my way home and just checking in.”
When I haven’t heard back a while later, I try him again, with the same result. I briefly contemplate calling Clem, but I don’t want to be that helicopter mom. I’ll wait until I hear.
I don’t have to wait long. My phone rings just when I approach my highway exit, but it’s not Remi…it’s Clem.
Something in my stomach pinches as I answer.
“Hey, is—”
“Tessa, where are you?” he asks.
That small pinch abruptly turns into a forceful punch, robbing me of air, at the carefully moderated tone of his voice.
“Turning off the highway. What’s wrong? Where is Remi?”
“I’d like you to pull over for a minute.”
All the blood rushes to my head with the realization I’m about to get bad news, but I stubbornly keep my foot firmly on the gas.
“Fucking tell me where my son is,” I bite off, gritting my teeth.
“He’s being looked after and I’m with him at the hospital. I found him in the alley behind the firehouse; it looks like he may have been attacked. I brought him straight here.”
“Attacked? How? How bad?”
“I’m not sure what happened. Whoever it was did a number on him, he was out when I got to him.
My head is spinning as wildly as my stomach is, trying to grasp what is happening, but professional muscle memory comes to the rescue.
“I need to go. I need to call the station right away.”
“Wait!” he calls out. “I already called, and Hugo just walked in.”
“Tessa?” Hugo’s voice takes over.
“Yeah.”
“Are you driving?”
“Yeah.”
I can’t seem to manage much more as I try to block my mind from conjuring up horrible images of my boy’s injured body.
“I need you to pull over right now and I’ll send a patrol car to pick you up.”
My response is immediate and firm.
“No. There’s no way I’m going to sit on the side of the road and wait God knows how long for one of the guys to get out here when I am less than ten minutes out,” I snap.
“Tessa…”
“Not happening, Hugo. You get on finding whoever the fuck did this to my boy, and put me back on the phone with Clem.”
There’s a brief rustle and some muted voice before Clem is back on the line.
“It’s me.”
“Good. Stay on the line with me. I need to know what is happening.”
My hands are clenched around the steering wheel, turning my knuckles white, as I concentrate hard on the road in front of me.
When Clem responds, his voice is low and surprisingly calming.
“You bet. I’m right here, honey.”