Chapter 22 Say Cheese
say cheese
Liam
The girl next door has left for work. I’m about to do the same. If work is allaying Christian Barone’s worries, or exacerbating them.
I throw the brownies in a plastic zip-top bag and slide them into the Harley’s saddlebag, aware of the leather glove I’m wearing hitting the band on my ring finger. The point of wearing it is so I don’t notice I’m wearing it. How long will this take?
My first tat took a while to stop staring at, but soon enough it was second skin. Next time—if there ever is a next time, marriage may not be in my cards—I’m having the ring tatted on permanently and never worrying about the jewelry.
The app on my phone confirms Lorien’s front and back deadbolts are locked. I programmed them to auto lock last night after I hung up with Ayla. Mine are too. I need to do the same with the door to her garage and get that garage door add-on done. I’ll do that when I return.
I’m pulling the Harley out of the garage into the alley, when I notice a suspicious vehicle behind the last house in our row.
It’s not moving. But someone is inside. It’s not an SUV owned by anyone in this row, that much I know since I dug into each of them when I bought, and any who have purchased or rented since.
Verifying the camera on my Harley is recording, I turn my bike toward the offending vehicle and wait until the garage door has gone all the way down.
I rarely go down the alley in this direction.
My townhome is on the end, and it’s a clear shot out, but suspicion raises the hair on my arms. I’d rather confront it head on than avoid it.
I drop the mask on my helmet, blacking out my identity and give myself enough throttle to announce my path.
I slow enough to record the front plate, the vehicle make and model, and the man staring straight at Lorien’s unit.
I tap his window and use my hand to gesture he should move along. He stares back, trying to look intimidating, but seeing nothing. I know because it’s the best helmet money can buy, and part of that is the privacy visor.
When he refuses, I tap the side of my helmet. “Call Jefferson County sheriff’s department non-emergency line,” I enunciate every word.
When connected, I give the receptionist my name and address, all the details I have on the man and vehicle and ask for patrol units to be dispatched. Once I receive confirmation, I leave the alley, but only to turn onto the front road, snaking my way down the next row and killing my Harley.
I wait until there’s been what seems to be enough time and walk back around the corner to see the man down the alley, breaking into Lorien’s garage door with a crowbar.
Let the man hang himself.
It’s not what I want to do. Instead, I wait and watch, letting the cameras I set up record the whole thing. In the meantime, I deflate both of his rear tires and allow the front driver one to meet a nail it hadn’t seen. That’ll be a slow leak. How inconvenient.
I can’t wait any longer, I dial 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Liam Murphy.” I give my full address and phone number. “I called the non-emergency line about a suspicious man earlier who was loitering in my back alley. The man is now attempting to break into my garage with a crowbar. Please send units immediately.”
“Units are en route. Do not engage.”
“I have camera footage showing his breaking and entering. Where should I send it or is it better directed to my attorney?”
She gives me an email, and I quickly memorize it.
“How far out? And how many units?”
“One and seven minutes.”
“I don’t have seven minutes.” I disconnect, ignoring the return call ringing in my helmet.
Once the man has entered the garage, we have evidence of trespassing. That and the vandalism should be enough. He’s through and into the backyard working on the backdoor when I catch up to him. Dumbass could’ve hopped the fence faster. That is, if he’d had any upper arm or ab strength at all.
I run, tackling him, helmet to shoulder blades and pin him to the ground. He squirms and rotates so he’s no longer face down. Stupid, stupid man. Incapacitated is one thing. It’s annoying and inconvenient and would’ve meant he left here embarrassed.
As it is, he’s scrapping, trying to find purchase against a leather jacket with armor in it, a helmet meant to protect me against falls at speed.
And, of course, the gloves. Unless he thinks to go for the thighs, he’s shit out of luck.
For a moment I wonder why smart criminals are so few and far between.
There are brilliant thieves out there. But the B&E crew are common thugs.
The sirens must reenergize him because he flails and grabs, eventually slinking away into too loose a hold.
We don’t need another lawsuit. Why should I have to tell myself these things? I could headbutt his jaw, but this helmet and that weak chin makes for problems. Instead, I fold his thumbs back to his forearms. It’ll hurt, but there will be no permanent injuries.
This is how the deputy finds us… Me on top of him, straddling his hips, thumbs tucked into his wrists as he screams.
The deputy draws his weapon, pivoting between me and the actual criminal, and orders me to stand down.
Stepping off, I plop both my hands atop my helmet, watching the criminal scramble and run, and the deputy let him.
My arms are jerked behind me and my helmet ripped off my head, catching an earring.
“You have the right to remain silent.”
As that comedian once said, But I don’t have the ability. “I’m Liam Murphy, the homeowner. I called in the B&E. And the suspicious person lurking before that. I was defending my home, and you let the actual perpetrator walk away.”
“You have the right to an attorney.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” My anger is rising, bubbling to the surface.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Say cheese for the cameras.” With that, I shut up. When I sue the county and this deputy personally, it will all be available and public record. His incompetence, his refusal to listen or even remember the call from dispatch, his willingly letting criminals walk free.
My helmet remains in the grass of the back yard as the deputy walks me to the squad car, protecting my head from the door frame as blood trickles down my neck. “Please drop the garage door.”
He ignores that as well as he whisks me to the station.
Lorien
It’s rare when my head isn’t in the game at work. This is my safe space, the place I’m allowed to be me with no hesitancy, no parameters, no pretense. Just me, my science brain, and scads of data.
But today has been brutal. So much so, that I made my excuses and left.
Punctual, dependable Lorien Anderson left work because she couldn’t focus.
This is alternate universe type stuff. I can’t say I’ve ever had a day like today.
Sure, I could’ve stayed and milked the time.
But my paid time off bucket is on the verge of being capped as it is.
That won’t change by much with today’s four hours or the day I take off next weekend for Strider’s thing.
Speaking of, I owe him a call. I’m about to dial him when my phone rings. My phone never rings. Mom and Dad call every other Sunday night. Maybe a telemarketer here and there, but real people? Nope.
The display shows a local number. I’m cautious, but curious.
“Hello?”
“Lorien? It’s Ayla.”
Okay. “Hi, Ayla. How are you?”
“Have you seen Liam?”
“No. Why?”
“He was supposed to come over this morning.” The clock shows it’s after one in the afternoon. “It’s not like him to no show. And he’s not answering his phone.”
My gut twists. “I haven’t seen him since last night. Any chance he overslept?”
Her voice drops and worry laces her tone. “I don’t think so. I was going to drive by your house, but… Well, Christian is protective and now’s not the time to go all Destiny’s Child on him.”
“Huh?”
“It’s an old song from that Charlie’s Angels movie. Never mind.”
“No, I mean I got it, but why’s he overbearing?”
“Oh, he’s always overbearing. That’s his middle name. It’s the constant worrying that gets me.”
“I’m driving home now. I can let you know when I get there.”
“Please do. And if anything—”
“Don’t think like that. I really don’t have the bandwidth for more whacky and bizarre right now. I’m sure everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when it is.”
“Thanks, Lorien. Also, I’m totally bummed I wasn’t there last night.”
“Let’s see, you missed an epic meltdown, delicious tacos, and my mom’s Sand Tarts.”
“And the rest,” she whispers.
“Oh that? Yeah, that’s just paperwork though. Nothing special. But, Ayla, he bought me a ring.” The word dies on my tongue. His motorcycle is parked in front of a unit in our complex not too far away, but not near his or mine. “Does he have friends in the neighborhood?”
Ayla snorts. “Liam has family. If he has friends, he never hangs out with them that I know of, but I don’t know everything.”
“Women then?” The words are barely above a whisper as pain lances through me. He wouldn’t. He said no dating and he made the no-sex rule. He wouldn’t have sex with someone the morning after our paperwork, would he?
“No. Or not anymore.” The resolve in her voice is steely and I feel slightly better. “What’s going on, Lorien?”
“I don’t know.” I turn down the alley to see a tow truck pulling an older SUV by a chain onto a flat bed.
I have to reverse and go the other way to get into my garage.
“Just that unsettled feeling in my gut, like there are clues to a puzzle but no image to know what I’m supposed to be seeing. Does that make sense?”
“More than you know.”
“Ayla.” I can’t stop the fear in my voice as I round the alley from Liam’s side. “My garage door is ripped aside, like in half, and the door to the yard is open. I can see light shining through. Both were closed when I left this morning.”
“Get out of there,” she says urgently, just as someone pulls in behind me.
“I’m trapped.” The words are barely above a whisper. “The alley is blocked on both sides. I’m trapped.”