Chapter Thirty-Three
THIRTY-THREE
Callahan
“Do you know why I’ve pulled you over today, sir?” the trooper—Dominic Vincenti, according to the name tag pinned to the chest of his light blue uniform shirt—asks after handing me back my license and registration.
My initial conclusion while he was running my ID was that Vincenti somehow saw the goose in the backseat as I passed by and clocked it as contraband.
But between the slight tint of the window, the quilt still covering part of it, and the unlikelihood of this particular state trooper knowing much about bird law, I am probably just being paranoid.
It’s with a great wave of relief that seems counterintuitive to the circumstances that I realize that I was almost definitely speeding. “No?” I try anyway.
“You were going seventy-six miles per hour. The limit here is sixty-five.”
“Oh. Well. Shit. I didn’t realize.” I consider mentioning that there hadn’t been a sign in several miles, or that I was only going along with the flow of traffic, but I’m certain he hears both excuses frequently enough that it will annoy him much more than it will help my case.
“It’s your job as a driver to realize,” he says.
“Yes. I understand that.”
“Good. Now, I saw that you haven’t been stopped for anything more than a burned-out tag light in the last five years. Since you don’t seem to make a habit of this, Mr. Leitner, I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I need you to be more aware of the posted speed limit going forward.”
“Of course. I will. Thank you.” I take the proffered warning slip from his hand.
“You have a good day, and drive safe,” he says as he turns toward his police cruiser.
But before I can even exhale the breath I’ve been anxiously keeping bottled up in my lungs, Vincenti stops midstep beside my car.
My heart jumps up my throat as he cups his hands around his eyes and leans against the glass of the back window. He reappears beside me.
“S-something the matter?” I ask.
“Mr. Leitner, is that a goose in your backseat?”
I consider lying, but he’s obviously seen the damn thing. “Yes.”
“A dead one?”
“Er, yes.”
“And do you have the proper permit for that?”
“I…do not happen to have that available at the moment. But it’s okay! I can explain. I’m actually on my way to the American Museum of Natural History, up in New York City. It’s theirs. I’m returning it to their collections.”
He holds up a hand, signaling me to stop talking. Which is probably in my best interest anyway.
“Sorry, I’m not following. If it belongs to a museum, how did you come to have it in your possession?”
“Well, that’s, um, kind of a long story. And a funny one. Sort of. Kind of. Maybe? Depends on your sense of humor, I suppose. I know mine tends toward arny—irony, I mean—so I think it’s—”
“My fiancée is an avid birder, Mr. Leitner.”
“That’s…nice. Great hobby. Good way to spend more time outdoors.”
“She’s also a paralegal for an environmental law firm. And one of the things we chatted about on our first date was this thing called the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of…nineteen…something or other. Do you know about that?” he asks.
“Ah. I do, yes.”
“So you’re aware that possessing a taxidermy migratory bird is illegal?”
“Yes. I’m an antique dealer, so I know that it’s illegal under most circumstances. But you see, this particular goose was stolen from—”
“I’m sorry, did you just say it was stolen?”
“Not by me!” Oh god. I am bungling this so badly.
I wish Annie were here. She would be so much better at explaining this bizarre situation, probably charming the hell out of Trooper Vincenti in the process.
Or maybe she’d just be smart enough to have kept her mouth shut from the beginning.
Meanwhile, I am actively digging my own grave.
“It’s been missing from the museum for sixty-something years, so I might have it in my possession, but I am clearly not the one who took it originally. ”
“So you’re admitting to trafficking in stolen goods?”
“No! That’s not—”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
“But I—”
“Sir.”
I hold up my hands in anxious capitulation. “Okay, okay. I’m getting out. But this is all a misunderstanding,” I say desperately. “I promise you, I can explain everything.”
Vincenti opens my door and steps back to allow me to exit the Suburban. “And I’m sure everyone will be excited to hear all about it back at the station.”
As Vincenti—as gently as one can, at least—turns me around, handcuffs me, and recites my rights, I think back to that first day I walked into Virtu and attempted to commit larceny.
How ironic that Graham spared me from arrest only for it to happen anyway a couple decades later, and over something so absolutely ridiculous that probably would never have occurred had he not originally taken me in.
Artful Dodger, indeed.