Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [65]
“Hello there,” St. Pierre said when Brixton returned the call. “And how are you, sir?”
“Not bad. You called.”
“As a matter of fact I did. I have good news for you.”
“I’m always up for good news.”
“We’ve found your missing camera and recorder.”
Brixton swung his feet off the desk and straightened up in his chair. “Where?”
“A pawnshop in the Lamara Heights district.”
“You canvassed them?”
“Not exactly. We did put out a bulletin to pawnshops describing the missing items. That doesn’t usually amount to anything, but this particular law-abiding owner called and said he had them. Obviously looking for the citizen-of-the-year award.”
“When did this happen?” Brixton asked.
“This morning. I thought you’d want to come with me to talk with the owner.”
“Yeah, I’d like that very much.”
St. Pierre gave him the address and they agreed to meet there in a half hour.
The pawnshop was in a row of seedy one-story buildings that had gone through a succession of owners and small businesses; gentrification wasn’t spoken there yet. St. Pierre and Brixton arrived at the same time and entered the shop, where a wizened old man stood behind a small counter protected by Plexiglas panels. St. Pierre announced who they were and why they were there and they were buzzed into the owner’s cramped domain. Brixton’s eyes immediately went to his briefcase and its contents, which were displayed on what passed for a desk.
“That’s it?” St. Pierre asked.
“Sure is,” Brixton replied, picking up the camera. “They never even took this off,” he said, referring to his name label that was still affixed to it.
“Who brought this stuff in?” St. Pierre asked the owner.
“Vinnie.”
“Vinnie who?”
“I don’t know his last name. He’s a homeless guy who hangs around the neighborhood, has his hand out all the time, checks out Dumpsters and the like.”
“Know where we can find him?” asked St. Pierre.
“Probably out on the street someplace.”
While Brixton examined the contents of his briefcase, St. Pierre continued asking questions. “Did this fellow Vinnie say where he’d gotten it?”
“Said he found it in a Dumpster. Like I said, he checks them out and—”
“And you didn’t question him?”
“Sure I did. I asked where he got such a good camera and recorder. He just said he found them in a Dumpster. I gave him a few bucks—a lot less than the equipment is worth—and figured I’d gotten a good deal. That’s what I’m in business for, to find good deals. Anyway, I took them in and was going to display them when I got the message from the cops.” He looked at St. Pierre over his half-glasses. “From law enforcement,” he corrected. “As soon as I got that message I called in. I’m a good citizen, always have been.”
St. Pierre filled out a form indicating that he’d taken possession of the items and handed it to the owner. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you,” he said. “In the meantime, how about we take a swing around the neighborhood and find this Vinnie character.”
“I can’t leave the shop.”
St. Pierre looked left and right. “Doesn’t look to me like they’re breaking down your doors. Come on now. We find Vinnie and you can come back.”
Brixton placed the camera, recorder, and other items into the briefcase and followed them outside. The owner locked the door and got into the back of St. Pierre’s unmarked car. Brixton took the front passenger seat.
It took them less than five minutes to locate Vinnie. They spotted him sitting on the sidewalk in front of a vacant storefront a few blocks away. St. Pierre parked and got out of the car. Brixton joined him, leaving the pawnshop owner in the vehicle.
“Hello there, Vinnie,” St. Pierre said with a smile. “Hot day, isn’t it?”
Vinnie, who was probably younger than he looked—living on the street and foraging for food aged a guy fast—peered up at St. Pierre and Brixton through bloodshot eyes. His face was grimy beneath his stubble, his chino pants urine stained, his torn red T-shirt filthy. He wore heavy winter boots despite the oppressive heat.
St. Pierre motioned