The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [47]
When I was done, the male officer took me aside. His nameplate said J. Botters. On the plus side of fifty, with leathery skin and thinning hair, he exuded the casualness of someone ready to retire.
“Show me where Jed ran off to,” Botters said.
I walked Botters down the street and showed him the route Jed had taken, and the arrow he’d shot at me. Botters pulled the arrow out of the fence.
“Think he was trying to kill you?” Botters asked.
“He was just trying to scare me off.”
“Want to go look for him?”
I had told Botters and his partner that I was an ex-cop. Maybe Botters had misconstrued that to mean I was prone to taking risks.
“Only if you go first,” I said.
Botters studied the arrow, then shook his head. We walked back to LeAnn’s house. I was holding the Ziploc containing Stone’s cell phone and underwear against my chest, and I handed Botters the bag. He studied the cell phone through the plastic.
“Most ladies won’t part with their phone and their undies,” Botters said. “Jed must have done something to her.”
“Do you know Jed?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said.
Botters’s partner appeared in the doorway of the house, beckoning him to join her. “Yes, dear,” Botters said.
His partner scowled and went inside.
“What can you tell me about him?” I asked.
“Jed’s a strange kid,” Botters said. “He’s been down to the station house fifty times for doing stupid things like loitering and creating a disturbance. It was sort of a running joke. He liked to stand in the booking area, and call us a bunch of fucking liars.”
“He called me that, too. Did he ever mention missing evidence from his father’s trial?”
“All the time,” Botters said.
Botters shoved the Ziploc into his pocket, and went into the house. A policeman who went strictly by the book, he couldn’t charge Jed with any crimes, so he wasn’t going to do anything.
I spent a few minutes mourning my car. Its headlights were smashed, the hood an accordion. The engine hissed as I drove it away, with wisps of steam escaping from beneath the hood. Even Buster seemed alarmed by the dire sounds it was making.
“I can make her pretty again, but it’s gonna cost you,” Big Al, owner of Big Al’s body shop, told me a half hour later. We’d gone to high school together, and after Big Al had gotten out of prison for peddling marijuana, I’d looked him up, and renewed our friendship. He dropped a meaty hand on my shoulder. “You ready?”
We were standing in the dusty yard of his shop in Dania, our shadows looming large in the dirt. My Legend was parked a few yards away, her pretty exterior marred by a young man’s rage. I braced myself.
“Ready,” I said.
“Twenty-four hundred bucks, and that’s just for parts.”
“How much for the labor?”
“Nothing. I don’t make a profit on my friends.”
I removed my wallet and took out my last credit card. I kept the card for emergencies, and I dropped it into Big Al’s hand, then gave him a bear hug. From the mechanic’s sheds came a loud wolf whistle.
“Get back to work,” Big Al yelled.
We retreated to his office, a disastrous affair with bills and invoices strewn across a desk and a radio that played nothing but Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity. I had spent many hours in this office talking to Al about getting my life back together, a subject on which he was an expert. For years I’d thought he was still selling dope on the side, the lure of easy money hard to get out of your system. But I’d discovered that wasn’t the case. Big Al put in long days and made his money honestly, and I admired him for that.
Big Al got on the phone, and soon had a replacement hood, front lights, and a brand-new transmission. Hanging up, he said, “I’ll have your baby fixed in a day or two.”
“Thanks, man,” I said.
I went outside with my dog. The days were heating up, and I stood in the shop’s shade, and took stock of my situation.