“The Laura Stone Files” is an ongoing comedy series of short stories and novelettes about the eponymous Laura Stone, a low level detective handling only the most annoying of criminals.
Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4
The conveniences of the modern world made her question her sanity. Laura Stone, police detective, lapsed undergraduate and grown-ass woman, contemplated the moral implications of executing her newest appliance. Yet not twelve hours ago she was so thrilled to add a brand new slow cooker to the chattels list of her loft in Little Nanjing. It was the nicest one she could afford, the Yokotashi SmartPot. Her friend had sold her on the idea: ‘You just put the stuff in, go to work, then come home to food.’ Natasha made it sound so simple. But there it was, perched on her kitchen countertop, her goat feet trapped forever. It was a space slow cooker, one with a wifi connection to monitor your food from anywhere in the world. This meant it was useless unless it was connected to the internet. But it is connected to the internet! She screamed in her head. She'd checked a thousand times. All the lights were green on her router, even that one that flashes, and her phone was working fine, she even watched the Official How-To video and that only made her want to smash the thing against the wall. Calling Natasha was out of the question. For one, who knows what brand of slow cooker Natasha personally recommended for its ease of use? Secondly, Natasha was a doctor, and liked to act like she was smarter than Laura, and this would be a massive black mark against her name. She’d tried turning both it, the router, and the outlet on and off about seven times and the LED display on the pot still said NO WIFI.
She smacked it but that did nothing. "Fucking terminally online oven," she muttered to herself. Her phone rang. "Laura Flintstone."
"Laura, it's me. Richard Tumbler, from work." Richard Tumbler was her dim-witted partner, from work.
"Yeah, what? I'm not on until eleven."
"I came in early, and I've caught something."
"Is there a cure?"
"Burglary in the suburbs. The stuff careers are made on."
"No one's career was made on a residential burglary."
"I still think we should solve it."
Laura looked at her appliance. "I guess." It’s not like I’m getting any cooking done.
Once again Laura found herself rolling through the suburbs. Tumbler drove. The sterile mosaic of copy-pasted lawns and fences and architectural indolence grated on her more every time she saw it. It was like a community inspired by the spreadsheet. The old man only ever lived in the city proper, she sometimes envied the other kids with their lawns and gardens. As she aged she grew so thankful to the old man for not releasing her into the wild prematurely tame. The only upside she could see of this whole setup was the shade the trees cast, the last few weeks had been like living a year into the future. As she climbed out of the car she squashed some tar bubbles on the edges of the bitumen. At least the heat will only last forever.
The burglary had taken place at a two-story home with a double garage attached at the hip. Freshly mowed lawn, well-groomed flower beds, a few coats of powder blue paint. The place belonged to Bryce & Jonathan Partridge-Stanley, hyphenated for modern sensibilities. The couple was waiting on the porch when they arrived, one was a floppy-haired blonde of indeterminate age sporting a corporate aesthetic, and the other was a bearded hipster with two full sleeves of ink and a potbelly.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” the businessman said as he spotted her. The two of them came running to the gate.
Laura met them halfway. “Laura Stone, what’s going on, guys?”
“It’s gone,” beardo whined.
“What’s gone?” Please don’t say ‘the water.’
The duo looked at each other and escorted the two detectives inside. As she passed through the doorway she unlocked a deeper resentment for her material circumstances she never thought possible. It was a nice home. The lounge and kitchen formed one large open-plan room, with a flight of stairs disappearing to the second floor and a sliding door on the east wall that opened to a varnished mahogany deck. The carpet was a velvet ivory and the fittings matte silver. It had everything anyone ever wanted, except any furniture at all. There were no chairs, no tables, no TV, no stereo. No oven, no microwave or blender or fridge, no nothing. It had been completely cleaned out.
Laura spun on her heel. “So, which one’s which?”
“I’m Jonathan, I live here with my husband,” said the bearded Jonathan.
The businessman flattered his suit out and stood at attention. “And I’m Bryce. I also live here with my husband.”
Wow, you guys have so much in common.” Laura opened the recorder app on her phone. “
“Six years in common, actually.” The mention of the marriage seemed to raise Bryce’s spirits. “Next March.”
Laura ran her eyes across the room. "You two bond over a love for minimalism or something?"
"We don't know what happened," Jonathan said.
"Course you don’t, that’s why I'm here.” Laura pressed record. “Let's start from the beginning."
"We left for work at eight," Bryce answered like he was hosting a quiz. “I locked up.”
"Where do you guys work?"
"I work at a cafe, by the hospital," Jonathan said.
"I'm an architect at Hudson & Sloane," Bryce said, "We carpool, we say its for the environment but-"
Laura scoffed. “You don't need to sell me on thrift, dude. So if he’s at the hospital, where are you?”
“Don’t judge me, detective… The Imperial Bank of Japan Tower.”
Laura laughed. “Why would I judge you? I’m not Burmese.”
Bryce scoffed. “So anyway, I dropped Jonathan at the cafe but when I got downtown… I realized I actually forgot something,” Bryce dropped his head.
“I doubt it was the floor, dude, don’t be ashamed.”
“My watch.”
Laura raised an eyebrow. “Worth much?”
“Probably.” He looked up. “My dad gave it to me when I was a kid. He died a couple years back. I take it off before bed, but I forgot to put it on this morning.”
Laura understood, she’d lost the old man almost two years ago. “And it’s gone too?”
Bryce nodded. “My entire life is… Except for my work. And Jonathan,” Bryce laid his arm around his partner’s shoulders and pulled him in close.
“Some people don’t even have a Jonathan.” Laura put her phone away. “I’m gonna take a look around. What I need you guys to do is provide Detective Tumbler with a complete inventory of everything that was stolen. I’d advise speaking slowly and clearly."
The old man said to look with soft focus when canvassing a room, ‘The wrong details hook you like smack without the right context, kid.’ She breathed the whole scene in, its greatest swathes, and its right context. It’s a big place. A big place owned by a suit and the patron saint of Millennial-chic… It’s too much for one thief, too much for two either… Multiple assailants. No broken windows, no glass, no tools left behind. Behind her was the front door.
“This was unlocked when you got here?” Laura asked Bryce.
“Yeah, I thought it was weird.”
“And you’re sure you locked it?”
He nodded. She craned her head to the sliding door. Easier to get the stuff through there. She opened it and stood out on the deck. There were scratches around the keyhole, all fresh, she wiped her finger on the lock. Flecks of black paint stuck to her skin.
“Bryce, someone’s picked your lock,” she called out, “might wanna get them changed. This place is a burglary waiting to happen.”
She hopped back inside. Large amounts of people leave large amounts of evidence. Yet the carpet was spotless. Clean shoes, or they cleaned their shoes? That means organization. There was a short hall perpendicular to the stairwell that led to the bathroom. The thieves had the decency to leave Bryce and Jonathan their toilet. Laura caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink. She paused to commiserate. She had lost the ability to assess how good she looked years ago. Natasha used to tell her she looked like ‘that bitch from Inception,’ which was apparently a compliment, Laura never saw it. On the one hand, her dark hair fell halfway between her jaw and her shoulders. Still a cute look. On the other hand, the bags under her eyes looked like they’d been carved with a chisel. I’m only thirty-two. She wanted to splash some water on her face like in the movies, but that’d just ruin her makeup. Her suit was so nice that it could withstand the horrors of age, a plummy violet she got on sale at Zara. She shot her cuffs and went upstairs.
It was a smaller space, one fit to raise children, so about the size of Laura’s entire apartment. It was equipped with four large windows to look out across the middle class and despair. The landing split off into two rooms, both doors wide open. The one on the left was a smaller space, about the size of an office. Spotless, bar a black scuff mark on the skirting. She squatted down, licked her finger and rubbed a spot of it off. It’s fresh. There was an inch long piece of paper rolled up on the floor beneath it, she pinched it off the carpet. Unrolled it was a sticker bearing the Opal logo, a Dansk firm that specializes in doing the exact same thing as Ikea, only in green. These don’t seem like DIY kinda guys.
The other room would have been the master bedroom. She could still see the indents left by Bryce and Jonathan’s bed and cabinet and drawers. Laura opened the closet. Surprisingly, it was full, and unsurprisingly, in very good taste. They just wanted the furniture, all of it though? She moved back into the second lounge. There was a third door at the far end of the room. Laura opened it. Voila. It was an office. It was a mystery to whom all the blueprints and back issues of Architect Now belonged, but it sure as hell hadn’t been plundered. Laura instantly fell in love with it. Bryce had chosen a smoking room aesthetic, the walls were bold shades of burgundy, the tables and chairs highly varnished oak. Even his drawing board looked antique. There was a bookshelf against the far wall. Laura expected five-thousand-word exegeses on the history of the ceiling but it was nothing but Russian classics and collected works of long-dead playwrights. She took a copy of Ushiyama Hotel off the shelf.
“That’s a good one.”
Laura turned to see Bryce in the doorway. “Looks like they missed a spot.”
“I’m sorry, we meant to tell you, we told your friend with the aroma... Jonathan’s in shock, we’re both in shock. We really just wanted to get someone down here. You think it’s important?”
Laura slid the book back in its slot. “I think you’re a very lucky fella. The one room these guys didn’t reset to factory settings was the one that had all your work stuff.”
“I don’t feel that lucky, detective,” Bryce mumbled.
Laura moved across the room, “Any theories as to why they left this one alone?”
Bryce sighed. “I’m not a criminal. Or a detective.”
Laura laughed. “I guess I’m only one of those things.”
As she walked down the stairs Laura tried to piece the crime together in her head, but her standard mook wasn’t fitting the bill. 'Most cops are dumb,' the old man would say, 'but most crooks are dumber.' But this crook cleared out almost an entire house in less than ninety minutes. That's at least a four-man job. Plus the truck, possibly trucks, and he did so without raising any suspicions whatsoever. That requires forethought, planning, organization, patience… Laura felt a thump inside her chest. Oh my God, she realized, this crook is smart.
Laura wrapped up with Bryce and Jonathan. Jonathan seemed fed up with her inquiries by the time she left, wagies don’t get paid when they’re not clocked in. It ain’t cheap to be the victim of a crime these days. Laura did wonder what the handsome and successful Bryce saw in him. Maybe he’s one of those guys who dates women so they’re dependent on him, except in a gay manner. Nonetheless, Bryce provided his and Jonathan’s numbers in case anything came up. Laura found some shade under a tree and took a moment to center herself. She hadn’t felt this excited in months. A halfway intelligent criminal, I’m the luckiest girl in the world. Once she got back in the car she’d file a request with the pawn shop unit for large-scale exchanges made in the past few hours, but first came the policeman’s profane duty to engage with the community. She knocked on every door on Fulton Lane but this was the suburbs and it was the 21st Century, everyone was at work. They could at least have the decency to have an underpaid immigrant housemaid hanging about. Laura knocked on the door to the last house on the lane. It was white with Pink Flamingos on the lawn and an unclaimed package by the doormat. The door swung open. A beige woman in a red and white cleaner’s smock stood in the doorway.
“Si?” She said with a thick accent.
Shit, an underpaid immigrant housemaid. The old man had taught Laura a little Spanish. When she was eight.
“Uh, hola. Mi nombre es Laura Stone, policía… Uh, puedo convencerte de… cometer un robo?”
The maid smiled. “I’m sorry, my Spanish is terrible,” she said without any accent, “do you speak English?”
“Sure.” Laura unclenched her jaw. “That could work…. Earlier this morning the Patridge-Stanley residence was burgled. That’s the big blue one over there? They stole everything, so they might have brought a box. This would have been after eight but before twelve.”
The maid nodded. “There were men, yes. Many men. They looked poor, Mexicanos.”
Her accent is back. Why is her accent back? “How many did you see?”
“They all came out of this one truck, maybe ten. A big man driving. I thought they were movers, that’s what it said on the truck-”
“What'd it say, can you remember? Was there a logo or-"
The maid's big brown eyes widened and pleaded. "No, no, please, I don't understand."
"Jesus, what country are you from?"
"Canada."
Laura exhaled sharply. "Look. Just tell me what it said, anything you remember."
"Something Movers or Moving. I'm sorry I have to go." The maid collected the package and slammed the door behind her.
“Urgh." Laura threw her head back and stomped out the sidewalk.
Tumbler sidled up beside her. "So… I guess the Mexicans did it."
"The Mexicans did not do it.” Laura wanted a joint. “Some penis rounded up a load of day laborers on the promise of a job. A penis with access to a branded moving truck."
Laura took her phone from her pocket and searched for ‘movers near me.’ 960,000,000 results, gee, that narrows it down. I’ll have to go back to the station. She put her phone away and saw Tumbler’s car down the lane a bit, maybe fifty feet, but the sun was only getting hotter.
“You go grab the car,” she said to Tumbler.
“It’s just over there, though.”
“Yes, but I see a shady character under that tree.”
The Eastern Precinct building wasn’t always a police station. It was constructed in the seventies as part of a brief but embarrassing flirtation a cadre of land developers had with ‘reviving the Spanish revival,’ and was originally slated as a hotel. Unfortunately, urban bylaws prevented it from being built in its intended location, the city center’s business tract. Instead, a five-story hotel with a gleaming white exterior, sunburned roof tiles and arches punctuating the bottom level was erected in the industrial district. The presumption was that this new hotel, with views of a garment factory and an abandoned factory, would revitalize the area and attract a new demographic. It didn't. And eighteen months later the developers sold it back to the city. The Western Precinct used to be a brothel.
The elevator stopped on level three. The interiors had been gutted long ago and converted into a spacious open-plan office floor. The desks were arranged two a piece, backed onto one another, each owned by a detective far more legitimate than her. She knew too many by name now: Alan Gray, homicide, a balding drunk in a stained suit, Tommy Jamieson, vice, an unofficial suspect in at least three murders whose face morphed from handsome to harrowing depending on the light. There was George Milton, an old detective who seemed to wait out the clock by sitting at his desk, staring directly at a clock, and the Lasagna Brothers, a set of twins with Italian surnames the officers couldn’t pronounce politically correctly. Laura took a seat at her desk. She’d sent Tumbler out to canvas spots where day laborers were wrangled. There were at least thirty of them, and he spoke no Spanish. It’d give her time to think.
Laura unfolded the case in her head as she watched her computer boot up. A guy corrals a group of hombres into the back of a branded moving truck. Why does he have a branded moving truck? Laura’s computer asked her to input her password. Coz he owns a moving company? That would implicate himself and his business in the commission of a crime. Her desktop lit up, four orange kittens in a basket, very cute. So the truck’s not his, and we can presume he stole it because we already know he steals things. Laura double-clicked on LEAP, the police database app, it was coded in the nineties so she got up to get a drink from the machine while it loaded. He’s going to the effort to avoid arousing suspicion. Laura pressed ‘B43’ for a Wong Lo Kat. Then why pick the locks open? That’s awfully suspicious, embarrassing himself in front of the Mexicans. A red can thudded in the bottom compartment, she cracked it open and took a sip. But he wouldn’t do it in front of the Mexicans; he went to all the effort to appear legitimate. She sat back at her computer. So, the Mexicans were in the truck. She entered her passphrase to LEAP. But he’s gone to this much effort to obscure himself… so he has an accomplice. At the planning stage, and probably driving the truck. Laura waited for the program to log her in. So the accomplice gets out first and picks the lock. And keeps time. Once the lock is picked he unleashes his boys?
LEAP was a customizable database of every crime the city’s police force could be bothered to file correctly. Its main attraction was that you could stack searches on top of one another. Search for ‘murder’ and you’ll get murders. Search for ‘suicide,’ and you’ll get murder-suicides. She ran a search on automobile thefts and got five hundred pages of results. She added trucks and got zero pages of results. No one’s ever stolen a truck? She typed in heavy vehicles. Zero results. Large vehicles. Zero results. What’s it they call it in England? Lorry. Zero results.
“The fuck’s a truck called?” Laura spat.
“Search ‘heavy wagon.’”
Laura looked up, it was Detective Darius Russell, homicide, a middle-aged black man with a silver Nike swoosh through his 1987 flattop. Laura liked Darius but he was partnered up with Detective Walter Finch, a local ogre with all the charisma of a smear test. Laura typed it in without saying a word. Only seventy pages of results.
She looked back up at Russell. “Cool, so what sort of joke am I not in on?”
“They kept the designations from back when the prospectors ran this town.” Russell said.
“Oh, a terrible joke.” Laura pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s funny.”
Darius jerked his head at her computer. “What you looking up?”
“Oh, suburban robbery, it’s almost interesting. Hey, what happened with that bombing? PMO and the spectacular exploding Carlos.”
Darius scratched his stubble. “Shit, if Carlos wasn’t in a jar in the crime lab that boy'd be behind bars. Finch thinks he beats up that old woman because she’s onto his plan to build a bomb. Says that he got scared when you knocked on his door and did a kamikaze to keep himself outta the pen. He’s presenting the case to Captain Fantastic tomorrow morning.”
“What about PMO?”
Russell shrugged. “We got nothing on that, far as we can tell PMO was Carlos alone. Wouldn’t mind chasing it down but…” Russell trailed off. “Lotta people die.”
“...you’re a real credit to the department, detective.”
“My wife says it’s my steadfast integrity.” He handed her a crumpled piece of paper. “Think this is for you.”
It was a fax from the pawn shop unit, many rows of buys, sells and exchanges. “Thank you, detective.”
“It’s Darius, Laura.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and ambled towards the elevator.
Laura ran a few more searches. She filtered out any ‘heavy wagons’ stolen before 2022. She then eliminated every one that was reported stolen from an individual. Most people don’t keep trucks for personal use. Sixty pages of results. She ticked a box that limited the results to open cases. Thirty-one pages, ten results per page. She tried every variation of ‘moving,’ ‘movers,’ ‘move’ and got zero results each time. Guess I’ll go through these by hand. Entry one, January 1st 2022. This one was a truck stolen from Randy’s Ice Cream Concern Incorporated at the stroke of midnight. Laura felt she could disregard that. Three hundred and nine to go…
Laura sifted through every stolen heavy wagon in recent history. She made a point to be good with toil like this. As a child she watched the old man lurch from project to project as his interest piqued and waned, only occasionally finishing the job. That's how you ended up here. After an hour of work, she checked her phone to see it was now nine in the evening. Her shift ended two hours ago and her vending machine sushi looked like it was about to start advocating for its rights. It was worth it though, she had a mover to run down tomorrow: Big Shift. Tumbler never called. Maybe he’s dead? If he was dead Laura would need to call an Uber so she gave him a call.
“Richard Tumbler,” he said on the other end.
“It’s Laura, are you still alive?”
“Thanks for asking. You know I saw a very funny boat-”
“Fascinating,’ Laura interrupted, “can you come pick me up?”
Tumbler arrived about fifteen minutes later and updated her on the day laborers. No one knew anything, English included. The drive to Little Nanjing took a further twenty minutes. He dropped her outside Wong's, the laundromat beneath her apartment, and promised to do a better job tomorrow. Old Wong glared at her from inside with his typical venom, as the desk fan he’d sat on the counter blew his thin beard across his face. Laura passed through a doorway next to the laundromat and up the stairs.
She opened the door to her loft and palmed the wall for the light switch. The fairy lights she threaded along the top of the walls flickered into life. They were a recent impulsive purchase, but she couldn’t put a price on the smile they brought to her face. She wandered inside tracing the lights across the room with her eyes. Then she remembered why she had begun the day furious. The lights ended by the edge of the kitchen counter. And that fucking slow cooker. Even from the middle of the room, she could see it still said NO WIFI. She opened it on the off chance it wasn’t a total piece of shit and only saw her raw goat feet rotting in the pot. She slapped the lid shut and grabbed two fistfuls of her hair but resisted the urge to tear it out. She let her hands fall to her side with a huff. On the far side of the room was her bed, beneath the windows and the picturesque sight of the Destiny Mall, abandoned 2008-present. Going directly to sleep had its appeal, but in the middle of the room couch and TV-related catatonia beckoned. As did her grinder full of weed. I choose drugs.
Laura plopped herself on the couch and flicked the TV on with the remote. The news reassured her the current state of play was unrelenting horror all the time. She stuck the joint in her mouth and lit it. She blew a ring towards the TV and then destroyed it with a torrent of smoke.
Suddenly life suddenly didn’t feel so bad. A lot of people would like a career in law enforcement, people stuck in offices or iron boxes at the bottom of the sea, they’d much rather be in law enforcement. Law enforcement. Lauren Forcement. Laura N-Forcement? It's like a Crash Bandicoot baddie. Wait, don't think about Dingodile. She sat up to snap herself out of it but she was still high and the news was offering condensed bad vibes.
"-every day the arctic shelf loses an iceberg the size of George Harrison-"
"What?" Laura mashed two buttons on the remote and it switched to MTV Classic. Cool, oldies. But it wasn't oldies, they were playing Dido's 'White Flag.' Oh my God, I'm an elderly person. It can't be that old. She counted on her fingers. That was two decades ago. I was alive two decades ago. I've been alive for three decades. The old man told me this would happen. How old was he? The old man was old when she met him. He was even older when he died. But everyone's older when they die, no one dies yesterday. Wait, I only ate two boxes of sushi today, if I don’t eat in the next ten… years…. I’ll die. She sprung to her feet then fell back on her ass, but got up again successfully the second time. It took ten paces to get to the fridge, but the fridge was full of stuff that was hard to cook. She closed it and checked the freezer. Ice cream. She had her choice of chocolate and French vanilla and suddenly wanted a Viennetta. I could go out. But if I took my ice cream with me it would melt in the heat… I could not take my ice cream though, are you allowed to do that? Be outside without the presence of ice cream?
Something vibrated in her pocket. Oh no, they're onto me. She yanked it out of her pants. Bryce, crime victim extraordinaire. What does he want at this hour? Probably drugs. Shit, I'm on them, I have no choice but to hook him up. She took a few deep breaths, brushed her hair out of her eyes and answered.
"Hello, Laura speaking."
He sounded like he was in the car. "Detective, I need to see you. You don't live in Little Nanjing do you?"
How'd he know that? "I'm sorry Bryce, I cannot discuss an ongoing house." You sound brain-damaged, why do you smoke this shit?
"Detective I'm sorry, I just noticed you've got that suit and that haircut and it's such a Little Nanjing look, like I love it but please, I really need to tell you this in person."
It took all of five minutes for Bryce to arrive once she gave him her address. She was just as high as she was five minutes ago, my weed works, at least, but now equipped with a bowl of ice cream. She opened the door and he bolted right in like he owned the place, a rolled-up magazine in his left hand. He'd lost his jacket and loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He looks like he needs my vote. It's the most important election of our lifetime.
"I’m not a liar,” he said.
"Sounds like something a liar would say."
"I think I left something out when you came by." Bryce unrolled the magazine in his hand and slid into her personal space. He smells like soap. Nice soap. What do I smell like? She sniffed. Oh.
Bryce flipped the magazine open to a spread of chairs and tables and beds and couches and cabinets and drawers and closets and- A gay man bought a closet?
“I… I like interior design. Sort of the way a painter might write, or a gamer might date? Almost everything we owned was Joanna Bain.”
Laura felt her face lose all expression. “That someone I should have heard of?”
“Joanna Bain Interiors?” Bryce asked. “This is her ‘21 Collection. I do okay, money-wise. So, I thought, for Jonathan’s birthday, I’d redecorate.”
Laura snatched the mag from his hand and sat it on the counter-top. “‘Limited to five hundred pieces.’ Exclusivity don’t come cheap. So you got your husband a present, that was also a present for you?”
Bryce shrugged. “I'm a husband, too."
Laura snorted. Then squeaked. Then snickered- Oh shit, I've got the giggles. She clasped her mouth.
Bryce frowned. "Detective, are you-"
"No. No, I'm nothing." Laura lumped a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. “Lemme see that.”
Bryce stood aside. Laura laid out the fax from the pawn shop unit next to it. A cursory scan showed nothing even remotely matching the description of the collection. They didn’t pawn it. So where is it?
"I meant to tell you."
“Seems you’d tell me as soon as possible if that was the case," Laura mumbled through a mouthful of ice cream. She took another look at the spread. “This woman doesn’t do TVs, or fridges, or anything electronic. If they were after the collection, why'd they take that?”
“I dunno, maybe-”
“I’m thinking out loud, I don't need your take.” Laura ate another spoonful of ice cream. “Thank you for this though, tardiness aside.” Is it still okay to say ‘tardy?’
Bryce nodded and took his car keys from his pocket. The key-ring had a three-pointed star on it. He drives a Benz.
“What sort of car do you drive?” Laura asked.
Bryce looked lost. “Uh, a blue one.”
“No you don’t, you drive a Benz, dude.” Laura scuttled across the room and looked out her window. Parked under the streetlight across the road was a midnight blue 2020 V-Class. Actually, it might be the 2019 model, it’s kind of hard to tell in this light.
She turned back to Bryce. “You drive a very nice Benz, Mr. Blah-Blah-Whatever.”
“Patridge-Stanley. I’m Patridge, and he’s Stanley.”
“And I’m gonna need you to be on your way.”
Bryce nodded. “Thanks.” He went to leave but hesitated. “Is that a Yokotashi SmartPot?”
"No, it's an idiot.”
“I know, these things are the living end.” Bryce walked over to the pot and picked open a small flap near the base. He pulled out two batteries. “They come with a battery backup in case the power goes out, the thing is the WIFI signal doesn’t go out if it’s on battery power.”
He placed the batteries on the table. “Should work fine now.”
Laura wiped away her smile. “I hope someone finds your shit, dude.”
Bryce laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He closed the door behind him.
Laura took another look at the ledger. New Beginnings LLC. Eleven thirty AM: One fifty inch TV, Two Kenwood Speakers, One Yokotashi SmartPot. She'd earned another joint.
Laura estimated she had a fifty-fifty chance of waking up greened-over but she felt like a million bucks when her alarm went off. She got dressed and called Tumbler to pick her up. She had two destinations, The New Beginnings Pawn Shop and Big Shift Movers. Both were located in scenic Poorsside. The unfortunately named neighborhood was an epicenter for poverty, but got its name from Wilfred Poors, an early city father.
They pulled off the main road into the parking lot of a crumbling strip mall. New Beginnings was at the end of the complex, jousting for attention against the anti-feminist branding of ‘Massage by Paula.’ The inside was like being trapped forever inside a poorly lit hairdryer, and the glass display cases along the edges of the store were grubby with fingerprints.
A skeletal woman with a mane of wiry gray hair was leaning against the counter jabbering into a flip phone. “...look, it's second-hand olive oil you get what you pay for.” She put her hand to the receiver. “Whadda you got for me?”
Laura tilted her head. “Detective Richard Tumbler, he’s got a few miles on him, the brakes are shot and the tires are bald but he’d make an excellent paperweight.” Laura flashed her badge. “But first I’m wondering why you think it’s legal to break the law.”
The skeletal woman’s mouth hung open. “I’ll call you back.” She slammed her phone on the counter. “What’s this about?”
Laura looked along the shelves behind the display cases. “That. The Yokotashi SmartPot.”
The lady folded her arms. “You interested? I’m happy to discuss the price.”
Laura recoiled. “Fuck no. I have reason to believe it was stolen yesterday morning. Who sold it to you?”
“Big black guy, no name, not his style. He rolled up in a movin’ truck, didn’t ask why.”
Laura sighed. “Did you get any details from him? License plate? Dental records?”
“Nah,” she replied, “but this fell out of his coat.” The woman slid a Chinese menu across the counter.
Laura opened it. Scribbled in red marker was a series of times. ‘9:15 - Arrive, 10:20 - Leave, 12:30 - Waters.’
Laura slid it into her back pocket. “Cool… So how can we get in touch with you? I might have to arrest you later.”
The woman opened a purse that was sitting on the countertop and fished out a card. Laura flipped it over. It read ‘Massage by Paula’ with the same bikini girl as in the window of the store next door.
“So you’re Paula?” Laura asked.
“Damn right, a girl gotta make a living or two,” said Paula who looked nothing like pornstar modeling for her other business. “Interested?”
Laura threw her head back. “No, for fucks sake.” She stormed out.
Poorside was a crisscross of train tracks and billboards, overpasses and discount stores. For those too poor for low-income housing, no-income housing was available in one of the many fabulous homeless encampments in the area. One of these encampments was located beneath an overpass across the road from Big Shift Movers, which was little more than a prefab reception building adjoining a fenced-off depot.
Laura and Tumbler stepped into the waiting room: three folding chairs on an orange linoleum floor. The reception desk was unmanned. Laura dinged the bell a few times and waited for someone to show up. A television was affixed in the top corner of the ceiling, a morning yap host prattled, "-and learn how to donate a portion of your liver to Reginald Wang-"
Eventually, a pot bellied man in a stained yellow wife beater emerged from the back door to the depot. He was shiny with sweat, with a handlebar mustache and long damp hair.
Laura held up her badge. “Laura Stone, cold police. We’re following up on your stolen truck. Take it you’re…” Laura checked her phone. “...Lazlo Finnegan?”
“That’d be me. Where was it?”
Laura shrugged. “I dunno. Yesterday it was on Fulton Avenue, being used in connection with a crime.”
Tumbler stroked his chin. “Do you know where it is?”
Laura stepped in front of Tumbler, she imagined it looked like she was wearing a grown idiot as a cape. “We’re just looking to go over everything that happened the day it was stolen, see if we can shake anything loose.”
Lazlo ran through the day one more time. It was about two months ago, he opened up the depot to find one of the trucks missing. Monochrome security footage showed two bearded tramps cutting a hole in the fence as a hulking shadow squeezed its way through. This large man then managed to both unlock the truck and get it started. It looked like he used some kind of tool, but it was unclear in 240p. His stealthy exit was to ram the gate.
Laura rubbed her eyes. “Do you have beef with anyone? Maybe the moving business is bloodier than I remember.”
“Nah.” Lazlo slapped his belly. “Just a few homeless people causing problems.”
“Like helping someone steal your priceless trucks?”
“Yeah and leaving their needles everywhere. Weird though, that he'd steal it two months ago and only use it now."
"That is weird," Laura said. Wait, that's really weird, Laura thought. She bolted outside, slapped her hands on her knees and took a big deep breath. Why the fuck didn't you think of that? He leaves two months between stealing the thing and committing the crime. That’s two months for some asshole like me to catch him.
Tumbler waddled up beside her. "Sunstroke, eh? Always hits women harder, you’ll grow out of it."
Grow out of being a woman? Laura scowled, straightened up. "See those bums over there?" Laura pointed at the homeless beneath the overpass. "Go get names and addresses and life stories from each of them, I'll follow up with Lazlo." Laura turned around and went back inside the prefab.
She smiled and spread her arms wide. "Apologies for that Mr Finnegan, I think I’m coming down with Richard Tumbler’s Disease. Would you mind showing me what remains of your fleet?”
He escorted her through the back door out to the depot. Three large trucks, cab and chassis. Laura traced a slow circle around them. Each was white with the Big Shift Movers' branding in a tasteful highlighter orange. They were dated, a Toyota Wumbo model from the mid-nineties. Maybe the ninety-four or ninety-five? They weren’t bad trucks. Toyota doesn’t make an unreliable ride, just not a very cool one. It’s a fine choice if you want something you can count on, especially if you’re planning to hold onto it for two months. Two fucking months, Laura you’re an idiot, why didn’t you question that, you keep making mistakes like this is gonna blow this whole fake career you-
Lazlo coughed.
Shit, did I just think all that or say it out loud? “So… where’d you get the trucks?”
“Uh, got them from a dealership. Gary’s or something. I can give you his number.”
“Any particular reason you chose these ones?”
Lazlo slapped his hand against the chassis. “The space. They built it with a smaller cab, so it’s twenty per cent more space than a regular one. Can move an entire house in it. Better for the customers.”
“Huh.” Laura chewed her lip. Did they know that? They didn’t get the whole house out though. Laura took a step back and looked around. The depot was huge and the gate was so flimsy. The barrier between it and the homeless camp was a few dollars worth of wire. Cheap rent… imperfect neighbors.
“What’re you thinking?” Lazlo asked.
“I'm thinking he stole it from your lot because of the location. Crappy security, low-reliability witnesses, the rest can be bought off for the price of crack these days. Plus, you’ve got a good fleet here.”
“Then why hasn’t the truck turned up until now?” Lazlo asked.
“It’s not like it just vanished into thin air for half the summer. It’s been out there. It’s turned up… we just haven’t noticed.” Laura swiveled to Lazlo. “Thanks for listening.” She scuttled across the road to the homeless encampment, immediately spotting Tumbler conversing with a bum at its perimeter.
“-and I can make up to one ounce of mystery liquid per day,” the bum said.
Laura yanked Tumbler’s sleeve. “C’mon, we’re going.”
“Where?”
“Back to the station.”
The elevator dinged and opened to the third floor of the Eastern Precinct. Laura rushed to her desk. She wasn’t sure what she was going to search for in LEAP but she was going to slam every key to make it go faster. Theft. Residential. Burglary. Heavy Wagon. Too many results on each. She threw her head back so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. Maybe the old man was right, ‘Read your Plato. The computers will be the death of raconteur and I'll be out of a job. You want real results, speak to a real person.’ Laura clicked a tab that sorted the results by the assigned detective. It’s a bunch of old guys. Gordon Aaronson, Bucky Wilkins, Opie Blake. Half of these guys are drooling in a corner somewhere, they got cleaned out during the restructuring. One name was still kicking around though. Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie. On the one hand, he was a horrible detective who cleared barely thirty per cent of the cases he’d caught in the past five years, but on the other, he’d caught cluster of robberies in two months, suburban, large amounts of priceless crap. Laura grabbed hold of her desk, placed her feet against the backboard and launched her chair across the room. She rolled to a gentle stop at the desk of George Milton.
“How you doing, George?”
He was staring at the clock on his desk. “Who are you?”
“Hedy Lamarr, you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
He turned his head to her. “How old do you think I am?”
“I dunno, a hundred and six? A curious age where you start inventing reasons not to do your job. Like Hedy Lamarr.” Laura pushed his chair out of the way so she could use his computer. “Look at this, see these thefts?”
Milton squinted through his glasses. “What about them?”
“They have the same modus… They were done the same way. Large truck, daytime, nice suburb.”
He nodded with a big smile. “Excellent work.”
“No, it’s just work. It’d be excellent if you tell me how far you got with these.”
Milton went over the first case. A group of obvious day laborers moved a large amount of furniture out of a house in mere minutes. The neighbors presumed it was just people moving out. The second case was similar, the house was completely cleaned out bar a couple rooms, but none of the neighbors were home so Milton never got any word on a truck. A third robbery just a week ago featured a large truck driven by a large man in a, supposed, black balaclava, but the witness didn’t report anyone else at the scene. Not being talented, Milton didn’t connect the dots.
“Any suspects? Do you have any leads?”
“Just this one fella. Real handsome, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I’m into that sort of thing. Where is he?”
They were back on the road a few minutes later. The handsome fellow was Charles Vincent, owner of a string of boutiques, and he'd been cooperative when Milton questioned him. The store was on a red-bricked downtown avenue open to foot traffic sandwiched between a coffee shop and a cafe each with outdoor seating and superfluous patio heaters. It had a white stucco facade in a classical style with a ‘Domestica’ marquee in black brush script above the door frame. The inside was too small, too clean, too pastel, and with too much Diana Ross playing on the radio. And no customers at all. As Laura wandered through a maze of bespoke ottomans and thousand-dollar chairs she remembered the theory that Michael Jackson was not the scion of Joe Jackson, local psychopath, but the bastard lovechild of Diana Ross and Smokey Robinson, a theory which explained the dearth of talent among the rest of the Jacksons. She stopped at the reception desk, a square doughnut halfway through the store with an antique bell on it. Laura dinged it and played an uncomfortably deep note.
“The hell?” Laura hit it again and the note was higher. Then again. Then higher again.
“I take it you like the Campana di Scala?”
A man emerged from behind a mauve wardrobe. Her immediate impression was of Cesar Romero in a Mark Twain suit with an ambiguous European accent. He was small and thin, with salt and pepper hair and pencil mustache and a tan that seemed painted on. Well, he looks like a Charles Vincent.
“It’s one of a kind. Made for Ludovico Manin, the final Doge of Venice, and seized by the French during Napoleon’s conquests. They say he had his manservant swallow it whole keep from the Emperor's clutches; which actually reminds me of another bell, at another time, but that’s another story.” He offered his hand to Laura. “Charles Vincent.”
“I know,” she said as she shook it, “Detective Laura Stone.”
“Detective?” Charles slid his hand from her grasp. “Am I in trouble?”
“That remains to be seen. A couple months ago you spoke with a colleague of mine, George Milton, about a robbery?”
He nodded with a thin grimace. “Ah, yes. It seemed I had received some stolen merchandise. Without my knowledge of course.”
He so did it. Laura chewed her lip. “I see, who did you receive it from?”
Charles sighed and leaned against the reception desk. “I did not get a name I’m afraid. A large man though. Are you familiar with the tall tale of Mr John Henry?”
“We’ve heard similar things. Got a description?”
“Clean-shaven, head and face. Like a sphere of obsidian.”
Laura tapped Tumbler’s shoulder, “Go see if a geologist has been seen in town lately.”
Tumbler nodded and Laura watched him shuffle outside. Even with her head turned she could feel Charles gaze sear the back of her head. When she looked back he was smiling with his eyes.
“Do you also tire of your regular crowd, detective?”
“It never hurts to broaden your horizons.” Laura tucked her hair behind her ears and folded her arms. “Mind if I take a look around?”
“Not at all. But isn't that something you need a warrant for?”
“You need warrants for all sorts of things, searches… destroys… Arrests. It’s a nuisance.”
Charles took a cigarette case from the breast of his suit. “I feel I should make a pithy remark about ‘the police these days,’ but you honestly have my sympathies.”
Laura raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I deserve them. But why?”
“In times like these, I feel engendering a healthy respect for the law is more essential than ever.” He lit up and then slid the case back inside his suit. “The aesthetic benefits alone would be of great utility to the rest of the world.”
“Why’s that?” Laura frowned.
Charles stepped toward her, snaking a trail of smoke through the air. “We live in times of mass cynicism, even from those who profess to navigate this earth in genuine sincerity. When a people are disengaged from the society around them, all things are eventually put to ruin. Reverence for the laws that govern us can be taken to absurd and horrifying extremes, but their persistence is essential in the appearance of order. And an orderly society is possessed of a certain elegance, beauty, a beauty which bleeds into all human endeavor. To work, to marry, to reproduce, to love… These are things easier done when you can see that you are part of a world that works. And thus it perpetuates itself, and society."
“You’re an impressive fella. A girl almost might mistake you for saying anything at all.”
Charles laughed. “To the nihilist everything is nothing. Cause for apathy is easily observed, therefore correct, and so their investigation comes to an end.” Charles leaned against the counter and blew a smoke ring into the air. “It is an image painted in shallow perspective.”
Did he just call me stupid? Laura felt a flush run up the sides of her neck and took a deep breath through her nose. The old man used to tell her that people's presumptions of her were revelations of them, cards they lovingly placed directly in her hand. She exhaled.
"Well instead of being a sanctimonious prick," Laura began with a smile, "maybe you could explain it to me? Because this sounds like either Eat Pray Love or the Big Book of Naked Fascism. Which doesn't say much for its coherence, man."
"You are awfully flippant for an officer of the law, detective.” Charles stubbed his cigarette in a bronze ashtray. “You'll have me questioning your legitimacy. But in short I desire a world that is wonderful from the branch to the root. Anything that secures that reality I see as an ally, few cultures thrive in chaos."
Laura scoffed. “Yeah, whoever heard of the Qin Dynasty?"
"The Han Dynasty. Much like them, In my heart I wish to see the world become a better place.”
“The heart wants what it shouldn’t.”
He looked at her with faux-bafflement. “We should all want the world to be better, detective, what kind of policeman are you?”
“The kind who polices the world that she actually lives in, not the one she wants it to be.”
“You’re lying. You don’t want the world to change at all; you're too comfortable in your ambivalence. A sudden surge of meaning and you’ll find yourself surplus to requirements.”
Laura’s hair fell across her eye and she flicked it out of the way. “We wouldn’t have crime in your world?”
“No. We just wouldn’t create you.”
Laura Stone did not know what to say.
Charles dipped his head with a slight smile. “I shall be in my office should you need me, detective.” He half bowed and slithered between the maze of furnishings to a door marked ‘Private.’ Laura waited until the door closed before she moved a muscle.
You guilty motherfucker. She whipped her head around the room. She didn’t exactly know what she was looking for beyond the vague concept of evidence. He’s cool with me chilling here though? She took her phone out and brought up an image of the Joanna Bain spread in the magazine Bryce had. Nothing here matched. Bryce’s collection was white like ivory left to bleach in the sun, but everything in the store was effete studies of pastel or boring earth tones. Half of this stuff isn’t even nice, look at that. She stopped at a plain wooden coffee table with steel legs. It looks like it came from Ikea- Wait a minute. She crouched down and looked underneath. Stamped in green was an Opol logo, already half peeled off. Like the sticker at Bryce’s place. Laura stood back up. She panned her eyes across the stock. One by one half the items in the store stood out as cheap, worthless or flimsy. What is this place?
Laura jogged across the room to the Private door to find that it was locked. She banged her fist as hard as she could but got no reply.
Tumbler snuck up behind her. “Trouble with the door, huh? One of those Chinese-”
“No, for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t have time to listen to your shit right now, just kick down the door.”
“Last time I kicked a door down a man exploded.”
“Here’s hoping lightning strikes twice.”
Laura stepped aside and Tumbler kicked it open. The office was a windowless box with a single door at the back, and a desk big enough to nearly touch the walls. And no Charles Vincent anywhere to be seen. There was no way he could have cleaned it out that quick, so it seemed that he kept a whole lotta nothing in his office. Just a desk and an office phone. Maybe a ledger? Not that hard to abscond with a book. She sat on the desk. This is a fancy boutique in a fancy part of town, why’s he selling crap that even Ikea doesn’t want. She took her phone out but paused. Goddammit, this an illegal search. She shrugged and Googled Domestica and found that there were five stores up and down the coast. Were. Two had closed recently, so their ‘hours may differ.’
“Why sell crap?” Laura asked Tumbler who was standing in the doorway.
“Coz it’s cheap?”
“Then why create a brand that promises quality? People will come in, see they can get the same shit at Ikea for half the price and leave.”
He’s got multiple stores, he’s fencing them at one store, to pay the taxes for the crap he sells at this front? Laura picked his phone up and called herself. Got his number. The phone had a small digital display on it. She pressed the recall button and the last number that called popped up on the screen. Today at eight AM. She typed it into her phone. She pressed it again and got a different number, the previous evening at eleven, and noted it down. Laura pressed the button a third time. Twelve thirty-one. She took the pamphlet she got from Paula from her back pocket. Waters, twelve-thirty. As in John Waters? Could you be more conspicuous, dude? She dialed it.
“Look, Waters, I’m leaving soon. My wife wants Sade for the reception, I told her we don’t have no money for Sade, and who the fuck even listens to Sade anymore? Alright? Ten minutes.” He hung up.
A background search linked the number to a residence back in Poorside and its owner, Lucas Barrington. His home was down a narrow arching street with liquor stores on one side, and rustic shacks on the other. Each house shared one long wire fence that ran to the end of the street. Most of them had a garage but none of them big enough to fit an entire moving truck. Lucas lived at number twenty-six, which was the only place with a mailbox. Laura and Tumbler passed through ten square feet of concrete yard and pressed a doorbell. She could hear muffled voices inside, muffled, but loud, then big stomping feet.
The door burst open revealing a six and a half-foot man in a ratty camo jacket with a Burger King shirt underneath. He had skin like coal and an enormous bald head. “The fuck you want?”
“Who’s that?” A woman inside yelled.
“A white woman and a fat cop,” he yelled back.
“Excuse me, I’m also a cop.” Laura held up her badge.
“We’re busy here, got a wedding to plan.”
“You planning to go to jail for the reception? We’ve got some questions about your shady dealings with Charles Vincent, sir.”
“Weren’t nothing shady about it.” Lucas crossed his arms. “It’s a business arrangement.” He nodded like the point was irrefutable.
“I’m sure it was. What I’m wondering is why this business arrangement resulted in you being seen at two different daylight robberies with a stolen moving truck armed with several Mexicans.”
Lucas’s eyes widened. “Umm.” He bolted forward. Laura stepped aside and stuck her foot out. Lucas smashed face-first into the concrete. Out of his pockets fell his wallet, keys, a Chinese menu.
Laura tapped his wallet with her foot. “You should really keep those in a safer place.”
His fiance poked her head through the door.
“He in trouble?” She asked.
Technically, everything I’ve done since Charles left has been illegal, so no. “Yes.”
The three of them helped the bloody-nosed Lucas back inside. The inside was significantly nicer than the outside, particularly the large array of new home gadgets and appliances. Lucas lay on the couch while Laura stood over him, her phone in hand. His fiance, Charlotte, offered to make them coffee and was making an awful racket as she did so.
“How are you feeling, big guy?” Laura asked Lucas.
“What you just done ain’t fucking legal,” he groaned.
“Wanna try your luck?” Laura smirked.
He scoffed. “Returning my earlier point and shit, the fuck you want?”
“Charles Vincent. Who is he, what is he, and where is he now?”
“I ain’t know no Charles Vincent. I know Mr Waters.”
“Describe him.”
“Short, I-talian or some shit. Gay type’a dude.”
“That’s him. How’d you get involved with this?”
“Involved? I do some work for him sometimes, that’s all.”
“Bullshit. We have a man fitting your description pawning property that matches items stolen from a home on Fulton Street. We have this Chinese menu that you left at New Beginnings, with times and the word ‘Waters.’ And we have a call from your phone to Charles Vincent’s boutique that almost exactly matches the time on the Chinese menu…” He doesn’t know that information was obtained illegally.
Lucas looked up at her with panic in his giant face.
Charlotte popped into the lounge with a tray of black coffee. “You better tell him, baby.” She set it on the coffee table.
Lucas wiped his face with his hand. “I used to work in a warehouse, just some Mickey Mouse shit, stocking shelves then unstocking them. Now, I be working hard, I don’t fuck nothing up, I don’t run around all wild like my brother all gangbanging and shit, ‘cept none of that matters when the joint gets some new owners and now your ass is surplus to requirements.”
“We lost everything so quick,” Charlotte added. “Within a week we were homeless. We was out on the streets for a month.”
“That’s what they don’t tell you,” Lucas interjected. “It ain’t all dope fiends under them bridges. Shit, we knew dudes what had jobs, just nowhere to go. Then one day he comes up to me, tells me this long ass story about how the world could be a better place…”
“Why you?” Laura asked.
“Coz I’m six-five and black as the pits of hell, why you think, girl? Noone gon’ pick me as a man to trifle with.” Lucas sighed. “‘Cept you… Anyway, he says he got a plan. I figure he needs to cover his tracks so he’s using homeless labor. He gets me cleaned up, new clothes for me and my woman, then he puts me out to work.”
Laura nodded. “He had his eye on the movers from the start. How’d he pick the targets?”
“Said he was an international man of mystery like I ain’t seen Austin Powers. And I seen all them Austin Powers. Austin Powers, Austin Powers Two, Austin Powers in Goldmember. Says he only wants specific things, says I can pawn the rest. Says it’s taking from the rich to give to the poor, but I seen his store, that motherfucker’s selling junk. Way I figure, he’s going outta business, so he’s fencing stolen shit to pay the rent.”
“That’s about what I thought. So the laborers, that was his idea?”
“Yeah cover his tracks, no one thinks it’s a robbery coz it doesn't look like one.”
Laura frowned. “Why didn’t you clean out his office?”
“Time. He schooled me on a whole system he developed, in and out in an hour, the less time you’re there the better.”
Laura nodded. “So where’s the truck?”
“I was meant to leave for the drop at his other store an hour ago, but someone thinks we can get a multi-platinum singer at our Goddamn reception.” Lucas stared at his wife.
Charlotte raised her hands. “She hasn’t had a hit in years, it don’t hurt to ask…”
“So I ditched the truck out by some old factory. You bring up a map and I can point you where to go.”
Laura saw something glint on Lucas’s wrist. “Lemme see that.”
Lucas rolled up his sleeve, it was a steel watch, looked like it had sentimental value.
“You get that at the job on Fulton St?”
“Yeah.”
“How badly do you want to stay out of jail?”
Lucas had dumped the truck not too far from the Eastern Precinct building. She put out an APB on Charles Vincent, realizing now that was probably just one of many different names he used. The alley was cramped but mercifully shady, and it only took about thirty seconds and one left turn before a massive orange and white moving truck filled her field of vision. Tumbler used a pair of bolt cutters on the lock on the back door and it opened up to two lives worth of belongings, including a lovely collection of ice-white furniture. Laura took her phone from her pocket, opened her contact list and sorted by recent. Bryce and Jonathan. Haven't spoken to Jonathan much, I’ll give him the good news. Even if she didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, she found the stuff, they’ll be pleased at least. Then she paused. Jonathan’s number. She switched to her notes app. Call made to Charles Vincent at eleven last night. The numbers matched.
Laura stomped off to think. Charles Vincent and Jonathan? There’s no way they were in it together, Jonathan gets nothing from that… Unless. She called him.
“Who’s this?” Jonathan said.
“Hi, this is Hannah Parsons with a call from Charles Vincent?”
“Charles… Look, tell him to stay away from me. It was a mistake, all four times, I don’t ever want to see him again.” He hung up.
“What the fuck…” Laura muttered.
She felt compelled to pace. So wait, wait, Jonathan is balls deep in the Charles Vincent Enigma? He’s just a sleazy old man fucking a guy half his age. So he just happened to learn about the Joanna Bain shit from Jonathan during some pillow talk or something. This isn’t a master criminal, it’s a pretentious one that just steals things for a living… and his brilliant escape was out the fire exit. He’s not so smart. Laura opened her phone again and tapped Bryce’s name.
A handful of uniformed officers helped Tumbler return and unload Bryce’s entire life. He’d been grocery shopping when she called and arrived home to learn he’d lost everything a second time. The poor dude sat on the front steps intermittently crying. Laura supervised, but there was nothing much more to say. Bryce said he and Jonathan agreed to a ‘break,’ the last break Laura took started eight years ago. I wonder how Harrison is doing? Eventually, the officers departed in the moving truck, at least Lazlo would be happy.
“We’re still looking for Charles Vincent, Bryce,” Laura told him.
“The thief who was fucking my husband?”
“Yeah, that one… We’ll be in touch if we learn anything else.” She waited for some sort of reaction but she got nothing.
Laura nodded and walked for what felt like hours across the front yard. She stopped at the gate. “You go on ahead, detective. I think I left something behind.”
Tumbler turned to her. “I can wait if you’d like? I’m thinking of hitting the Southside Community Pool after this if you’re interested.”
“Nah, I'll get an Uber or kill myself or something."
“Best of luck.”
She waited until he’d gotten into his car and driven out of view before she went back and sat on the stairs next to Bryce. They sat there quietly for a moment.
“What did you forget?” Bryce asked.
Laura reached into her pocket. “Forgot to give you your watch back.”
Bryce beamed. “Oh, thank you so much, detective.” He wrapped it around his wrist.
“No problems. It’s my job… and you fixed my slow cooker.”
Bryce wiped some tears from his eyes. “You’ll use that every day for a week, once two weeks later, and then you’ll forget it exists.”
Laura laughed. “You know what makes me feel better on a hot day where I just got cheated on? Ice cream.”
Bryce scoffed. “I just bought some actually.”
“Well, would you look at those great minds thinking alike.”
Bryce sat on the couch while Laura rummaged through the freezer. He's literally got Viennetta. She cut it in half and dumped it into two bowls and sat down next to him. She grabbed the remote.
"I don't know what's even on," he said.
"Top Gear's always on. You like Top Gear?"
He looked at her with damp eyes. "Not much of a car guy."
"I am. But you don't need to be into cars to watch Top Gear."
"You sure?"
"Watch."
Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May were testing to see if a clown car could really fit that many guys in it. The problem was that Hammond had arranged only fat guys to test the theory and Clarkson was unhappy about the whole situation.
"Oh, I see."
"Yeah."
"We should be friends, detective."
"It's Laura, you dick. And we already are."