Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Read online

Of course, the old woman had been treated in the emergency department and transferred to the psych hospital, so I’d definitely come out ahead. Frye had called to tell me the doctors were detaining her on a 72-hour hold. I suspected the woman had been a hamburger short of a happy meal before she’d ever met me, but the last thing my reputation needed was a rumor about how I’d driven an old woman nutty.

  I gathered my long hazelnut-colored hair into a knot on top of my head and pinned back my long bangs. As summer stretched on, more streaks of red and blonde were appearing. There are also quite a few grays now, too—a parting gift from a terrible supervisor and a lousy man currently serving a prison sentence. Payback is a bitch, as they say. Whatever the colors, my hair is a hot mess as often as not. Reminiscent of a 90s-era Julia Roberts, it is thick, wavy, and has a mind of its own.

  My eyes fluctuate between deep green and hazel depending on my mood, burning darker with emotion. This morning, they were hazel. I have fair skin that never tans, only burns, and freckles across my nose. I’m five eight most days, five nine on really good days, and currently only thirty-five pounds overweight. It had been more, but regular visits to the gym had helped trim down that number. Of course, getting shot really jump-started the decrease. Not that I would recommend a gunshot wound as a means of weight loss.

  I was dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and a t-shirt, my newest accessory on the bench seat beside me. For the last six weeks, I’d been under strict doctor’s orders to wear a sling when up and around. For the most part, I complied, particularly in the beginning. But six weeks is a long time, and not only was the sling a hindrance, I preferred to do without the pain and stiffness caused by the prolonged immobility.

  Still, I put the sling on now and got out of the truck. The physical therapy office, located in the old Women’s Clinic building on Prospect and Lemay, was hopping for nine a.m.. The place was filled with the elderly, who were all packing an assortment of equipment: wheelchairs, walkers, canes, adult children. They all stared openly at the bandage on my neck. Someone’s hearing aid was buzzing. And, as I took the only available chair, the old woman next to me let go a breezer. My eyes started watering almost immediately.

  My therapist is a short white guy named Sam with a bald head who’s as bulky as a refrigerator. Despite his height, he’s a man anyone should think twice about tangling with; he could wipe the floor with a man twice his size. Sam’s in his forties and still does competitions like Ironman. And wins. He’s like our local, domestic version of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  By the time he called my name, I was certain my lips were blue from lack of oxygen. I practically ran out of the lobby.

  “What happened there?” he asked, pointing at my face as he limped along beside me.

  “Nothing, really,” I said with the wave of a hand. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

  “That seems to happen to you a lot.”

  Yes. It did.

  “No crutches today?” I asked, looking down at his knee. I could see the brace under his scrub pants.

  We walked through the gym and into a private exam room.

  “Nope.” He grinned. “Just got cleared Wednesday.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  He’d messed up his knee a couple months ago and was recovering from surgery. We had this in common.

  About seven weeks ago, I’d been working full time for a property management company and seen my client stabbed when I’d arrived to show her an apartment. Incidentally, this was how I met Ellmann; he’d been the lead investigator on the case. Guilt and curiosity and whatever else had driven me to start poking into things myself. I didn’t understand until too late that I‘d been poking at a hornets’ nest. And I’d gotten stung.

  There were four subsequent attempts on my life. I was shot twice, once in the left shoulder and once in the right thigh. The shoulder injury is by far the worst. The bullet entered just below my collarbone and lodged against my scapula. After being surgically repaired, everything had been re-damaged in my escape when the killers had kidnapped me. The leg injury was through-and-through and left almost no lingering affects aside from matching scars on both sides of my thigh. I don’t even walk with a limp anymore.

  I sat on the table and removed the sling.

  “How’s the shoulder feel?”

  “Better.” Truthfully, it was aching from my run-in with the Dennisons that morning.

  He pulled some measuring equipment out of a drawer and walked me through a series of tests, making notes on a piece of scrap paper from his pocket. We chatted about his latest competition and my gym workout routine. He’d finished second in the St. George Ironman triathlon, and I was back to thirty minutes on the elliptical three days a week. He would have come in first had he not tripped over the runner that went down in front of him and torn several ligaments in his knee. I was considering pushing myself to forty minutes, now that my leg was healed.

  Exam complete, he sat at the small desk in the corner and punched notes into my chart on the computer.

  “Your strength has improved greatly,” he said. “You’re about eighty-eight percent recovered there.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But your range of motion is less than ideal—less than what I’d expect to see at this stage. Have you been doing your home exercises?” He turned away from the computer and looked at me.

  “Yes.” And it was the truth. Generally speaking, I have a hard time taking orders of any kind. But it was my shoulder in question, and since it had been compromised, I’d discovered I relied on it more than I realized. I needed it healed and dependable. Slacking on Sam’s homework wasn’t going to help me accomplish that.

  “All right, good,” he said, turning back to the computer. “I’ll make some adjustments to your routine today to include more stretching and range-of-motion stuff. I also think we need a repeat MRI. I’ll call your doctor’s office when we’re through here.”

  “Is my shoulder as good as it’ll get? Dr. Allen projected I would only recover eighty-five to ninety percent of my strength and function.”

  Sam looked at me again. “I’m not saying that. And I’m not giving up. But I don’t want to lead you on, either. It’s been six weeks. The window for healing is closing.”

  “No. I don’t accept that. It’s my shoulder. And this isn’t good enough.”

  Sam smiled. “That’s the Zoe I know and love. A fighter to the end. If you’re serious, there are a couple other things you can do.” He swung around and pulled open another drawer, withdrawing two business cards. He handed them to me as he spoke. “We talked briefly about massage therapy, and I think that would help now. Particularly with range of motion. Second, you can try acupuncture. When I injured my knee, the surgeon told me I’d never race again. I couldn’t accept that, so I started doing some research. Western medicine is beginning to take a closer look at acupuncture, and it’s proving acupuncture works.” He pointed to one of the cards. “I see this woman myself. And it’s helping. I plan to compete in the world championship at the end of the year.”

  Wow. I couldn’t deny that was impressive.

  “I’ll call her. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Now, let’s go work out, huh?”

  2

  Ironman Sam gave new meaning to the word “workout.” For this, I loved and hated him in equal measures, though not always simultaneously. As I walked to the parking lot, it was a lot more of the latter.

  I returned to my truck, a 1978 International Scout II, and tossed the sling onto the seat. I’d found the Scout four years before by happenstance. I’d been selling my Mercedes, a reminder of a life I no longer had nor wanted, and Stan had been looking to buy something new for his wife. There was something about Stan I liked, and he must have known then that he was dying. I knocked a big chunk off the price of the Mercedes, and he threw in the Scout.

  Talking around an ever-present cigarette between his lips, Stan had told me he’d purchased the thing new in �
��77 and, being a mechanic, he had done all the work himself. With one glance, it was obvious it had been impeccably—and lovingly—maintained. The Scout is a thing of beauty. It’s hunter green with a white removable hard top. The interior is an Army-tan color. Everything works as well as it had the day it rolled off the manufacturing floor.

  And almost everything is original. Shortly after Stan died, the lock on the tailgate busted—the truck’s way of mourning, no doubt. I never replaced it because I knew Stan would never approve of anything less than an original Scout part, and my half-assed attempts to locate one had turned up zilch. But the open tailgate had been how the kidnappers had succeeded in grabbing me, so I’d gotten serious about repairing it. My new mechanic, Manny, had fixed it for an exceptionally reasonable price.

  Later, I’d also had Manny install a new soft top, a sailcloth Replace-a-Top, kidnappers be damned. I’d debated but ultimately gone ahead because I wasn’t sure Stan would be disappointed. The thing looked amazing. Besides, I was carefully storing the hardtop; it could go back on at any time.

  The second addition was a small toolbox bolted to the floor behind the backseat. This fugitive recovery gig required certain equipment, and not only did I not want to haul it around with me if I didn’t need it, but I didn’t want it falling into the hands of anyone else. Three of the handguns I own had been used by bad guys for bad reasons; I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen again.

  The weather in Colorado is predictably unpredictable, but by this time in June, it’s pretty much guaranteed to be hot. Today was no exception. At ten a.m., it was upwards of ninety degrees. I rolled up the sides of the soft top, wincing once or twice at the strain on my shoulder, then climbed back in the truck.

  I motored out to Prospect and headed east to Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds, conveniently located about a mile from the detention center. Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds is owned and operated by a retired cop and his long-time friend. Wesley Meeker had been a cop in Orlando, Florida, for fifteen years before moving his family to Fort Collins, where he worked as a detective for another fifteen years. Shortly after he retired, he realized how incredibly bored he was and started taking on private cases just to keep busy. He is a born investigator, and it’s turned out that’s all he really knows how to do.

  His friend Mickey Sands had been an investment banker in Florida until the whole market/economic crash/crisis thing. He got out just before everything went belly-up and decided Colorado was as good a place as any to spend his golden years. But he could only play so much golf. He ended up dabbling in a few business ventures here and there until his best friend made passing mention of a private investigating firm.

  One thing led to another, and soon they were set up with an office. Sands worked on running and building the business while Meeker did the investigating. Within a year, they’d hired two associates to handle their growing caseload. A year after that, Sands pushed Meeker into bail bonds because there was such money to be made. Meeker protested on principle, believing there was something wrong with a former cop helping criminals get out of jail, and left a large part of that to Sands. Now the partners had six full-time investigators and four full-time bond enforcement agents. There are others, like me, who work on a case-by-case basis.

  In looking for whoever had stabbed and killed my client, I’d gotten on the trail of Tyler Jakowski, a.k.a. Tyler Jay. Tyler Jay had been Larimer County’s number-one most wanted fugitive for several months running, but I didn’t have any trouble finding him. After a few minutes on the computer, I had a couple doors to knock on. Tyler had answered the first one. But he had a dirty cop tipping him off, and it proved more difficult for the cops to actually arrest him.

  In total, I found Tyler Jay three times in about a week. My information eventually led to his capture, and I was paid the $15,000 reward he’d had on his head. It was this that caused Ellmann to suggest fugitive recovery to me in the first place. It seemed I had a knack for it.

  Looking to get out of property management and for something I might not be easily fired from, I’d taken the weekend training and certification course. A week later, I’d walked into Sideline with a certificate of completion and a badge the state gives with it, which looks a lot like it came out of a Cracker Jack box. It was the sixth bonds office I’d hit up, and I thought surely it would be my sixth strikeout. I’d started with the smaller companies, thinking they would be more likely to take on someone with no experience, and had gone to Sideline last because it was the biggest in the area. But Dean Amerson, the office manager, had given me a chance. Maybe because he saw potential in me, or determination. I didn’t think shaking his hand and thanking him for his service after spotting the Navy tattoo on his muscled arm had hurt anything, though.

  In the movies, people who do what I do are called bounty hunters, but I’ve learned that title pretty much went out with the Old West. Whatever we’re called, the concept is the same: we find people in exchange for money. The way our system works is this: when people are arrested, they may or may not be eligible for bail. Those who are may or may not be able to afford bail. Those who can’t may or may not go to a bondsman. If they do, they put something up as collateral, and the bondsman pays the money to the court for that person to be released.

  An agreement then exists between the court, the bondee, and the bondsman that the bondee will appear in court when he is scheduled to. If that person fails to appear in court, a warrant is issued for his arrest and his bail is forfeited. If that person is found and returned to jail within a certain amount of time, the bondsman is returned his money. If not, he loses it. This is where bond enforcement agents (me) come in. We track down the people who fail to appear in court, or who are FTA. We arrest them and take them back to jail. For doing this, we’re paid a percentage of the bond, and, like I mentioned, this can be a pretty good payday.

  I parked out front and used the front door. Inside, the lobby looks a lot like the one in my dentist’s office. To the left of the door, a receptionist sits behind a counter with a headset and a computer. She’s responsible for handling all phone calls and scheduling all appointments for the office. Off the lobby, back and to the right, there is a hall that leads to the offices and desks where Sideline staff work. At the back of the lobby, there is an office with a large window beside the door: Dean Amerson’s office. Meeker looks like a retired cop. Sands looks like a retired investment banker. And Dean Amerson looks like what he is: ex-military.

  Amerson is between thirty-five and forty but looks thirty, and he’s built like a linebacker. Except Amerson doesn’t look like he’ll sack you before you throw the ball and score a touchdown for your team. He looks like he’ll rappel from a helicopter and hack his way through the jungle using only a pocket knife and compass to find you, kill you, then get back out again, and do it all without ever being noticed or leaving a trace. No one really knows what Amerson did in the military, but everyone has their own theory, their own stories. All that’s known for sure is that Amerson was a Navy S.E.A.L. and attained a very high rank after serving only fifteen years.

  There are lots of civilian jobs for ex-military guys through private security companies, especially the guys who did the things no one knows or talks about. I suspected Amerson had been one of the guys who did those jobs no one talks about. Sands mentioned to me once it had been a hell of a deal that had made Amerson agree to work for Sideline and pass up a very high-paying job doing some private security business in the Middle East. For the last couple years, he’s been managing the Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds office. Well, mostly managing. Sometimes he goes out and gets people himself. I don’t know what the office was like before Amerson got there, but I know what it’s like now, and I think it’s damn lucky to have him.

  I smiled at the receptionist, who was on the phone, as I passed. There were always people in the lobby, and today there were three. Fort Collins is something between country-bumpkin and big-city metropolitan, an eclectic mixture of many cu
ltures and histories, but it has its fair share of crime and problems. And, as the population continues to grow, so does the demand for the services provided by Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds. Amerson’s door was closed, but the blinds on his window were open; he saw me and waved me in.

  “I thought you might drop by, Grey,” he said as he hung up the phone. He wore tan cargo pants and a blue short-sleeved cargo shirt (his typical uniform). “I heard about your early morning play date.”

  Amerson had contacts everywhere. It wasn’t hard to believe he’d already heard about the Dennison debacle.

  I sat down as my eyes rolled. “That woman was a magician short of a birthday party before I ever got there. Probably she never should have been living at home in the first place.”

  “Dennison is swearing revenge. Says you beat up his mother.”

  I pointed to my neck. “If I had, it would have been justified. She attacked me. And she tried to shoot me. Anyway, what’s Dennison gonna do? Chuck beer cans at me? Piss on my tires?”

  Amerson looked at me for a beat then shook his head. “The weirdest shit happens to you, Grey.”

  I sighed. “I know.”

  I set two pieces of paper between us. They were body receipts. When a bond enforcement agent delivers a bondee back to jail, the agent is issued a body receipt from the jail to bring back to the bondsman for payment. It’s basically proof we’ve done our job and guarantees we get paid.

  He picked up the papers then held one up to me. “This one didn’t take long.”

  I shrugged. “She was seventy. They aren’t hard to catch.”

  Senior citizens aren’t big runners. I’m not a big runner. I’d track seniors all day long.

  He shook his head as he turned to his computer. “You’d think someone her age would know better.”

  “It’s job security, right?”

  “Sometimes I wonder what this country is coming to.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. It scares me too. I thought that if I’d given fifteen years of my life to defending the country, it would do more than scare me; it would piss me off. Amerson didn’t seem angry, though. I guess he—and others who served in the military—saw a lot of stuff that would piss them off if they let it.