Double Trouble (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator Book 10) (11 page)

I watched the news while I ate a couple of hot dogs for dinner. It was “news” in name only, nothing seemed to change. The mid-East was a mess, Putin was backing the wrong guys, Congress was grid locked and the Twins lost. I had a couple of beers while surfing channels for three hours then went to bed about eleven.

The police officers pounding on the front door interrupted my breakfast, it wasn’t quite nine. I could see two of them standing on the front porch as I walked out of the kitchen. One appeared to be examining my porch ceiling and the other was peering through the window of the front door. The guy looking through the window said something to his partner, but I couldn’t hear what it was. They were both facing the door by the time I opened it.

“Hi, guys, what’s up?”

“Devlin Haskell?”

“Yeah, what’s this about?”

“Do you own a vehicle with Minnesota license number BAF479?”

“Yeah, that’s it right there in the driveway, the silver Sebring, that’s mine.”

They sort of looked at one another for a moment, something seemed to register between the two of them, but I couldn’t tell what.

“That Chrysler Sebring?” the guy who’d been studying my porch ceiling asked and indicated my car with his chin.

“Yeah, what’s all this about?” I was doing a quick mental rundown, my insurance was current, I didn’t have any outstanding tickets that I could remember. One of the taillights seemed to go out from time to time and the grill was smashed in from when I’d pulled too close to a bicycle rack I couldn’t see. There was a sizeable dent in the passenger door, of course the trunk was flat black, but I couldn’t believe things were so slow they’d send two guys out to ask me about that stuff.

“Do you own any other vehicles, Mr. Haskell?”

“No, I’ve got enough trouble with that damn thing. What’s the problem?”

“Seems to be a bit of a mix up, would you mind holding on for just a moment while we call in?” The guy who’d peered through the window didn’t wait for answer. He just stepped back and was on his radio, trying to reach someone.

“You guys want to come in for some coffee while you’re figuring things out? I got a fresh pot on.”

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” the officer who’d been looking at the ceiling said and left his partner out on the porch to sort things out.

“Come on, I’ve got it on in the kitchen. So, what seems to be the problem?” I said walking back toward the kitchen, he followed behind me.

“We’ve got a notice on your license number, apparently involved in some sort of an incident last night. But, the vehicle doesn’t seem to match the information we have.”

“Let me guess, it describes a nice car, instead of what I’m driving, right?”

The name Farrell was embroidered in gold thread just above the right pocket on his blue shirt. His silver badge was attached above his left pocket. He seemed to be studying me. I figured he was looking for some sort of nervous reaction or whatever amounted to a guilty look. Hopefully, I hadn’t given one.

“You want milk or sugar?” I asked and then remembered I didn’t have any milk.

“Black is fine.”

I heard footsteps coming in the front door. A moment later his partner stepped into the kitchen. “So?” Farrell asked and took the mug I handed him.

“It’s screwed up, but they still want us downtown.” The other cops name was Simpson and he sounded frustrated.

“You want some coffee first?”

“No, I’m afraid we have to go downtown, if you want to lock up, we’ll give you a lift, but we better get going.” It was one of those polite sounding requests that cops make, “If you don’t mind,” or “would you mind stepping out of the car, please?” I’d been here before, experience taught me to be polite back and do whatever I had to do. I was going to, eventually, anyway.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at this stage, we’d like you to hopefully just cooperate and then the sooner they can get this cleared up, the sooner we can get you back here to enjoy the rest of your day.”

I debated calling Louie, but decided to wait and see what all this was about. “Let me just get my shoes and I’ll be right with you.”

“Mind if I go with you?” Farrell said then set his coffee mug on the counter not waiting for an answer.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’d been in the
homicide interview rooms up on sixth floor before, but this fourth floor room was different, smaller and therefore more intimate, if that was the word. Maybe it was the confined space, but the same drab color on the walls seemed somehow different. One thing remained the same, the interview room smelled of sweat, fear and bad decisions.

“Mr. Haskell, I want to thank you for voluntarily coming down here this morning. I’m Detective Denise Dondavitch.” She had probably been attractive at one time, maybe a high school cutie. But, whether it was her personal life, the profession she was in, or both, time had hardened her.

Her hair was colored a dark brown, and cut in a sort of nondescript style with a sharp part that looked more like a slit along the left side of her skull. Her eyes were a humorless grey with lots of crow’s feet wrinkles around the edges. The beginnings of permanent scowl lines were already set in on either side of her mouth. If she had any makeup on, it was very little. She wore a pant suit that had been out of style for the better part of a decade and sensible shoes. She looked to be in her early fifties, but I guessed she was probably closer to forty.

“I just have a couple of questions for you. Hopefully we’ll be able to get this cleared up and then you can be on your way.” It would have been the appropriate time to flash a quick smile, but she didn’t.

I nodded. I could feel myself beginning to sweat and felt my heart rate kicking up a notch and so far, all she’d done was introduce herself.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at this time,” she said which did nothing to ease my concern and in fact seemed to heighten my stress. “You apparently own a 2007 Chrysler Sebring, silver I believe, is that correct?”

“Yes, well except for the trunk, right now that’s flat black.”

“How long have you owned that vehicle?”

“Maybe since February of this year.”

“You don’t remember when you purchased your vehicle?”

“No, not the exact day. It’s on my title, in the glove compartment. DMV should have that information. I got it at the police auction,” I said hoping that might add a degree of credibility to the vehicle.

She flipped a page over in the rather thick file that lay open in front of her. She seemed to read her way down the top sheet, scanning information. “Do you own any other vehicles at this time, Mr. Haskell?”

“No, I do not.”

“When was the last time you owned another vehicle?”

“The last time? Well, it would have been up until the time I purchased the Sebring, last February. I owned an Aztek, prior to that, what a disaster. The thing was just a money pit. One time….”

There was a knock on the door interrupting me, then it opened and a guy stepped in. He sort of looked familiar, maybe, but I couldn’t place him.

Dondavitch half turned, but didn’t seemed surprised. “Are we ready, Jerry?”

“Yeah, anytime.”

“Go ahead, then and bring it up,” she said then turned back toward me. “Mr. Haskell, we’re investigating a robbery that occurred two nights ago. I’ve got the security tape loaded. If you’d direct your attention to the screen in the corner,” she said and then moved her chair back so we could both watch a flat screen TV mounted up in the corner of the room. Even watching the Twins lose while sipping a beer down at The Spot was suddenly looking a lot better than this.

“Okay,” she said and the screen came to life a moment later. There was a yellow digital readout in the lower left hand corner ticking off seconds. As soon as the video started it began counting down; 1:59, 1:58, 1:57.

The black and white video was taken from inside some sort of store. From the angle of the film, I guessed the camera was mounted on the ceiling and maybe fifteen feet from the front door. The front door was actually two doors. The kind we’ve all been through millions of times. Metal frame doors, with full-glass panels and a horizontal bar halfway up the door that you’d push on your way out. The doors looked like they had the store hours painted on them, but since the camera was on the inside of the store the writing on the door was backwards.

It was clearly dark on the far side of the door and I guessed it was the middle of the night. Detective Dondavitch was studying me, probably looking for some sort of reaction.

A vehicle suddenly backed up to the door and a figure got out on the right side of the car, walked to the back and opened the rear door on the car. The door opened to the side rather than up toward the roof of the car. The guy tossed something out onto the sidewalk, reached into the back of the vehicle again then turned, took a step toward the door of the store and that’s when I saw the sledge hammer. He swung it twice. The first time he hit the glass on the left hand door it fractured from top to bottom. The second time he swung, the lower half of the glass shattered across the floor in a thousand little pieces.

The guy reached inside, unlocked the door then picked up whatever he’d thrown on the sidewalk a moment ago. The yellow digital readout had counted down to 1:48, just twelve seconds had passed. When he stepped inside the store he had a stocking cap pulled down over his face with eye holes cut in it so he could see.

The stocking cap had a Minnesota Wild logo, our NHL team. They probably sold over twenty thousand of the things each season, hell, even I had one. He wore a dark, hoody sweatshirt with a skeleton pattern on the front depicting rib, shoulder and arm bones and he had a pair of gloves on his hands with a similar bone pattern, sort of a unique outfit considering it was summer.

The guy walked just a few feet toward an ATM that I noticed for the first time. He wrapped a long nylon belt around the ATM and cinched it tight, then stepped back and seemed to yell something.

As the vehicle moved ahead the long belt grew taut and a second or two later the ATM was pulled onto its side. The guy in the hoody pushed the ATM out through the open door as the vehicle backed up. By the time he had the thing out onto the sidewalk the driver had joined him and together they lifted the ATM up against the back of the vehicle then seemed to effortlessly push the ATM inside. Something seemed to flash in my brain for a nanosecond, but I lost it just as fast. The digital clock in the corner had counted down to 0:53. A minute and seven seconds to take an ATM, lock, stock, and barrel out of that retail location. The second guy slammed the rear door closed, they high-fived one another then climbed in and drove away. I noticed they left the sledge hammer behind.

“Mr. Haskell?” Detective Dondavitch asked as she turned and stared at me.

“No offense, but what? What does any of that have to do with me?”

“Jerry,” she said over her shoulder. “Back that up to thirteen seconds from the start.”

“Detective, I have no idea what any of this is about.” The flat screen on the wall behind her was racing back through the security video. Jerry backed up too far, then went forward too far, then slowly backed up a second at a time until just thirteen seconds had expired on the digital readout and he froze the image. The guy in the skeleton hoody with the Minnesota Wild stocking cap had the door open and was about to carry the nylon belt toward the ATM.

“Anything catch your eye here, Mr. Haskell?”

“Actually, other than the fact that the sledge hammer is on the ground and they left it behind, now that you mention it, no. Nothing. You got a guy with his face completely covered, wearing that goofy skeleton hoody in the middle of summer. I’m guessing this happened somewhere in the city because your department is involved, but other than that nothing catches my eye.”

“Okay. Maybe see if you can read the license number on that vehicle.”

I looked back at the screen, and suddenly there it was in plain sight, so obvious no wonder I missed it. My license plate, BAF479.

“Is that my license plate?”

“It would appear so.”

“But, how did it get there? Did they take my license plate? I’m not missing one, a license plate, at least I don’t think I am.”

“And you don’t have any idea who that is up there on the screen?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“No idea how they got your plate?”

“Yeah, I have an idea, the bastards stole it. But I think it’s still on my car, I didn’t notice it missing. In fact, I know it’s not missing, because the two guys who brought me down here, Farrell and what’s his name….”

“Officer Simpson.”

“Yeah, they saw the plate this morning, they saw it on my car. In fact, that’s probably why Officer Simpson called in, because it didn’t make any sense to him, didn’t make any sense to either of them, actually, I think.”

“How do you think they got your license plate?”

“How did they get it? If I had to guess I’d say they probably unscrewed it and then walked away carrying the thing. We just watched them steal an ATM from some commercial establishment. I’m guessing they weren’t really too concerned about unscrewing a license plate from the back of my car.”