Life After Theft (17 page)

“What can I say?” she asked, already striding toward the store. “It was just too tempting.”

I let out a very long sigh and followed her. We’d been at the mall for about two hours already and my feet hurt. I’d loaded the backseat of my car up with three boxes of merchandise and I would fill my backpack, take stuff into the store, drop it off, usually with an obliging but confused clerk, and move on. I started my returns small, mostly because I was nervous—to little kiosks that Kimberlee had only stolen maybe a set of earrings or some kind of makeup from. Little trips; a thing or two. Nothing to draw attention.

But it was time to start taking merch back to the stores that were bigger. And had multiple
bags
of stuff.

Claire’s was first.

Sure enough, the girl behind the counter was much shorter than me and looked like she was younger than me too. A lot younger.

“Yes?” she asked in a squeaky voice after I stood at the counter for about five minutes trying to get her attention.

“Hi,” I said with what I hoped was an extremely nonthreatening smile. “I’ve got something for you.”

She watched wide-eyed as I placed the first gallon-sized storage bag on the counter.

“Do I know you?”

I looked down at her, confused. “Oh no, these aren’t for you personally—they’re for the store.”

“The store?”

“Yeah. I’m returning some things.”

“Um, do you have receipts?” she asked doubtfully.

“Nope, these are free.” I placed the last bag on the counter and smiled. “Have a nice day.”

“Wait!” she called. “Come back.”

Sucker that I am, I turned. Stupid me. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, opening the bag and sifting through the contents, lifting a few items. “I don’t even recognize most of this stuff. How old is it?”

“Uh . . .” I glanced sideways at Kimberlee.

She shrugged.

“Two, three years some of it . . . I guess.”

She held a pair of silver hoops up to her scanner. Nothing. “I don’t think I can take this back,” she said. “It doesn’t even register on my computer. How am I supposed to sell it?”

I shrugged. “I just thought the store should have it, that’s all.”

“Do you know how long it’s going to take me to inventory all this?”

“Sorry, not my problem,” I said.

“Wait, I really can’t take this stuff,” she said, coming around the counter and trying to dump it back into my arms.

Oh, no you don’t
.

I hurried my step a little more and reached the double doors at the same time she did. “Really, you should—” She sucked in a breath as my bag hit something big and solid.

I turned around and found myself facing a white shirt with a blue badge-shaped logo on it.
Perfect. Just perfect
.

TURNS OUT MALL SECURITY HAS
its own little interrogation room. Okay, so it’s not really an interrogation room; but it sure felt like one as I sat on a chair with two security guards looking down at me.

“Now, son—”

“I’m not your son,” I insisted in a surge of bravery.

The two guards exchanged a meaningful glance. I’m sure the meaning was something along the lines of
stupid smart-ass kid
. “All right,
Jeff
, I need you to tell us again why you have a backpack full of women’s jewelry. And a car full of brand-new clothes.”

“How do you know about my car?” I asked. Way to stay cool under pressure.
Fail, fail, fail
.

“We’ve been watching you. Clutching at your backpack, looking nervous, browsing aimlessly. You may as well wear a sign that says
thief
. You kept walking outside to your car, and coming back. So we checked it out. There’s a lot of merchandise in there. Would you like to explain that to me?”

This is so embarrassing
. “I have a . . . friend . . . and she’s a girl,” I added stupidly. “And a couple of years ago she went through this theft stage. She’s had a change of heart and I agreed to help her give the stuff back.”

“Uh-huh. And
your friend
apparently doesn’t have a name.”

“Of course she has a name,” I snorted. “I’m just not going to give to you.”
Because then I’ll look like a loon, and it won’t be juvie where you toss me before you throw away the key
.

The guards shared another long look. “Stay strong,” Kimberlee coached from the corner. “They’re not cops; they can’t do anything except escort you from the premises.”

I took a long, slow breath.

“Or call the real cops, I guess.”

I could hardly look at Kimberlee, I was so mad. She was the master thief; couldn’t she have given me some kind of, I don’t know, pointers on not getting caught? Or at least not doing stuff that makes the mall security
follow you around
?

Big Guard pulled out a notebook. “Okay, kid. I need her name and you’re going to give it to me.”

“I would love to, sir, but I’m afraid I gave my word to keep her identity anonymous.”

“Kid, you
have
to tell me.”

“No, I don’t.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I have the right to remain silent.”

The two guards stared at me for a long time as Kimberlee laughed raucously from her corner. I shot her a glare.

The security guards told me to stay put and left the room. I heard them muttering on the other side of the door but I didn’t get up and try to spy. Honestly, I don’t think I
could
have gotten up at the moment if I tried. Kimberlee may have been in this room a dozen times, but I’d never been in trouble like this. Never.

The bigger guard came in and crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Joe’s calling the police and they’re going to send someone over to take you home. To make sure you get there and tell your parents what you’ve been doing.”

Crap
.

“I don’t want to see you back at the mall for a few weeks. And I don’t
ever
want to see you causing trouble again, or the cops’ll do more than just take you home. You understand?”

“Yessir,” I whispered.

“That’s better,” he grunted. “Now we’ll just sit tight till the higher authorities get here.”

He leaned over and switched on a television. “Y’like baseball, Jeffrey?”

Great
.

Officer Herrera suppressed a grin as he looked through the contents of my backpack. “I’ll take care of this, gentlemen,” he said to the hovering security officers, dismissing them.

Both guards gave me a nasty look before retreating behind their door. To the baseball game, I was sure. “Let’s go out this way,” the deputy said quietly, gesturing toward a back exit. Kimberlee walked ahead of us, sliding right through the wall before the cop got there.

“Where’s your car?” he asked, hands on his hips. It was probably a casual stance, but all I could focus on was the gun that was now mere inches from his fist.

“That way,” I said, pointing toward the parking row where Halle was. We walked over and Officer Herrera had me unlock all the doors, then stand with my hands on the trunk while he sorted through the contents. At least he didn’t cuff me.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go to my car.”

My face must have gone white because Kimberlee said, “You worry too much,” as she playfully tried to grab at the cop’s gun. “This guy obviously thinks the security morons are idiots. He’s just going to give you a ride. I get shotgun!” she called.

But when we reached the car, Officer Herrera opened the passenger door for me.

“I don’t have to ride in back?” I asked, inclining my head toward the seat behind a sturdy mesh of metal.

“Well, I guess that’s up to you,” he said. “But if you sit there, I have to turn my lights on.”

As Herrera walked around to the other side I looked at Kimberlee and jerked my thumb covertly toward the backseat.

“You suck,” she said, settling in behind the bars. I couldn’t help but smile. Technically, that was where she belonged.

Officer Herrera was quiet for several minutes after entering my address into his GPS. “Well, the security guys seem to think you’re a menace to society and a liar on top of that,” he said, starting to run down familiar streets. “Personally, I believe your story. Especially since your backseat is full of girly stuff. So, am I going to have any more luck getting you to rat out your friend than they did?”

I sighed. “She’s dead, okay? I just thought the stuff she stole should go back to where it came from.” Oh, man, it felt good to just tell someone that! Even if it wasn’t the
whole
truth.

Herrera chuckled. “You sound like you just walked out of confession in church after a wild Saturday night. Makes sense, though. The merchandise is old. And I guess if she’s dead the actual theft problem is taken care of. Except that you now have a carload of stolen stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered.

“Your parents know you’re doing this?”

“No.” I sat up straighter. “Listen, I know you have to tell them, but could you skip the part about my friend being dead? I haven’t told anyone else and I don’t want her to get a reputation for being a thief.” Admittedly, that wasn’t my main concern, but I thought it sounded rational.

The cop shrugged. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Bad luck. I can keep that to myself.” He turned a little. “I come down here a couple times a week and take kids home on calls like this and I’ve gotten a pretty good sense of who’s guilty and who’s not. And I gotta say, not-guilty waves are pouring off you.”

Thank you, universe!

“Let me tell you something, Jeff. I see a lot of victims in my line of work. Victims of muggings, robberies . . . when people get stolen from, they don’t just lose their stuff. They lose a piece of their security, their ability to believe things are right in the world. I’ve seen very few of those victims have their belongings returned. But when it does happen?” He paused and smiled. “It’s amazing. They get their confidence back. And sometimes more than they had before. Suddenly humanity isn’t so bad; the world isn’t so dark.”

His impassioned speech made me suddenly—irrationally—want to tell him about the other stuff I’d given back. But I wasn’t going to push my luck.

“You seem like a good kid,” Officer Herrera said, “so I’m going to give you a suggestion. None of these stores is going to benefit from what you’re doing; the merchandise is too out-of-date. At best the employees will take it home, but it’ll probably just get trashed. If you’re really as sincere as you say you are, find a charity secondhand store and donate it. Goodwill, Deseret Industries, Saint Vincent DePaul, that sort of thing. I think that’s a better salute to your friend’s memory than taking a bunch of hair clips back to a corporation that wrote this stuff off last year. This way, maybe it’ll do someone some good.”

“That’s a really good idea, actually,” I said, thinking of the six other boxes full of merchandise that were still in the cave.

When we reached my cul-de-sac, Officer Herrera shifted into park and looked over at me. “I have to take you in and explain things to your parents, but I’ll try to help them see that this was mostly just a misunderstanding.”

Despite his assurances, I don’t think anything can make that moment when your mom opens the door to find you on the porch with a cop easier. Her face went pale and she looked up at Officer Herrera with a dazed expression. “Don’t worry, ma’am, your son’s not in trouble.” He chuckled. “Not with us, anyway.”

Har, har
.

“What happened?” Mom asked.

“Jeff was caught by mall security trying to return some merchandise a friend of his stole. The security guards didn’t believe him and called me. Personally, I think he’s telling the truth. But escorting him home is standard protocol, so here we are.” He paused for just a second and then dug into his wallet and handed me a business card with his name and number listed. “If you get into any more trouble over this—the security guys hassle you or anything—let me know. Okay?” He handed me my backpack and nodded at my mom before heading back to his car.

Her eyes followed the tall cop down the driveway and then watched as his car disappeared from the cul-de-sac. Only when she had nowhere else to look did she turn her eyes to me. “Wow,” she said. “That may be the hottest cop I’ve ever seen.”

“Mom!”

“I’m married, not dead.” Did I mention that my parents freak me out sometimes? She glanced one last time down the cul-de-sac before putting on her Mom face. “So?”

“So . . . what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t even try to play dumb.”

My eyes darted out to the well-lit sidewalk where old people seemed to always be walking their dogs and—at the moment—eyeing me. “Can we at least close the door?”

Mom rolled her eyes at me and swung the door closed. “Wish granted.
Now
spill.”

Man, I hate lying to my mom. But what else could I do? “It’s like Officer Herrera said. I found a bunch of stolen stuff and I’m trying to get it back where it belongs.”

“You just
found
a bunch of stolen stuff. Someone delivered it to your doorstep or something?”

“Mom.” I paused, trying to decide what to say. “Have I ever been a problem child?”

Her eyes softened. “No,” she admitted.

“And I tell you everything, right? I mean, I even told you about getting drunk.”

“That’s true. You did earn some points there.”

“Okay. So I want you to understand how weird it feels to I say that I can’t tell you. But,” I added as she started to interrupt, “I
will
tell you that I’m trying really hard to do the right thing. And I want to cash in all my good-kid chips from the last sixteen years and ask you to just trust me.” It was all I could do.

“Are you in trouble, Jeff?”

“No. I’m not. I promise.”
Trouble
really wasn’t the right word for it.

Mom looked up at me, her lips pursed. But I could tell she was considering it. “Okay,” she finally conceded. “But please don’t get brought home by the cops again. It kinda strains the trust thing.”

“I will do my very best,” I said.

Mom looked at me hard for a moment longer before stepping forward to hug me. Then she patted my cheek—something she’d done for as long as I could remember. It usually made me feel like a little kid, but tonight it didn’t bother me so much. “I love you, Jeff.”