Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (23 page)

Twenty-Nine

On the w
ay home, we stopped at the Varsity. Todd drove and munched on fries and onion rings while I flipped through the thick file on Maksim Avtaikin. I rummaged for photos first. His passport pictures disappointed me. No smiles.

“Keep your eye out for little BMWs, Todd,” I said, taking a sip of Varsity Orange.

“Do you want me to count them? Two just passed me.” He gave me a lazy smile, and I thought about the plague of Cherry Tucker chomping away at Todd’s heart.

“Todd, do you feel like you have something in common with Nik?”

“I think my English is better,” he said. “But we both seem to enjoy driving you around.”

“Nik does not enjoy driving me around,” I said. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. Just like Casey and Nik, I’m no good for you. I love being friends, but you should think of moving on, too.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he grinned and winked. “You just started talking to me again.”

“I can fix that right quick,” I snapped and turned to the file to assuage my feelings of guilt. I studied Max’s passport copy. “Holy crap. Max is only thirty-five.”

“Wow, he’s old,” said Todd.

“Thirty-five isn’t old. Maybe he seems old because he plays golf with the middle-aged set. Maybe money ages you.”

I turned over a copy of a diploma I couldn’t read and found a photo of a young, smiling Max in a suit and tie. An older man in flashy threads stood next to him. Max’s thick, brown hair had been longer and his cheeks rounder, but he still towered over the man next to him. His smile had the rakish smirk of an eighteen-year-old who thinks they’ve figured out the world. I knew that feeling. Lost it around twenty-two when I started paying off my student loans.

I glanced at Todd, shoved the picture in my back pocket, and flipped to the next document. “I can’t believe this. Max went to Emory.”

“Emory University in Atlanta?” Todd glanced at me before accelerating around a chicken truck. “He never mentioned that to me. I thought he liked the Bulldogs.”

“No football at Emory. They prefer country club sports.” I glanced through his class listings, mainly history and business. “No diploma.”

“I guess he didn’t graduate.”

“No college photos either,” I said. “Unfortunately, most of the interesting parts of Max’s file are written in that alphabet with the crazy letters. Looks like he went back to his home country between Emory and Halo.”

“Cyrillic,” said Todd.

I glanced sideways at Todd before leafing through the oodles of citizenship forms. “Found his social security card,” I said and almost gagged upon reading the receipt for Rupert’s filing. “No wonder Max hates Rupert. You should see what he was charged for immigration. There’s processing, courier, visa, fingerprint, and application fees. Those are just for the government. Some are up to six hundred dollars each.”

“I guess that way immigrants get used to the government taking away their money before they even move here.”

“The government fees aren’t as bad as these other costs. Rupert’s office charged him for more consultation, filing, courier work, and processing. These receipts begin in the thousands and work their way into double digits.”

“Damn,” said Todd. “It’s a wonder he has any money left.”

“No kidding,” I said. “This can’t be normal. How can America open her arms to the ‘tired, poor, and the yearning to be free’ for close to fifty thousand dollars? I can’t imagine the Vietnamese family that runs the nail shop in Line Creek paying fifty thousand dollars for their green cards.”

“Probably used a different lawyer.”

“Seems to me there’s only a couple reasons to charge that much money. Either Max is so rich he didn’t care what it cost to get his paperwork squared away. Or Rupert offered a special service.”

“Like the kind you get at the Happy Massage Spa?”

“What is wrong with you? No, not that kind of service. One where Max didn’t have to wait in line as long as other people. Or one where the United States government wouldn’t find out about Max’s past and reject his entry.”

“Oh,” said Todd.

“Just drive and watch out for silver BMW hatchbacks.” I closed the folder and noticed a name written on the bottom left corner, M. Hawkins. I flipped back through the file, but couldn’t find a match.

“Do you think I should give this file to Uncle Will?” I said.

“Didn’t you steal that file?” said Todd. “He can’t use it if you stole it.”

“Dangit if you’re not right. I might just have to do an anonymous tip.” I tapped my Stargazer blue nails on the folder. “I’ll slip this back when I go to work on Rupert’s portrait. I’m sure nobody will miss it between now and then.”

“
I suppose I should visit with Miss Gladys,” I said to Todd as we turned off the interstate and onto familiar roads. “I am ashamed to admit that I don’t want to face her now that Jerell’s been taken.”

I examined the SipNZip as we passed. The shiny, new exterior dulled in my eyes. Not even the thought of microwavable sausage biscuits could make me think positively about the SipNZip.

I wondered if Little Anatoly could freestyle about sausage biscuits.

“Are you worried Miss Gladys will be angry?” asked Todd.

“I think it will break my heart if she’s not angry,” I said. “I don’t want to go to that old, rundown trailer and not see Jerell. Maybe I can get Miss April, the nice hoarder in the next trailer, to check on her today. If I had good news to bring Miss Gladys, I wouldn’t feel so bad.”

“What kind of good news?”

“At the very least, I wish I could say I found her a new place to live. I’ve got Leah working on that. What I’d really like to tell her is Tyrone’s killer is in prison and she can start researching lawyers.” I pondered that thought.

“Tonight I’ll go back to the Gearjammer. There’ll be new truckers there. I can flash around the composite drawing. I just don’t know what else to do.”

“I’d take you to the Gearjammer,” said Todd. “But I’ve got another gig at Red’s tonight. And this afternoon, Leah and I were going to go over some new songs. I wrote one about an artist who loves abs.”

“That’s going to help a lot with the morality police, thank you. And if you can’t tell, my tone is sarcastic.”

“I could tell,” said Todd.

“I don’t mean to get ugly, but I’ve got enough problems without you writing unflattering songs about me.”

“I’m flattered you like abs,” said Todd. “Because I’ve got an awesome six-pack.”

“This is not the conversation I want to have with you.” I rapped on the folder in my lap. “Listen, I’ve got to figure out how Max is involved with this whole hijacking. If he’s guilty, then Miss Gladys will be happy because that’s a big wallet to sue. But if he’s innocent, I am not going to let him take some other perp’s fall.”

“I thought you liked busting Mr. Max.”

“For misdemeanors that pull our town into the world of clandestine gambling. This is a whole ’nother ball of felonies.”

We fell silent, and I watched our town zip by. Halo was no Mayberry, but I still loved her crumbling sidewalks connecting homes to local businesses. The family doctor no longer made house calls, but he was always at the Halo High School football games. And you could call his wife if you needed to lawyer up for a divorce or a DUI. This was a town of decent people and even if they were a tad judgmental―about artists who painted classic nudes, for example―their judgment came from fear of corrupting the small town peace and solitude that was becoming harder to find in this era.

“I need to know who was supposed to drive that Dixie Cake truck,” I said. “Something happened when the original trucker was arrested and the other driver took his place.”

“How are you going to find him?”

“I’m sure the Sheriff’s Office knows, but they won’t tell me. The Gearjammer. Too bad Casey is working. She’d distract the truckers enough that they might spill their secrets.”

Thirty

A s
erious party crowd packed the Gearjammer on Saturday nights. Marshall Dobson, the smoking dispatcher, held his previous spot at the bar with his dispatching female friend. I scanned the crowded, smoky bar for other familiar faces. Dona and her friends wiggled before the jukebox, groped on the pretense of dancing. The room swam with cowboy hats, trucker hats, and farm caps. If you had a thing for bald guys, you would go to some trouble finding them in the Gearjammer.

I figured to try the couple again and slid between Marshall and his female cohort. My head and shoulders cleared the bar, but I had to stand on my toes to get the bartender’s attention.

“You came back,” said Marshall. He stubbed out his cigarette and scooted his stool to give me room. “You remember Marge? Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Luke’s my ex-boyfriend,” I said. “I’m here by myself tonight. My sister had to work and everyone else thinks they’re too good.”

“Too good for you or the Gearjammer?” asked Marge. Tonight she had rolled her hair into horizontal sausages and backcombed her bangs. Her arms also reminded me of sausages. Thick and heavy links, like she spent time putting in fences and chopping wood. Arms good for brawling.

“Too good for me,” I said quickly. It wouldn’t do to insult the establishment’s patrons. “I’m an artist and word has gotten out I’m controversial.”

“What, like
Piss Christ
kind of stuff?” said Marge.

I shook off my surprise at her knowledge of contemporary art. “No. Classical representations of a nude male.”

“I saw that poster hanging in the library,” she smiled. “Round of shots for my girl. Give her your seat, Marshall.”

“That’s okay,” I said, happy that my dateless state had made them friendlier. “I’m planning on mingling tonight.”

Marge elbowed me in the ribs and winked. “Good plan. Looking for another hot model?”

That pleasant thought stumped me for a second, but I recovered. “Actually, I’m still trying to figure out what happened with that hijacking.”

I tugged the composite drawing from my pocket and unfolded it. “Have you seen this guy?”

“No.” Marge took the copy and studied it. “Never seen him before. How about you, Marshall?”

Marshall glanced at the sheet of paper. Sliding off his seat, he waved at the empty stool. “Go ahead and sit. I’ve got to use the gents’ room.”

I watched him walk away and a feeling of anxiety unfurled within my core. “Marge, y’all know more about this hijacking than you admitted the other night. The cop is not here. Will you talk to me?”

“I don’t have a problem talking to you. But I’m not in the good ol’ boy network, so I don’t know if I can help you.”

“The trucker driving the hijacked truck was shot, but he was standing in for someone else. Do you know the guy who was originally going to drive that truck?”

She shook her head. “Not me. What are you thinking?”

“I think the real driver had an arrangement with the hijacker and didn’t get a chance to call it off. When he didn’t show at the designated spot, the hijacker tracked down the truck, found the new trucker, and shot him. Maybe because the perp panicked. Maybe because he needed whatever was in that truck. Possibly the new driver threatened him.”

Marge snatched the shot glass sitting next to her beer and downed it. “Shit, that’s a mess.”

“You think it’s a possibility?”

“I hate to say yes, but yes.” She sipped her beer. “Most of these truckers are good guys. Family men. But you get renegades who find easier ways to score more money. Trucking doesn’t pay that well, especially now that gas prices are so high.”

“You ever heard of Max Avtaikin?” I said. “On the radio or even around town?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t help you more.”

I opened my mouth to thank her when I felt hands on my waist. I yelped an angry curse and spun around. Zach’s dark eyes gleamed below his cowboy hat. His toothpick rolled around his smile and he moved his hands to the bar, pinning me in a detached embrace.

“You came back for me,” he said. “I was hoping you’d bring your sister. I got a look at her the other day at your house. Man, can she rock a pair of shorts.”

I shoved him out of the way. “What were you doing at my house?”

“Happy hour.”

I muttered a few unflattering words about Cody and his liberal use of my studio for a party den.

“Let’s dance.” Zach grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. He began to shuffle his feet and wave his arms to
Sweet Home Alabama
.

I stood and watched him, then strode up and put my arms around his neck. He stopped shuffling and waving to clamp his hands on my waist.

“Before you get any ideas,” I said. “I am in this position so we can talk privately.”

“Hey now,” he said, pulling closer. “I like the sound of that. I knew older women were the ticket. Young girls just laugh at me.”

“Probably for the way you dance,” I said. “And I want to talk to you about the hijacking, not whisper sweet nothings. I need to know who was supposed to drive the Dixie Cake rig. I think he had a deal with the hijacker.”

“Ernie Pike.” Zach’s hat brim touched my forehead. The toothpick slipped between his lips and reappeared in the corner of his mouth. His whisper barely registered in my ear. “I went to happy hour hoping I could find you. Ernie Pike is getting heat from the cops. And he’s on suspension for the DUI. He’s looking for squealers.”

“Squealers?”

“I’m worried about you, Miss Cherry. Your name’s been flashed around town quite a bit the past few days.”

“Crap.” A rush of anxiety overtook me, and I leaned my head against Zach’s chest. We continued to sway. “Zach, I’ve been showing the hijacker’s picture around the bar tonight.”

“Maybe not a wise choice.” Zach slid an arm up my back, pressing me against his chest.

I pulled back. “Zach, I wouldn’t play knight for me. You’re likely to get your ass kicked by your trucker friends or worse.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let anything happen to you?”

“A smart one. This is my rodeo, Cowboy. You’ve got a life of truck stops ahead of you, and I don’t want to see it ruined by my interference as a snitch.” I stepped out of his embrace and pulled the drawing from my pocket. “Before I go, have you seen this guy before?”

Zach studied the picture and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good,” I said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Stay sweet, Zach.”

I spun away from him and saw Marshall Dobson flag me. I pushed past dancing couples and sauntered to the bar.

Marshall pointed his cigarette toward the door. “I’d get if I were you. Folks didn’t like your cop boyfriend asking questions and they like it from you even less.”

“Is Ernie Pike here?” I asked. “I want to know if Ernie Pike works for Max Avtaikin. And if he knows the man in the drawing.”

“Ernie Pike ain’t going to talk to you. He’d chew your bones for breakfast.”

“You tell Ernie Pike not only is he never driving a truck again, he’s going to be charged with conspiracy, aiding and abetting, or as an accessory to a murder. Maybe all. If he confesses and gets this murderer put away, he’ll get a reduced sentence or a plea bargain.”

Marshall sucked on his cancer stick and blew a column of smoke in my face.

I tried not to blink.

“That so?” he said.

“Yep. But if Ernie Pike’s the one who’s been tailing me, I’ll make sure he gets stalking charges attached to his file. He lays a hand on me and he’s never getting out of jail. My uncle is the sheriff.”

“If Ernie Pike lays a hand on you,” said Marshall, “you won’t be alive to press any charges.”