"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 22

Monday, November 15th, 11:15 a.m.

            The unmarked Ford Crown Victoria pulled around the back of the Service Department of Wilkins Ford and parked in front of one of the four closed roll-up doors. Det. Mike Cavanaugh left the keys in the car and walked into the building through the customer entrance door. Duane Waller stood behind the service counter talking on the phone. Two lines blinked on-hold waiting for Duane to pick up, while two customers stood at the counter rather impatiently, waiting to speak to the young service manager.

            Mike stood off to the side, quietly waiting his turn to speak to Duane and find out whether the busy shop might be able to squeeze him in for an overdue oil change. Tom Wilkins not only sold most of the vehicles owned by the West Hartford P.D., he also had an exclusive service contract with the department. Mike had been here many times before over the years with his various department-issued Crown Vics for oil changes, brakes, tune ups, tires, etc.

            While he waited, he scanned the bustling service area. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, he was just looking around observantly, the way he was trained many years earlier to look around, the way he and most other cops instinctively scanned a room, whether on duty or not. Mike looked at people—what were they doing, who was talking to whom, and could he see their hands or not? He looked at the various objects within view—was anything dangerous or a potential weapon? He looked at sight lines, exit paths, lighting, barriers, doorways, and all the other things most civilians would never even notice. Over the years Mike had developed a pretty good cop’s instinct. He could sense when a person was “suspicious,” even when that person wasn’t overtly acting suspicious. Of course, once in a while his “sixth sense” caused him to slap handcuffs on a completely innocent person, but more often than not he was able to pluck a perpetrator out of a crowd after observing something barely detectable, a glance, a grimace, a clenched fist, or hands thrust into pockets a little too quickly.

            Mike wasn’t scanning the service area in the hopes of plucking a perp. Frankly, he didn’t know what he was hoping to do. But the name “Wilkins Ford” has surfaced twice now, and his “sixth sense” told him it was unusual enough that it needed to be checked out. Duane was making slow but steady headway with his waiting customers. There was only one phone line blinking and only one person standing at the counter. Mike decided to say hi to Pepe Colon, a longtime mechanic at Wilkins, who was in the middle of installing a new starter motor in a red pickup truck.

            “Pepe!” Mike called out, as he walked past a sign that read, “Authorized personnel only beyond this point.”

            Pepe looked up and immediately recognized Mike. “Hey boss!” he yelled back with a big, crooked smile. Pepe didn’t know Mike’s name or rank, but he knew the man in civilian clothes was one of West Hartford’s finest. Pepe was familiar with many cops in the greater Hartford area. He had been in and out of trouble as a teen. By the time he reached his 30s he decided he was getting too old to be a street punk, so he went straight. He enrolled in night school and learned automotive maintenance. He bounced around at a few dealerships before settling in at Wilkins Ford ten years earlier, where he was now known as an above average and dependable mechanic. In his mid-40s now, Pepe Colon was wiry, with strong forearms, and a gapped-tooth smile that made him look closer to 60. Because of his connections from he prior way of life—including many relatives and former girlfriends—Pepe often supplemented his income by providing useful information to the cops.

            “What’s up, boss?” Pepe asked when Mike came along side the red pick up truck. “You tryin’ to find someone, maybe?” he added, hoping one of the many names or addressed in his head might be worth a quick hundred bucks cash.

            “Nah, I’m just here for an oil change,” Mike said. Pepe shrugged. “You guys do the work on all our cars, you know,” Mike offered.

            “Yeah, and you cops never bring ‘em in on time!” Pepe exclaimed. “Half the time we’re draining sludge out of the crankcase. You guys are killing those poor cars. You drive ‘em like you don’t own ‘em!”

            Now it was Mike’s turn to shrug. Well, we don’t own them, he thought. Then he said, “I guess you’re right. But who has time nowadays for service appointments?” He paused and then changed the subject. “So Pepe, you guys have a bunch of fleet maintenance accounts, not just with the PD, right?”

            Pepe thought for a moment as he tightened one of the bolts on the starter motor. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “But nothing real big, like you guys.”

            “Do you do maintenance for Comcast, you know, the cable TV company, their service trucks?” the detective asked.

            “Yeah, sometimes,” Pepe replied. “Not all the time. They spread out the work to a few different shops.”

            “Did you have one of their vans in for service last week?”

            Pepe stopped tightening the bolt and stood up straight. “Um, good question, lemme think.” After a few moments he said, “Yeah, I think you’re right. I didn’t work on it, but I’m pretty sure one of their vans was here for a few days last week.”

            “When you’re working on a vehicle,” Mike asked, “who has access to the keys?”

            “Well, we do,” Pepe answered, as if he had been asked the dumbest question in the world. “We need to start the engine to make sure we fixed it right. And then how we ‘spose to drive it outside to make room for the next car?” he asked sarcastically.

            Mike shook his head and smiled. “I know, I know. That’s not what I meant. After you finish working on a car, and after you drive it outside, then who has access to the keys?”

            “Oh, well then we bring the keys back in, and ‘Brown Nose’ puts ‘em on the big board until the customer comes to pick up the car.”

            “Brown Nose?” Mike asked.

            “Him, over there,” Pepe nodded his head toward the service counter. “Doo-wayne-nee, the teacher’s pet. I mean, the owner’s pet. Once we’re done with a job, he’s the only one who can get the keys.”

            “What’s the matter, you don’t like him?” Mike asked.

            “Ahh, I dunno,” Pepe muttered. “He’s OK, I guess. It’s just that he’s one of Mr. Wilkins’ churchy boys. You know, you go to church with the boss and you get promoted, even if you’re too young or you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

            “He doesn’t know what he’s doing?” Mike said.

            “Ahh, I dunno,” Pepe said with frustration. “He’s not too bad—now. He’s just a little too goody-goody for my—”

            Pepe stopped in mid sentence and stared past Mike. A concerned voice said, “Excuse me, sir. You’re not allowed over here.”

            Mike turned. It was Duane. Pepe spoke first. “He’s OK, Duane. He’s a cop.” Duane looked at Pepe sternly, as if to say, So what?

            “Hey, I’m sorry,” Mike said very apologetically. “I was just saying hi to my old friend here. But I’m glad you’re off the phone. I was hoping you might be able to sneak me in and do an oil change on my cruiser. It’s way overdue.”

            “See, what’d I tell you?” Pepe said with a laugh. “Sludge. It bet’s it’s completely sludge.” Then he added, “Hey Duane, I’ll work through lunch and do it, if you want.”

            Mike waved fondly at Pepe and walked back to the service counter with Duane. Five minutes later, after determining the oil change could be done rather quickly—because of Pepe’s offer—Duane got swamped with another wave of phone calls.

            Mike drifted over to Pepe’s work area again. “Hey, thanks,” he said. “I appreciate you giving up your lunch.”

            “I’ll just eat at 12:30, man,” Pepe said. “No big deal.”

            “Another question for you,” Mike said.

            Pepe shook his head and smiled. “Lot’s of questions, amigo, but no dinero.”

            Mike groaned and reached for his wallet. He pulled out two 20-dollar bills, which left behind exactly four singles. “Man, I’m broke,” Mike said. “This is all I got…amigo.”

            Pepe quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “OK, shoot.”

            “Well, I was wondering,” Mike began. “You guys have a lot of dealer plates around here. I mean, up front, the sales guys, they have those dealer plates with magnets they slap on a car so a customer can take a test drive, right?”

            “Yeah, of course,” Pepe said. “They got lots of ‘em up front.”

            “OK, my question is, do you know if there are any…” Mike paused, trying to find the right word, “…any secret plates? I mean, maybe an old dealer plate that’s not officially registered with the state anymore, so no one would know it came from this business?”

            Pepe gazed hard at Mike. “Why do you ask…amigo?”

            “Hey, I’m tapped out. I already gave you everything I have, man. So, have you ever heard about anything like that or not?”

            Pepe glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. Duane was still juggling phone calls. “Well,” he began slowly, “I’ve heard rumors—that’s all, really. But I’ve heard there might be a couple of old dealer plates kicking around. Plates that would never show up on any computer. I’ve never seen one, but boy, I know a lot of people who would pay a fortune to get their hands on one.”

            “I’m sure,” Mike said.

            “If they exist,” Pepe said, “then only the owner, Mr. Wilkins, would know where they are. Or the owner’s pet,” he added with a sneer.

            “Well, thanks for the info,” Mike said. “Do me one more favor, please?”

            “Oh man,” Pepe said with a grin, “I am such a cheap date.”

            “Yeah, right,” Mike groaned again. “Do me a favor: keep you eyes open for a particular plate.” He fumbled for a small notebook in his shirt pocket. “Here’s the number: ‘3-1-3-5-7’.” He tore the small sheet from the pad and handed it to the wiry mechanic.

            “This sounds serious, man,” Pepe said. Then he looked up with his big picket fence smile, “Is Duane in trouble?” he asked hopefully.

            “No!” Mike said emphatically. “It’s probably nothing. But just keep your eyes open, and I’ll make it worth your while, OK?”

            “Now you’re talking, boss,” Pepe said.

            “And of course,” Mike said, lowering his voice for emphasis, “You don’t say anything to anyone about this, comprendo?”

            “It’s comprende, mi gringo amigo,” Pepe corrected with a laugh. “I got it, boss. You know me—I never talk.”

            Mike smiled. Then he turned and walked away. Yeah, right, he thought. You never talk? You make more money each year than I do just by running your mouth, mi amigo! He glanced at his watch and felt his stomach growl. Maybe he could get something to eat from the vending machine in the customer waiting area. He waved to Duane as he walked by. That Duane kid seems like he’s doing a decent job, he thought as he watched the beleaguered service manager juggle phone calls. Pepe’s just jealous, I guess.

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©2009