be laughing if he knew what I knew about him.
FIVE
W ith its whitewashed, stucco walls and red tile roofs, Spanish is the dominant architectural style of Rancho Bonita, along with municipal construction codes that some say border on fascist. Every building plan is slavishly gone over to ensure that it conforms to the community’s carefully crafted image of a Mediterranean-like oasis. The three-story Rancho Bonita County Detention Center, perched on a hillside north of downtown amid a warren of other nondescript county government buildings, was the opposite: a shrine to utility, all concrete and concertina wire. It reminded me a little of Abu Ghraib, only without the charm.
The first thing I noticed as I turned my truck into the center’s parking lot were three television news vans camped in the tow-away zone directly in front of the jail, and a phalanx of media types waiting near the main entrance of the jail with their boom mikes and cameras. The second thing I noticed were the two dark-haired guys in a rust-bucket Chevy Nova prowling the back rows. A piece of newspaper hung from the Nova’s grillwork, conveniently obscuring the front license plate from view, as if it had somehow gotten stuck there. I nosed into a parking space, putting several rows of cars between the Nova and me, and observed.
They slowly drove around the lot before circling back and eventually stopping behind a newer Honda Accord, silver, with chrome wheels. A towel hanging out of the trunk partially obscured the Nova’s back license plate. The guy on the passenger side stepped out and walked over, glanced around to make sure nobody was watching him, then peered inside the Accord. Pasty skin, ginger hair shorn close, midtwenties, husky, wife beater T-shirt, abundant tattoos. He glanced around once more, then pulled a long flat metal rod out from the leg of his saggy jeans and shoved it down into the driver’s side door of the Accord. I picked up my phone.
“Nine-one-one emergency operator. What is your emergency?”
“I’d like to report a car burglary in progress.”
She sounded older and mildly disinterested. “When you say ‘in progress,’ you mean they’re there now?”
“Correct.”
“OK, and this is taking place where?”
“The parking lot of the county jail, directly across from sheriff’s headquarters.” I could hear the clicking of her keystrokes over the phone. “They’re breaking into a silver Honda Accord. I can’t read the plate from my present position.”
“Across from the sheriff’s department,” she said. “Wow, pretty ballsy.”
“Indeed.”
The Accord’s door was now open. The burglar was leaning into the car, rummaging around with one knee on the driver’s seat. Red plaid boxer shorts billowed out from the top of his jeans. Then he quickly jumped into the Accord and shut the door. I provided the emergency operator a running commentary.
“He’s definitely trying to steal the car.”
“And your name, sir?”
“My name doesn’t matter right now, lady. Do you have a unit en route, yes or no, because by the look of it, these two jokers are about to be gone.”
“We do have a unit on the way, yes sir. They should be there in a couple of minutes, if not sooner. Now, if you could please just tell me your—”
I hung up, waited, and watched. I told myself not to get directly involved any more than I already was. It was up to the professionals of law enforcement to handle the rest. Only the professionals seemed to be on their lunch breaks.
I could see the Accord shudder a little—the engine turning over—then white taillights came on as the thief shifted into reverse and began backing out. Prudence dictated that I stay put. I’d done my civic duty. I’d dropped a dime. That’s probably more than most people would’ve done. But that’s the problem with the world these days. Too much prudence. Too much, “It’s not my problem,” kind of thinking. The world is a dangerous place not
FIVE
W ith its whitewashed, stucco walls and red tile roofs, Spanish is the dominant architectural style of Rancho Bonita, along with municipal construction codes that some say border on fascist. Every building plan is slavishly gone over to ensure that it conforms to the community’s carefully crafted image of a Mediterranean-like oasis. The three-story Rancho Bonita County Detention Center, perched on a hillside north of downtown amid a warren of other nondescript county government buildings, was the opposite: a shrine to utility, all concrete and concertina wire. It reminded me a little of Abu Ghraib, only without the charm.
The first thing I noticed as I turned my truck into the center’s parking lot were three television news vans camped in the tow-away zone directly in front of the jail, and a phalanx of media types waiting near the main entrance of the jail with their boom mikes and cameras. The second thing I noticed were the two dark-haired guys in a rust-bucket Chevy Nova prowling the back rows. A piece of newspaper hung from the Nova’s grillwork, conveniently obscuring the front license plate from view, as if it had somehow gotten stuck there. I nosed into a parking space, putting several rows of cars between the Nova and me, and observed.
They slowly drove around the lot before circling back and eventually stopping behind a newer Honda Accord, silver, with chrome wheels. A towel hanging out of the trunk partially obscured the Nova’s back license plate. The guy on the passenger side stepped out and walked over, glanced around to make sure nobody was watching him, then peered inside the Accord. Pasty skin, ginger hair shorn close, midtwenties, husky, wife beater T-shirt, abundant tattoos. He glanced around once more, then pulled a long flat metal rod out from the leg of his saggy jeans and shoved it down into the driver’s side door of the Accord. I picked up my phone.
“Nine-one-one emergency operator. What is your emergency?”
“I’d like to report a car burglary in progress.”
She sounded older and mildly disinterested. “When you say ‘in progress,’ you mean they’re there now?”
“Correct.”
“OK, and this is taking place where?”
“The parking lot of the county jail, directly across from sheriff’s headquarters.” I could hear the clicking of her keystrokes over the phone. “They’re breaking into a silver Honda Accord. I can’t read the plate from my present position.”
“Across from the sheriff’s department,” she said. “Wow, pretty ballsy.”
“Indeed.”
The Accord’s door was now open. The burglar was leaning into the car, rummaging around with one knee on the driver’s seat. Red plaid boxer shorts billowed out from the top of his jeans. Then he quickly jumped into the Accord and shut the door. I provided the emergency operator a running commentary.
“He’s definitely trying to steal the car.”
“And your name, sir?”
“My name doesn’t matter right now, lady. Do you have a unit en route, yes or no, because by the look of it, these two jokers are about to be gone.”
“We do have a unit on the way, yes sir. They should be there in a couple of minutes, if not sooner. Now, if you could please just tell me your—”
I hung up, waited, and watched. I told myself not to get directly involved any more than I already was. It was up to the professionals of law enforcement to handle the rest. Only the professionals seemed to be on their lunch breaks.
I could see the Accord shudder a little—the engine turning over—then white taillights came on as the thief shifted into reverse and began backing out. Prudence dictated that I stay put. I’d done my civic duty. I’d dropped a dime. That’s probably more than most people would’ve done. But that’s the problem with the world these days. Too much prudence. Too much, “It’s not my problem,” kind of thinking. The world is a dangerous place not
Similar Books
