the plate number down, committed it to memory and then went to meet Mrs. Jennings at the elevators.
She babbled on about the same things every week. How many kids and grandkids she had and how they never visited her. With disdain, she said one of them should at least take her shopping to help carry the bags. Once, she said she wished Jamie were her son. A good boy like him, always walking her to her car. His mother should be proud. Mrs. Jennings had no idea that Jamie’s mother was dead and his father was an alcoholic. Drunk driver killed his mother and his father became a drunk. Who would’ve figured?
But today, he tuned out Mrs. Jennings’ babbling. He wanted to be the one to find the Charger if it was in the parking garage. He had recently put in for a raise with Eaton’s Centre Security as he waited to hear back from the Durham Regional Police Force on his application. He’d graduated from Grade 12 and was about to start university, but thought he’d see if the force was willing to take him now. He figured there was nothing wrong with being overeager.
Mrs. Jennings had parked on the third level. Once she was settled in her car, her bags neatly packed in the trunk, he said his goodbyes, accepted her two-dollar tip—had to, even though it wasn’t allowed, because she wouldn’t entertain protest—and watched as she backed up three times in order to exit the parking space. A moment later she was headed down the spiral exit toward Yonge Street.
Instead of reentering the mall, Jamie decided walk to the main floor through the garage. Maybe he would get lucky and find the Charger.
On the second floor he stopped and counted over a dozen white car roofs. He wasn’t up on car makes and models yet. That was what notebooks were for.
He opened his and reread the plate number.
Then he started toward the first white roof.
A Challenger. The next one, a four-door BMW. It wasn’t until the seventh vehicle that he stopped and stared at it from a distance.
Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. He appeared to be looking at something in his lap. Could be texting on a phone or playing a game while waiting for his wife or girlfriend.
Jamie approached with caution. He stayed two rows over, making sure to remain behind SUVs and larger vehicles. Before walking out into the open and exposing his position, he dropped behind the bumper of a car and lay flat. Then he rolled behind another car and peered between the two at the plate number of the suspect vehicle.
It was like winning a lottery. He couldn’t believe his luck. The plate was an exact match. From where he lay, he could read the word Charger on the right side of the trunk.
He had done it. He had solved a crime. Maybe he could put it on his resumé. Durham Regional Police would love to have diligent, intrepid, brave men on their team. He fist pumped the air and almost punched the exhaust pipe of the car he hid behind.
His radio crackled and he jumped, smacking the top of his head on the bumper of the car in front of him.
He rolled away until he was behind a van and got to his feet.
He radioed in his position and reported he had found the White Dodge Charger that the police were seeking. The patrol supervisor told him to hold his position while he informed the authorities. No congratulations, no offer of a pat on the back.
Jealousy. That’s all that was.
Jamie was going to go places. One day he would make detective while his patrol supervisor would still be a patrol supervisor. Then he would see who gets the pat on the back.
Then he would see.
Chapter 7
Tim winced as the paramedic examining him prodded his injured hand on the back bumper of an ambulance while Niles and Marina watched.
“You always carry your piece in your personal car?” Niles asked.
He had one of those thick Magnum P.I. mustaches from the seventies or eighties. Behind Niles’ back, the guys at the
She babbled on about the same things every week. How many kids and grandkids she had and how they never visited her. With disdain, she said one of them should at least take her shopping to help carry the bags. Once, she said she wished Jamie were her son. A good boy like him, always walking her to her car. His mother should be proud. Mrs. Jennings had no idea that Jamie’s mother was dead and his father was an alcoholic. Drunk driver killed his mother and his father became a drunk. Who would’ve figured?
But today, he tuned out Mrs. Jennings’ babbling. He wanted to be the one to find the Charger if it was in the parking garage. He had recently put in for a raise with Eaton’s Centre Security as he waited to hear back from the Durham Regional Police Force on his application. He’d graduated from Grade 12 and was about to start university, but thought he’d see if the force was willing to take him now. He figured there was nothing wrong with being overeager.
Mrs. Jennings had parked on the third level. Once she was settled in her car, her bags neatly packed in the trunk, he said his goodbyes, accepted her two-dollar tip—had to, even though it wasn’t allowed, because she wouldn’t entertain protest—and watched as she backed up three times in order to exit the parking space. A moment later she was headed down the spiral exit toward Yonge Street.
Instead of reentering the mall, Jamie decided walk to the main floor through the garage. Maybe he would get lucky and find the Charger.
On the second floor he stopped and counted over a dozen white car roofs. He wasn’t up on car makes and models yet. That was what notebooks were for.
He opened his and reread the plate number.
Then he started toward the first white roof.
A Challenger. The next one, a four-door BMW. It wasn’t until the seventh vehicle that he stopped and stared at it from a distance.
Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. He appeared to be looking at something in his lap. Could be texting on a phone or playing a game while waiting for his wife or girlfriend.
Jamie approached with caution. He stayed two rows over, making sure to remain behind SUVs and larger vehicles. Before walking out into the open and exposing his position, he dropped behind the bumper of a car and lay flat. Then he rolled behind another car and peered between the two at the plate number of the suspect vehicle.
It was like winning a lottery. He couldn’t believe his luck. The plate was an exact match. From where he lay, he could read the word Charger on the right side of the trunk.
He had done it. He had solved a crime. Maybe he could put it on his resumé. Durham Regional Police would love to have diligent, intrepid, brave men on their team. He fist pumped the air and almost punched the exhaust pipe of the car he hid behind.
His radio crackled and he jumped, smacking the top of his head on the bumper of the car in front of him.
He rolled away until he was behind a van and got to his feet.
He radioed in his position and reported he had found the White Dodge Charger that the police were seeking. The patrol supervisor told him to hold his position while he informed the authorities. No congratulations, no offer of a pat on the back.
Jealousy. That’s all that was.
Jamie was going to go places. One day he would make detective while his patrol supervisor would still be a patrol supervisor. Then he would see who gets the pat on the back.
Then he would see.
Chapter 7
Tim winced as the paramedic examining him prodded his injured hand on the back bumper of an ambulance while Niles and Marina watched.
“You always carry your piece in your personal car?” Niles asked.
He had one of those thick Magnum P.I. mustaches from the seventies or eighties. Behind Niles’ back, the guys at the
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