Boosted Pt. 02

THREE

Sean was studying PISTOL's release notes to determine if the just announced improvements were something he was interested in. The software was under support, so the upgrade was free, but that didn't mean he had to install it. There'd been a lot of grumbling and complaining when his officers first started using the new software, but now that his people were comfortable with it, they loved it. No more illegible handwritten reports, no more typewriters, and no more misfiled or lost paperwork. Best of all, his department had all the case and arrest information at their fingertips and could tap into that information right from their cars.

Most of the upgrades were in the add-on modules his department didn't use, but there were a few enhancements to the base module. The changes weren't anything they needed, but he wanted to stay reasonably current so he didn't get caught having to upgrade to an intermediate release in order to be able to upgrade to the latest version. The release notes said the upgrade should take anywhere from ten minutes to a couple of hours, depending on how much information was in the database. His department was small, very small compared to the size of police departments that typically used PISTOL, so they were likely on the lower end of the time estimate. He placed the notes aside, deciding he'd install the upgrade, but he was going to wait a few months to let other police departments find the bugs. He looked up at the rap on his door.

"Sean, you busy?"

"No. Come on in. What can I do for you?"

Gavin Reed was one of his old timers. Originally from Brunswick, Gavin was thirty-five, wore his dark hair cut military short, and had been with the Brunswick PD for almost six years. Shorter than most of his fellow officers at perhaps five seven or five eight, he looked like a bear of a man in his ballistic vest. He had a round face, wide nose, and small, narrow set eyes, but he was open, friendly, and seemed to know everyone in town. He looked like a brawler, but he had a big soft spot for animals and was a good family man who doted on his wife and two kids. Gavin was a good officer, kept his equipment, uniform, and car spotless, and he never complained, no matter what was asked of him.

"Nothing. I thought you'd like to know I was driving by that new place going into the old Chevy dealer in Tilley, and they've finally put up a sign. The place is called BIGS Automotive Repair. That's B I G S, all in capitals. According to the sign it stands for British, Italian, German, and Swedish. Anyway, I figured with your Jag and all, you'd want to check them out."

"I might. Did it say when they'd be open?"

"No, nothing I saw anyway. It looks like it should be any time now, though."

"Thanks for letting me know. Maybe I'll run over there at lunch."

Gavin bobbed his head once. "No problem. I had to come back to the station for a potty break anyway."

"Anything happening in Tilley today?"

"No, not really. You know, Tilley is Tilley."

Sean nodded. Tilley had, and had had for a long time, the reputation of being full of crime. Since he was still relatively new to the area he didn't know if the reputation was deserved back when the mills were in operation, but it was certainly deserved now. His department might eventually get a handle on the crime, but even if they did, opinions were going to be slow to change.

"I guess that's a good thing."

"Yeah, I guess," Gavin agreed. "Anyway, I need to get back out there. I just wanted to let you know about the sign."

"Thanks. I'm glad you did."

After Gavin left, Sean worked around the office until lunch, approving his people's time so they'd get paid. Approving time sheets was a snap now. A simple mouse-click in PISTOL and it was done. Some of his officer's handwriting left something to be desired, and with the old handwritten method the department was using when he took over, he sometimes had to call someone to decipher their writing, or have the officer find their missing time sheet. When he finished approving Officer Zelney's time, Sean leaned back in his chair and stretched, reaching for the ceiling as he yawned. After rapping a quick ditty on his desk, he rose and headed to the lobby.

"Be back in a few," he said as he passed through the small room.

He drove to BIGS, hoping he wasn't wasting his time. He was afraid to drive the Jag very far with the wonky carbs. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck on the side of the road between Brunswick and Raleigh, or worse, damage the car from driving it while it ran too lean. If BIGS Automotive Repair worked on old English cars he'd eagerly give them a try.

He pulled into the parking lot. There was a truck from an electrical company, another one from a heating and air conditioning contractor, and a third truck from a lift company. He pulled to a stop a good distance away to give the men room to work around their trucks. He hadn't been by the long-abandoned Woodard Chevrolet in months. It certainly looked different than it had the last time he'd driven by. The parking lot was still in rough shape, but the weeds growing through cracks in the pavement had been cut down, the floor to ceiling windows that once formed the showroom had been cleaned and repaired, and the metal building was fresh and tidy in its new crisp white paint and bright red trim. The husk of the Chevrolet sign had a temporary sign stretched over it with BIGS Automotive Repair written in large red letters over a white background. The oversize B, I, G, and S formed the first letter of British, Italian, German, and Swedish written in smaller black type, spelled downward under each letter, with Automotive and Repair stacked and taking up the remaining space.

He stepped out of his car and looked around, the fast hammering of an impact wrench rattling in the shop echoed in the quiet as he approached the front door. He pulled, expecting it to be locked, and was rewarded with the door swinging open. The glass enclosed front that once held a couple of new Chevy's waiting for buyers was empty, but the air conditioning was on, and it was pleasantly cool.

"Hello?" he called.

A moment later a harried looking woman arrived from the back. She appeared to be in her late forties to early fifties, but she took care of herself. She had a few strands of gray in her light brown hair, a few laugh lines around her eyes, and she likely smoked based on the wrinkles around her lips, but she carried herself erect and had energy in her step.

"Sorry, but we're not open."

"Yes, I understand, but I saw your sign and I wanted to stop in and find out if you work on antique English cars."

"You with the police?" she asked, her tone wary.

"Yes, but this is for me. I have a '66 E-Type that needs a little work."

"What kind of work?"

"Carburetor. A float in one of the carbs failed. I replaced all three, but now I think it's running lean. It's hard to start and runs better with a little bit of choke."

The woman nodded. "Sounds like it's leaned out alright, Mr...?"

"McGhee. Sean McGhee," he said, extending his hand.

The woman took the offered hand. "CJ Bowetan. I own the place. Like I said, we're not open."

"But do you work on old Jags once you do open?"

For the first time, CJ smiled. "Oh, sure. Old English and Italian car owners are our best customers."

Sean grinned at the gentle ribbing. His mechanic in Boston once teased him about how he'd only need three customers if they all had old English cars.

"When do you expect to be open?"

CJ sighed and looked around. "The carbs just need adjusting?"

"So far as I know."

She twisted her lips to the side as she looked behind her in in the direction of the shop. "Why don't you bring it by Monday? We won't officially be ready to open until later in the week, but for a simple carb adjustment, I think we can squeeze that in around everything else that's going on."

"You don't have to do that."

She smiled. "It's no problem. It never hurts to be in good with the police," she said, drawing out the last word so it sounded like poh-lease.

He sniffed out a brief laugh. "Thanks, but you really don't have to do that. I haven't driven the car since the fall, so a few more days aren't going to matter."

"With the weather getting nice, it's time we fix that. If it needed to go on the lift or needed major work, that might be a problem, but it doesn't, so yeah, I think we can handle it. My guys have been whining about the lack of work while we prepared for the move. We haven't been taking in new work because I didn't want to have to move a bunch of cars."

"Where are you moving from?"

"Raleigh."

"Really? What brings you to Tilley?"

Her lips twisted into a crooked half smile. "Cheap real estate. We've outgrown our place in Raleigh, but everything there is so expensive. I've been looking for a while. I finally gave up on finding a place in Raleigh and started looking outside the city. Since we're kind of a specialty service, I figured if I stayed within a half-hour drive of Raleigh, I wouldn't lose many customers. Anyway, I found this building for sale. It's four times the size of our old place, but my payments are actually a little less than the rent I was paying. It'll be nice not to have to push cars in and out of the bays all the time just to have room to work."

He nodded. "I can imagine. You sure Monday won't be a problem?"

She grinned again. "Nah. Bring it by. We can probably knock it out in an hour or so. I'll have the guys clear a hole in the back so we'll have a place to park it."

"That's great! Thanks! What time Monday?"

CJ waggled her head side to side, as if she were thinking. "Anytime after seven. That's when we'll normally open. Seven to six, Monday through Friday, and eight until Noon on Saturday. I'll make sure Dalton, that's the guy that normally works on the English stuff, is here."

"I'll be here about seven on Monday. Thanks again." He pulled his card wallet from a pocket and slid out a business card for Loch and Castle, leaving his chief cards in the holder. CJ, like a lot of people who didn't know him, seemed a little intimidated he was a police officer. "I have an Irish pub opening in downtown in the next week or so, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

She took the card and looked at it. "So, you're not with the Brunswick police?"

"No, I am, but the pub is a side gig. You can reach me at that number if something comes up."

She flicked the card with her finger a couple of times. "Okay. If you don't hear from me, bring it by Monday and we'll take care of it. You said it was a '66?"

"Yeah. E-Type."

"Original triple SU carbs?"

"That's right."

"And it ran fine before the floats were replaced? They don't need a rebuild?"

"It ran fine. I had the carbs rebuilt a few years ago."

"Who'd you get to replace the floats?"

"I did them myself."

She looked slightly surprised. "You did? Then why...?"

He smiled. "I do some stuff, but I don't mess with adjusting the carbs. I leave that for the experts. I'm afraid if I start fooling with them all the magic will leak out."

She broke into a big smile. "Okay, gotcha. Getting the carbs in sync can be a little tricky if you don't know what you're doing. Dalton has been working on English cars for twenty-five years. He can get you taken care of."

Sean extended his hand. "Thanks. I'll see you Monday morning."

She took his hand while glancing at his card, probably to remember his name. "No problem, Sean."

He turned on his toe and walked out, unable to contain his grin. He'd really lucked out having a garage that specialized in old European cars open so close to home. CJ seemed to know her stuff and that made him hopeful that he'd found a competent place to work on his Jag. His car was relatively reliable, but it was still British, and as it'd proven, that reliability could change without warning.

Sean was on his way back to the station when his radio squawked. "Chief? You got your ears on?"

Sean lifted the mic from the clips. "Right here."

"Roberta Gellenphaf is here. She'd like to speak to you," Kim said.

"I'm on my way back to the station. I should be there in five or six minutes."

"Okay, I'll let her know."

When he opened the door to the station, Roberta, the owner of Fudgy-Duddy, was waiting in the lobby. "Roberta, how can I help you?"

"Got a minute?"

"Sure. Come back to my office." He glanced through the window at the dispatcher and nodded. The door buzzed as Kim unlocked it. He pulled it open and escorted the elderly woman into his office. "Please, have a seat," he said, motioning to a chair before sitting down behind his desk. "What can I do for you?"

Sean didn't know Roberta's age, but she had to be in her eighties. He suspected she was playing to a stereotype because every time he saw her, she was wearing small, oval, granny-glasses, a flowered dress buttoned to her neck, and her hair was piled high in an old-fashioned bun. She wasn't wearing one now, but in her store, she and her daughter always wore crisp white aprons with pockets and the name of the store on the front.

"I don't want to sound like some cranky ol' biddy, but someone, probably kids, is vandalizing my store window. This morning, for the third time this month, someone wrote Packer in white paint under the word Fudge in Homemade Fudge. I had to ask Carol what it meant. Can you believe someone would write such a thing on my window? I don't know what they're using to write with, but it's hard to clean off."

Sean forced himself to not smile. "Any idea of who's doing it?"

"None. I arrived to open in the morning, and there it is."

"No other damage?"

"No, but like I said, it's hard to wash off. I shouldn't have to put up with people doing that."

"No, ma'am, you shouldn't. We'll do what we can, but we'll have to catch them in the act, and that's going to be difficult. We already run a patrol in the area a couple of times a night."

"Can't you, I don't know, park a car in front of the store or something?"

"If you can tell me when you expect it to happen again, sure, but I can't dedicate an officer to sitting there all night on the off chance whoever's doing it shows up. Besides, if a cruiser is sitting there, nothing will happen."

"That's good enough for me."

This time Sean did smile. "I'm sure. I'll have my officers increase the number of patrols, but that's all I can do. Try putting a sign up in the window that says the store is under video surveillance. See if that helps. Eventually whoever's doing this will get tired of it and stop on their own."

"But until then I'll have to keep cleaning my shop window? I can't have Fudge Packer written on my front window. What will people think?"

"I understand, but unless we just happen to get lucky, you're going to have to put up with it until they decide to stop. You can also, in addition to the sign, put an old camcorder on a table pointed at the window where anyone painting the glass will see it. Even if the camera doesn't work, the painter won't know that, and if it does, we'll have video of them doing it as proof."

Roberta watched him a moment. "That's about what I expected you to say. I like the camera idea, though. I never thought of that. I'll see if I can find someone to loan me an old camera for a while."

"I wish there was more I could do."

She shrugged and slowly stood. "Maybe between the camera, and you increasing the number of times a car comes by, that'll be enough. It just makes me mad, that's all."

Sean rose as Roberta did. "It'd make me mad too. We'll keep an eye on your place as best we can."

She nodded. "Thanks. That's all I want."

After escorting Roberta to the door, Sean stepped into the dispatch office. "Pass the word to increase the number of nightly patrols in downtown for the next two or three weeks. We've got some vandalism going on."

"Writing on Roberta's window isn't very nice, especially that," Kim snickered.

"No, it's not."

"I'll leave a note for Terri."

"Thanks," he said with a nod.

He spent the rest of day doing his chief duties, approving invoices for payment and the like. After a year on the job, he still hadn't figured out how a town the size of Brunswick could require as much paperwork as Boston, but it did. Paperwork was like a gas... it expanded to fill all available volume.

His day complete, Sean loaded his computer into his bag before stepping into the dispatch office. "Did you see Kim's note?"

Terri nodded. "Yeah. I passed the word and I'll leave a note for Claire. What should they be looking for?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Someone is writing 'Packer' under the word 'Fudge' on Fudgy-Duddy's window."

She twittered out a laugh. "That's terrible!"

"Yeah. It may be funny, but we need to put a stop to it if we can."

"I'll let everyone know."

"Good enough. You rotate off tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah. Michelle will be here tomorrow."

"Enjoy your weekend."

"Thanks! You too!"

As he drove home, he wondered why someone would pick on Fudgy-Duddy. Roberta was probably right, and it was kids, but were they painting her window because they thought Fudge Packer was funny, or because they were targeting her for some reason? He'd probably never know because it was unlikely they'd be able to catch who was doing it. That was the frustrating part of his job, the inability to do anything about stuff like this. He shoved the thought aside as he pulled to a stop in his parking spot. He was trying to emulate Maggie and leave work at work. He opened the door and stepped inside as Marmalade came trotting out of his bedroom. The cat's head was lowered, he didn't look like he felt well, and the food he'd put out this morning had barely been touched. He reached down and picked the cat up.

"You feeling okay, buddy?" he asked as he held his pet, rubbing the cat behind his ears the way he knew Marmalade liked. He placed the cat back on the floor, propping his computer against the cabinet before picking up Marmalade's bowl and dumping the dried pâté into the sink for disposal. "What's wrong with you?" he asked the cat as it rubbed against his leg.

He was starting to worry about Marmalade and wondered if his pet not eating was more than the cat being picky, especially since Marmalade acted like he didn't feel well. He'd give the cat another few days, but if he didn't start eating again, he'd take him to the vet and have him checked out. He looked through the available cans until he found Liver and Chicken, one of Marmalade's favorites. He quickly opened the can and dumped the contents into a fresh bowl.

"There you go," he said as he placed the bowl on the floor, watching to see if Marmalade would eat. The cat went to the bowl and sniffed before looking up at Sean and meowing. "That's what there is," Sean said, still watching. After a moment, he picked the bowl up and mashed the food up with a fork before placing it back on the floor. Marmalade looked up at him again and then began to eat, but not with his usual gusto. "Crazy cat."

He was dipping up the pierogies when Maggie opened the door. "What's for dinner? I'm starved!" she teased before bussing him on the lips.

"Just in time. Sausage pierogies and roasted carrots."

"Smells wonderful. How are you, Marmalade?" she asked, crouching to scratch the cat on the head.

"I don't think he's feeling so pretty good," Sean said as he slid the last of the doughy delights onto the serving plate. "He didn't eat much last night, nothing this morning, and he only ate about half of what he normally does tonight."

"Poor baby," she purred, picking the cat up and nuzzling it with her face.

Sean smiled. He could hear Marmalade purring from five feet away. He'd purr too if she were doing that to him. "We're about ready," he said as he placed the pierogies on the table. While he pulled the carrots from the oven, Maggie poured their drinks.