Coffee & Crime (17 page)

Zelda glanced around nervously. "Time to split." I hung back. Zelda looked desperate. "What?"

I slowly turned, taking in all the details of the room. For such a large office there wasn't much there aside from George's antique desk and the filing cabinets. Just a couple of extra visitor chairs against one wall and a large credenza perpendicular to George's desk. I stared at the credenza.

"What are you doing?" Zelda asked from the doorway.

"Looking."

Zelda was so agitated that her body vibrated. "At what?"

"I feel like we're missing something."

"Scotti, come on."

I walked to the credenza to get a better look. It was huge and mahogany, like George's desk. On top were an attractive art deco clock and a silver tray that served as a portable bar with rocks glasses, ice bucket and a few bottles of expensive scotch. I reached for the cabinet doors below.

"Scotti!"

I turned to Zelda who looked pale and nervous. "What?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "I've got a bad vibe. We need to get the hell out of here now."

Zelda's panic was real even if it was based on paranoia, so I backed away from the credenza, snapping pictures of it as I went. "A few more pics
—
we can look at them at home."

Zelda twitched like a puppet. "Would you hurry up already?"

I backed out of the office, snapping pictures as I went. But once I was through the door, Zelda muscled me out of the way. She killed the lights, locked the door, and grabbed me by the elbow. "Now, Scotti, now."

She rushed me to the elevator and pushed the button repeatedly until the doors slid open. She shoved me inside and pushed the button for the garage until the doors closed. During the ten seconds of descent, she paced like an expectant father. When the elevator doors opened onto the parking garage, she looked right and left then fast-footed me to the jeep. Just to screw with her, I snapped pictures of the garage, the elevator, and her. "Get in the damn car!"

I laughed at her and climbed into the jeep. Before I could buckle my seatbelt, she put the jeep in gear, backed up and zipped to the exit. I slammed against the door fighting to get my seatbelt fastened. "Zee, what are you doing? Trying to permanently disable me?"

Zelda scanned the key card and stared at the gate as though that would make it lift faster. When the gate lifted enough to clear, she hit the gas and shot out of the garage onto Colorado Boulevard.

I managed to click in my seatbelt. "What’s the matter with you, Zee?"

She eyed the rear view mirror. "Look behind you."

I checked the side mirror and saw Jake Kannanack pulling into the parking garage. "Oh crap."

We continued east on Colorado Boulevard
—
the wrong direction for home. "Where the hell are we going?"

Paying no attention to the wet roads and churning up water under her wheels, Zelda zipped in and out of traffic she said, "I don't know."

"Then can we go home? We’re working the early shift tomorrow." Zelda hooked a left at Lake but sped past the entrance to the 210. I turned in my seat and pointed. "You missed the freeway entrance."

She drove a few more blocks then pulled into the parking lot of a popular bistro. The waning daylight and misty air made the place look like an English cottage. We idled in the parking lot
—
the rumble of the engine and the thump of windshield wipers filling the silence. "Are we stopping for dinner?"

Zelda switched off the engine. The rain pattered on the roof like thousands of tiny foot soldiers on their way to battle. Zelda stared at the parking lot through the windshield. "You're probably right. They had to have security cameras."

My stomach clutched. "Nothing we can do about that now. Let's go home and print everything while we've got the chance." If we were on security footage, once somebody noticed, a visit from the cops would follow. "Yeah, let's go now."

Zelda gaped at me. "We took over a hundred pictures."

"So?"

"It'll take two weeks to print everything with our printer."

I frowned because she was right. Our printer was one of those three-in-one types that gobbled up ink cartridges like Zelda gobbled up pancakes. "Shit."

We sat in silence
—
thinking.

Zelda snapped her fingers. "What about that copy guy? Isn't his shop around here?"

"You mean, Franky? We give the old pies to his church every two weeks and you don’t remember his name?"

Zelda rolled her eyes. "The point is, he's got all that state-of-the-art copy equipment, right? He could download all the pictures from our phones and print them out, yeah?"

Franky had impressive equipment but I didn't know if he could do what Zelda was suggesting. But even if he didn’t have a magic machine, he could produce copies faster than we could. "He probably has something that would work." I shrugged. "It's worth a shot." I grinned. "And he's open 24-7."

<<>>

Franciskos Pashayan, aka Franky P, was an Armenian immigrant who loved America. His business colors were red, white, and blue, and he wore a little American flag pin on his lapel. He took great pride in being an American businessman and always wore a suit and tie to work. We found Franky manning the counter by himself, with only one machine engaged by a do-it-yourself customer. Perfect, no waiting and no prying eyes.

"Scotti!" Franky's smile exposed the gold cap on his front tooth. He took my hand and pumped it. "So good to see you again. What can I do for you on this terrible rainy night?"

I explained what we wanted and asked if he could do what we needed. He nodded. "Piece of pie." Franky still had a little trouble with American idioms.

We surrendered our phones and Franky went into production mode. As it turned out, he could do exactly what Zelda had suggested. He uploaded our photo files to his computer, then sent the files to a copier from his computer. Within twenty minutes, the machines were spitting out copies of everything. God bless technology. And Franky.

In all, we'd taken nearly two hundred pictures. Franky added a front and back cover and bound it in a convenient package
—
and threw in an extra so we each had a full copy.

By nine o’clock, we had two collated and bound copies of the pictures we took. Franky stacked the two binders and put our phones on top. "What else can I do for you?"

I pulled out my wallet. "Not a thing. What do we owe you?"

"Zero dollars and zero cents."

I frowned and shook my head. "I can't let you do this for free."

"Why not? You bring the pies and cakes every two weeks to my church. Do you ask for something? No, you give the pies and say, 'Enjoy!' So, I give you copies and say, Enjoy! It all comes to be fair, yes?"

Franky's church was the beneficiary of the old pies and cakes from the diner but I tried to explain that the pastries were a small thing. "What's the point of tossing out perfectly good food, when somebody else can enjoy it?"

Franky nodded. "Sure, sure." He peered through the front windows at the rain that pummeled the empty parking lot. "You stay dry best you can, my friend." He slid the binders across the counter. "Enjoy!"

I put my wallet and phone back in my bag and scooped up the binders. "Okay, thanks. And speaking of pies, we've got some in the jeep for you. Get your umbrella and galoshes big guy."

<<>>

We were both starving but Zelda was so desperate to get home that I couldn't convince her to stop for burgers and fries. When we got home, we were greeted by a trembling Boomer who was so happy he peed on the floor.

I headed straight for the kitchen. "If we eat fast, we can look this stuff over and still get a few hours of sleep."

But Zelda was already passed out on the sofa, with Boomer perched on her hip, wagging his stub. I shooed Boomer away and pulled an afghan over her, then turned up the heat.

I was too wound-up to sleep and made a tuna, avocado, and pickle sandwich on sprouted grain toast
—
which I split with Boomer. Five minutes later he threw up his half of the sandwich on the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to clean that up later.

Zelda half-snorted, half-snored on the sofa. She was down for the count, so I pulled off her sneakers and tucked in the afghan around her.

I grabbed George's keys off the coffee table because keys are the kind of thing that Boomer finds fascinating in moments of boredom. I carried the keys back to the butcher-block and decided we needed to copy them too. Jake's appearance in the parking garage had freaked me out but I was more concerned about the possibility of security footage. If the cops pounded on our door the next day, brandishing a search warrant and handcuffs I wanted to be sure we had a backup.

I glanced down at Boomer. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Boomer yapped and wagged his stub.

I made a half-assed attempt at going through the binder to see if our lawless adventure had been worth the trouble. But my eyelids were heavy and I put my head down on the countertop, then didn't wake up until morning.

We woke up late and busted our butts getting out the door. When we arrived at the diner we only had ten minutes to get the place set up for breakfast service. Regulars lined up outside the front door, peering through the window waving travel mugs.

Zelda set the tables with napkins and flatware. "Don't these people have homes?"

Coffee brewed while I filled cream pitchers, then placed them in a bus tray filled with ice. "They're desperate for their morning jolt."

Zelda finished the tables and went to the cash register. She squatted down to the cabinet beneath the register that housed the safe. Then ran her key card through the scanner and punched in a pin number. The safe door clicked open and she pulled out the cash drawer. Remaining in a squat she counted out the starting bank. "Yeah, well if they didn't want their morning fix so bad, I wouldn't have to sit on the floor and count the cash."

I ignored Zelda and stocked the bread, butter and jam for the toast station and started the carousal toaster. The machine groaned and whined and the heating coils radiated hot air into the room. The smell and sizzle of bacon and sausage in the kitchen made my stomach growl. But there wasn’t time to eat because Zelda yelled, "Incoming!"

Breakfast bled into lunch and when Debbie showed up to relieve us, Zelda cried, "Praise Jesus!"

We clocked out and were in the jeep before Debbie could ask for directions to the pie case. On the way home, we stopped at the little key place on Foothill to copy George's keys. The old guy at the counter said it would take a while, which gave us time to trot across the street to Denny's for French toast, bacon and eggs. The high sugar food revived us and kicked in a second wind. And for a few moments all seemed right with the world.

Boomer greeted us with a happy yap when we got out of the jeep. Zelda scooped him up. "Hey Booms, I wanted to have a little heart to heart about doggie vomit on the kitchen floor..."

I noticed the screen door was ajar and dread twisted in my gut. "Oh crap." But it was just a small package holding the door open. On top of the box was a certified letter too. I carried the box and letter into the house. Dropping my keys and bag on the entry table I carried the box and letter to the kitchen.

Zelda followed with Boomer yapping at her heels. "What's that?"

I pried open the box with a knife and pulled out a padlock, with a key in it. I read the note. "It's from Marge." Marge was the nice retired lady who lived next store to us. We shared a gate between our properties, which Boomer had recently discovered. Probably egged on by Marge's Doberman, Daisy. "Boomer's been going back and forth through her gate. Little bugger figured out how to rattle it open. So Marge bought this lock for the gate
—
she has a key and now we have a key."

"Boomer! Have you been having unauthorized field trips?"

Boomer wagged his stub at Zelda then drank some water.

"She also says that she signed for this certified letter." I waved it in the air.

Zelda frowned. "Certified letter? Is it from child services informing you that somebody finally wants to adopt you?"

I did a double take on the return address. "Lloyd Sessions?" I ripped the envelope open and with trembling hands unfolded the letter.

Zelda hovered. "What does it say?"

I nudged Zelda away. "Back off nosy Nancy." I read it then handed the letter to her. "My presence is requested at his office tomorrow."

Zelda read the letter, flipped it over as though there were further instructions on the back, then handed the letter back to me. "Looks like a form letter."

I frowned at the letter. "It does, doesn't it?" I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. "Hello? Yes, this is Scotti Fitzgerald, I received a certified letter...Oh, I see....Can you tell me why....Sure, I can be there at 9:30 tomorrow morning...Thank you." I ended the call.

"So?"

"It's a business matter which the receptionist was not at liberty to discuss. And Mr. Sessions has already left for the day."