Page 11 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

I called Bobby.

Big surprise: Ryan did not like that.

He only tried to run away once. He made it as far as the door before Keme grabbed his collar, and then he gave up immediately.

I was starting to think Keme had a future in a field that generously rewarded physical violence. MMA, maybe. Or the military. Or what did you call those guys in the mob who broke your leg if you didn’t pay up? An enforcer. My adopted son-slash-big brother would make one heck of an enforcer.

When Bobby got there, he heard us out. He looked at the money. And then he and I stepped outside while Keme fell into the natural role of prison guard.

“Are you going to arrest him?” I asked.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Keeping secrets. High treason. Criminal abuse of a Hot Pocket.”

“How much syrup did you put in your oatmeal?”

“Bobby!”

“I’m not going to arrest him.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“For what?”

“Uh, snooping? Sleuthing? Playing laser tag without a vest? Impersonating a police officer while under the influence of Jinx St. James?”

Sometimes, when Bobby gets quiet, it feels like he’s quiet for a long time.

“It was getting interesting there at the end,” he said in what I—a writer!—would have called a deadly tone . “Keep going.”

“What about the money?”

“When did you impersonate a police officer?”

“I was really more of an accomplice. That’s not a crime.”

“It is a crime. It’s actually its own crime. It’s called being an accomplice.”

“Bobby: the money?”

He gave me a look that suggested the previous conversation was not finished, but he said, “I’m not going to do anything about the money. Sure, it’s weird that Ryan found it in his car. And I believe you when you say this might be someone’s attempt to frame Paul. But think about it like this: all we know for a fact is that Ryan found some cash. No one has reported that money missing. No one has accused Paul or Ryan of a crime. It’s not a crime to have a lot of cash on hand. And it’s not a crime to hide it in weird places.” Bobby put his hands on his hips. It’s a good look on him; he’s got broad shoulders and a trim waist, and when he puts his hands on his hips, it accentuates the defined vee of his body. It also emphasizes his gun, which—even though I don’t like guns and don’t want guns and don’t have any general, uh, truck with guns—still has an effect. “What I don’t understand is why everyone was so fixated on Paul in the first place.”

“Because it was his packages that were being stolen. Only his packages.”

“But see, that’s just not true. I mean, maybe a higher number of Paul’s packages were being taken than, say, another random delivery driver. But porch piracy is a big—and I mean big —problem. We’re talking billions of dollars a year. I understand Paul had already made a dumb mistake at work. They had him pegged as potential trouble. Maybe they felt like they needed to make an example. Or maybe they really did think Paul was stealing those packages.”

I could hear something else trying to nose its way out from between Bobby’s careful sentences. “But?”

Bobby glanced around, but we were still alone in the small staff parking lot behind the strip mall. “Do you know how porch pirates work?”

“I mean, they take packages off of porches, right?”

“Right. Sometimes, it’s a crime of opportunity—someone passes a house with packages on the porch, and they run up, grab them, and leave. But other times, it’s planned. For some people, this is their equivalent of a full-time job, so they have strategies, and they know what works. They might dress up as a delivery driver, for example, and drive an unmarked van, so it looks like they have a reason to be carrying packages to and from the porch. Or they dress up as an employee from a utility company, or something else—something nobody would look twice at. Sometimes, they follow a delivery truck and grab anything that isn’t brought inside right away. And sometimes, they work in groups.”

“So, somebody could have been following Paul, and that’s why it was only his packages—” The rest of what he’d said caught up to me. “Wait, groups?”

“It’s a multi-billion-dollar industry, if you want to call it that. Some people get organized about it.”

Farther down, one of the back doors set into the strip mall opened, and a middle-aged guy came out lugging a bag of trash.

“Please don’t tell me it’s the Turnleys,” I finally said.

“We’ve successfully prosecuted three of them,” Bobby said. “But they’re like cockroaches—turn on the light, and they all scatter.”

I was still trying to make sense of this. “Yeah, but a porch pirate family ?”

“More like a clan, I think. Lots of cousins, and you can never tell who’s related to whom. And it’s not only stealing packages. The juveniles do a lot of shoplifting—and I’m talking a lot , Dash. They also hit storage units, warehouses, that kind of thing—anywhere with minimal security but the prospect of high-value items. Around here, that includes vacation homes, rental properties. Remember when you first moved here, and you caught a burglar in the house? At the time, I thought it was one of the Turnleys.”

I nodded—that particular memory was still nice and fresh. It hadn’t been one of the Turnleys, though; it had been Vivienne, and she hadn’t exactly been burgling. All I said, though, was “They sound charming.”

“They’re not. They’re dangerous. One of the dads or uncles—depends on who you’re asking—is in prison for armed robbery, and we’re pretty sure a couple of others held up a bank in Washington five or six years ago.”

“Jeez.”

“If they’re involved—and it sounds like they are involved—this isn’t just asking a few questions to help a friend. This is serious. And it’s dangerous.”

“But why are they involved?” I asked. “I mean, what do they want from Paul? Was he working with them? Does he owe them money?”

“Good questions,” Bobby asked. “Very good questions for the sheriff to ask as soon as this becomes an official investigation. Meanwhile, you can go home and keep working on your book.”

The thought of pounding my head against that particular wall made me shudder. (Why was it so freaking hard to decide where a body might show up in a mystery novel? The whole point was for bodies to show up. As frequently as possible, in my opinion.) But I said, “I’m worried about Paul. He’s gone, and nobody knows where he is. Millie’s worried about him too. Even Ryan’s worried about him, and he’s got the brains God gave a chinchilla.” (Apologies to all chinchilla enthusiasts out there.) “I want to talk to the Turnleys.”

Bobby set his jaw. For the first time, I noticed that he looked tired. Of course he did—working double shifts and then coming home and having to deal with my nonsense would do that to anyone.

“Just talk,” I said. “I promise.”

“Just talk,” Bobby said in an unflattering tone.

“I won’t make any wild accusations. If I suddenly make an important breakthrough in the case, I won’t let them know. I won’t reveal anything that would make them want to silence me, probably by killing me and burying my body in a part of the forest no one will ever find.”

Bobby stood there for probably eight or ten seconds, hands still on his hips. And then he reached for his radio.

“If you’re going to have a deputy arrest me, can it please be Dahlberg? Salk is super nice, but I think he’d want to wrestle or something.”

Radio halfway to his mouth, Bobby paused. Probably considering if he should have me locked up. Or if this was yet another sign that a new boyfriend was in the near future.

Then he did the radio clicky thingy and said, “Jaklin, this is Bobby. I’m going to take my lunch now. Over.”

Slightly too long passed before Jaklin said, “Roger that, Bobby.” I got the feeling that Deputy Bobby Mai taking a lunch break was not the norm—and probably something that would be much discussed over the next few weeks.

“Have I ever mentioned you’re the best boyfriend ever?” I said.

Bobby gave me that goofball grin.