Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(76)
I wait until he lifts his oversized mug of coffee to his mouth before I say, “It’s with the cops, being processed for evidence after some * jacked it last night.”
Coffee sprays out of Miller’s mouth and all over his monitor, over his desk. “Son of a bitch,” he growls, grabbing a wad of napkins nearby, only to knock the mug over with his elbow, spilling the rest of the coffee onto paperwork.
I know Rust said to keep it on the down-low, but this is Miller. I’m over the initial shock. Now I’m equal parts annoyed and amused by the irony. The part of my conscience that keeps chanting, “You f*cking deserve it,” keeps me from getting too angry.
“Here.” I toss a roll of paper towels his way.
He grabs it with one meaty hand. “Joyrider?”
“No way. Had to be a professional hit. They found it in a storage locker in NoPo, just off Highway 5, waiting to be moved no doubt.” It’s shocking how quickly I’ve come to understand this whole operation. “They’re processing the car right now. I’d love to see who they were planning on selling it to.” Saying that is as close to admitting that I know all about the ring and what Miller does for Rust. A part of me wants to talk to Miller openly about the entire thing, to see what he thinks, to ask him if he ever wishes he were just the garage manager.
“I wonder,” he mutters, clearing his throat several times. He looks about ready to collapse, his face red and swollen, swiping at a bead of sweat running down his brow.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You can go home if you need to. I can manage for the rest of the week. I don’t want you dying on me.”
“It’s nothing. Just this damn cold that Paige gave me. It’s more annoying than anything.”
“Paige?”
“My daughter.”
“You have a daughter?” I don’t mean for it to sound as incredulous as it comes out.
“I have three.” He falls back into his chair. “All teenagers now.”
Miller’s gene pool is walking around Portland right now. With breasts. I’m trying to picture that but, taking in the deep cleft in Miller’s chin and his trunk-like limbs, I’m struggling. I hope they got their looks from their mother. I have no idea what she looks like, but I’m guessing anything would be an improvement.
By the glare Miller shoots my way, I’m guessing he can read my mind and he’s about ready to punch me. I deserve it. I’m being an *. “Probably why you’re so stressed out,” I offer.
“Yeah, probably,” he mutters, hanging his head a little as he tries to salvage an invoice.
Chapter 40
CLARA
“Do you think we’ll get anything useful out of this?” I ask through a yawn, waiting for the caffeine in my coffee to kick in as I watch Warner toss the ball across the park for Stanley.
He huddles into his rain jacket. “Not sure yet. We’ll see if this plays out like we hope it does.”
The tracking companies worked fast, dispatching police to storage lockers in North Portland, where the thief left Luke’s Porsche and took off on foot to a parked car three streets away, Franky waiting in the wings for him. Franky tailed him for a few blocks before calling a friend of his, a local cop on duty. As soon as the thief saw the cruiser, he sped up and began weaving in and out of traffic. It was dangerous enough to bring him in on suspicion of intoxication.
Of course the guy had a bag of speed in his pocket.
Sometimes these idiots make it too easy.
By the time Warner got there and played him the video of him stealing Luke’s car, the thief was ready to turn in everyone he knew to avoid charges. It’s always the same. They’re so predictable. There is no honor in keeping quiet with these guys.
Apparently he was hired by someone with a “thick, mean accent, like the bad guys from Bond movies” who promised that he’d get eight grand cash if he lifted the car and left it in that particular storage locker. “He was paid for 12’s car, specifically?”
“Specifically. From the sounds of it, anyway. He was given the plate number and the address of the garage to scope it out ahead of time.”
That means someone was following us to the movie theater? Shivers run down my spine but I push them aside. “So how is this all going down?”
“We’re working with the local office on this. We need to,” he rushes to say, when I glare at him. “Don’t worry, your cover is intact and it’ll stay intact. But there will be a point where we need to bring in more people. We’ve got a local undercover who fits the profile ready to head to the jewelry wholesaler downtown with a phone number. I’m assuming the wholesaler is acting as the middleman with the money. He’ll have a mild description of who’s coming to collect. As soon as the person on the other end of the line confirms that they’ve got the car, they’ll hand the money over. That’s how it usually works.”
“Who runs the jewelry store?”
“A guy by the name of Jerry Rosenthal. We’re looking into him and Gold Bonds right now. Not sure if we have anything on them.”
I frown. That name . . . That name was on the certificate for the necklace at Luke’s place. Is that mere coincidence? Or does Rust’s organization also use this Rosenthal guy for their money exchanges? How many car theft rings would be operating through the same middleman? There can’t be many. Maybe only one. But, if that’s the case . . . No, I was with Luke. I saw his face. It wasn’t the face of a guy staging a theft of his own car as part of an insurance scam. He was genuinely shocked and upset. And relieved, too, when they found it. Plus, he put three tracking systems on it.