“Were you listening? I just did. Oh, you mean the origin.” She whipped out her phone, typed in a few words, and Google produced the answer. “I don’t know about saying it first, but Chaucer wrote it in the fourteenth century.”
“Huh. Guess there’s not much that Google doesn’t know.”
“Wait.” She tapped the Google microphone and asked her question so Sullivan could hear it. “Who sells stolen TVs at a yard sale?” Ramsey grinned. “It’s spinning. Oh, I’ll be darned. Apparently, it’s a cottage industry.” She clicked off and slipped the phone back in her pocket. “You should check to see if he has a Facebook account. Online sales of stolen goods are also lucrative.”
“Already on it. One of our tech guys pulled the assignment. Nothing so far. It’s not straightforward because of fake accounts, aliases, and alternative sites. Then there’s the dark web.”
Ramsey nodded, looked around.
“You expecting someone?”
“Paul. After Drew Butterick’s theft the other night, he’s decided to hang out.”
“Then you’re not in charge.”
“Not even practically in charge. He’s been popping up all over the store, looking over everyone’s shoulder. The cashiers. The stockers. The cleaning crew. He figures that Drew had inside help that no one’s identified.”
“Did he look at your copy of the recording? Drew was in and out; he hefted those boxes like a logger.”
“I know. He’s pissed because no one was working in electronics at the time. Jenny was on a break so she’s in his sights. I reminded him that he only scheduled a skeleton crew, and Jenny was entitled to fifteen minutes in the breakroom. He didn’t appreciate me pointing out what he knew was true.”
“I’m not aware of Paul talking to anyone at the station about it. He should call the chief with his suspicions.”
“And have it confirmed that cutting corners contributed to the theft? Not likely.” Ramsey looked over her shoulder again. “I better get going. I have my rounds to make. Home improvement is up next.” She pointed to the lightbulbs still secured under Sullivan’s arm and cocked an eyebrow at him. “You going to pay for those?” Her knees went a little weak when he grinned at her. “Go on, then. Get some sleep, for God’s sake. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Ramsey meandered through the aisles, circled the product towers that clogged the center avenue, and ended up in home improvement. Mason Calabash was working the section again, straightening the shelves to keep himself busy and awake. Ramsey sidled up to him as he was pulling paint cans forward and turning them so their labels were easily seen.
“Caribbean Country still a best seller?”
Mason gave her a knowing sidelong glance. “CaribbeanCoast.”
“Right. Doesn’t look as if there’s been much of a dent in the supply.”
“Hah. A lot you know. Did Paul mention that he took in twenty pallets? Twenty.”
“I might have heard that.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a lot of bisque. We’ve stocked the shelves three times so far, and I’ll probably have to add some cans before I go off this morning.”
“Really? You sell paint now? At this time of night? Who buys it?”
“People who don’t sleep. Folks who underestimated how much paint they needed, how long the project would take, and don’t want to leave it half done until morning. You’d be surprised.”
“And I am.”
“Still, I gotta tell you, it’s weird about the Caribbean Coast.”
“What’s weird?”
“Sales are brisk. Neutral tones are popular but I don’t get this demand.”
“Did it scan at a sale price? I didn’t stick around last time to find out.”
“No. It’s actually one of the more expensive paints. There’s another brand, similar quality, similar color, and about fifteen bucks cheaper. I’ve pointed that out. No one switches.”
“Brand loyalty, I guess,” she said, shrugging. “Like you said: weird.” Ramsey rapped the counter with her knuckles. “Ciao, Mason. Have to make my rounds.”
Ramsey sat in a booth specifically designed for one or two persons. It did not encourage company. The restaurant was a favorite place for the midnight shift crowd making their morning recovery, and it was inevitable that she’d see some familiar faces. On a few occasions she’d been a target of testosterone fueled interest. A bar she could understand, but Eat’n Park? She wondered if the pickup artists simply wanted to get breakfast out of the way and go to bed after. Eww.
