“Maybe,” Buddy said cagily. “The last call I had out there was because some old lady was collecting shrimp and crab legs in her scooter cart and only paid for a Diet Coke at the self-checkout. Ramsey wasn’t in a real good mood about that. Guess when she checked the recordings and went back a ways, this lady had been running this scam on a fairly regular basis. Thousands of dollars in seafood scooting right out the door and no one stopped her or questioned her because why would you even think she was up to no good?”
“Takes all kinds, I guess.”
Buddy nodded. “Yep. All kinds.”
Sullivan turned around as Buddy got busy with paperwork. He promised himself he’d ask Ramsey about the scooter seafood caper the next time he saw her. He wondered if the senior citizen had tried to outrun Ramsey and whether he could keep a straight face if she had.
He had a chance a few hours later but missed the opportunity because of exigent circumstances. He was in his patrol car when the call from dispatch came in. “The Ridge reporting that a red Ford F150 just took off from the parking lot headed west toward town on the highway. Ramsey says you can’t miss it. It’s the one with a shopping cart full of tech gear and tools on the truck bed.”
Sullivan picked up his radio. “Say again about the shopping cart.”
“The shopping cart is on the truck bed. She says these yahoos were in too much of a hurry to unload their cart. They just put it on the bed. She’s got a plate number.”
“That’s okay. I’ll verify when I catch up to them.” He pulled onto the highway from a wide shoulder near the underpass. It was a good place to catch speeders, and this time it hid him nicely as the red Ford F150 drove past. He turned on his lights and siren and waited for the pickup to pull over.
Before Sullivan reached the driver’s side window, another patrol car rolled to a stop behind his. Buddy got out. He was shaking his head. “Do you fuckin’ believe this?”
“That’s rhetorical, right?”
Buddy approached the pickup on the passenger side and tapped the window lightly with his baton.
Sullivan motioned to the driver to lower his window. He was greeted by a big toothy smile surrounded by bushy mustache and beard almost as red as the pickup. “License and registration.”
“Sure thing, officer. License is in my wallet. Registration’s in the glovebox. I gotta gun in there. Permit to carry. All legal.”
“Fine. How about you stepping out of the truck? Your passenger too. My partner will get what we need.” Sullivan tapped the roof of the pickup to get Buddy’s attention and related what the driver said.
The men obliged without argument, although Redbeard did ask why they were pulled over.
Sullivan pretended it was a legitimate question in spite of the cart of stolen goods in the back. “You were a mite heavy on the gas pedal,” he said. “This section of road eases to forty-five heading into town.” He flipped open the man’s wallet. “But then you’re not from around here, are you? This says you call home Gary, Indiana.”
“That’s right. Just passing through.”
“Uh-huh. But slower next time, Dusty.” He paused, regarded the man skeptically. The license indicated Dusty was twenty-six, but he looked a decade older. Maybe it was the beard or maybe it was drugs or maybe being dumb as a box of rocks was aging him prematurely. “Is your name really Dusty Springfield?”
“Uh-huh. Old timey singer.”
“Female. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. But I ain’t.”
“Right.”
Buddy called over from where he was standing beside another redhead, this one beardless, and maybe eighteen, but only just. “I’ve got Jessie’s Girl over here.”
Sullivan frowned. “Say again?”
“Rick Springfield. It’s no good if I have to explain.”
“Sorry.”
“Gun’s not loaded and the permit’s in order.”
Sullivan said, “All right, gentlemen, which one of you wants to explain the shopping cart?”
Dusty and Rick exchanged blank looks and then turned those vacant eyes on Sullivan. It was Dusty who finally spoke. “Dunno.”
Sullivan pointed to the cart. “You see that?”
