“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And no worries that I’ll do it again. I’m fairly certain he intends to fire me after you take my statement and leave.”
Sullivan frowned. Twin creases appeared between his dark eyebrows. “He said that?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t spell it out, but I’ve known him long enough to suspect he’s considering it. He doesn’t want to let me go, not really. That’s why he’s so mad. He’s knows I’m good at what I do, but foolish wasn’t how he described what I did today. He called me fucking stupid. Not what I did, but what I am. Fucking stupid.”
“You probably scared him out of his mind.”
Ramsey looked doubtful. “Liability scares him out of his mind. He doesn’t want to be sued. The Ridge stores don’t like that. They also don’t like their employees intercepting meth heads.”
Straight-faced now, Sullivan said, “That supposes you suspected he was one.” Ramsey stared at him, initially in some confusion. He stared back, unblinking. He saw the moment she understood what he was saying. Her nod was barely perceptible, but he was looking for it. The door opened. He was now her co-conspirator, or she was his. Regardless, Sullivan Day was satisfied. He looked up as Paul entered the room, greeted him with a smile that was at once coolly professional and warm in a personal way.
Paul nodded, kicked the door closed with the heel of his shoe, and then offered Sullivan a cup. “It’s black.” He dug into a pocket for some creamer cups and sugar and sugar substitute packets. “Here,” he said, tossing them onto the table as he sat. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
“Cream only.” Sullivan removed the lid on his coffee cup, opened two creamers and poured them in.
Paul pushed a bottle of water toward Ramsey. “Sharon gave this to me. She said you left it on her counter.”
“Thanks.” Ramsey used her forearm to scoop the bottle toward her, but she didn’t open it.
Sullivan took out his phone. “Is it all right if I record this? I’ll take notes, too, that you can sign here. When the recording’s been transcribed, I’ll let you know so you can come by the station to sign it.” When they agreed, he turned on the recorder, identified himself, the time and place, and the other people in the room, Ramsey as the witness to the crime, and Paul Shippensmith as an observer to the proceedings.
Sullivan knew that giving a statement was familiar territory for Ramsey. In the course of a week, she might easily bring ten to twelve shoplifters into the holding room to wait for the police. She was used to making her statement while the guilty party interrupted her with curses, name-calling, lies, and now and then made a lunge for her or tried to kick her under the table. He’d observed the lunging on two occasions, and while he acted quickly to halt the assault, Ramsey reacted even quicker to avoid it. She darted out of reach with the swiftness of a hummingbird and then calmly returned to her seat when the danger had passed. Sullivan didn’t think that she blinked an eye.
She spoke calmly, choosing her words carefully, thoughtfully. He noticed she seemed to be ticking off the timeline of events by tapping her fingertips against the tabletop. She had long slender fingers, no rings, buffed nails, trimmed short, with clear polish over them that caught the light as they tapped. He wished her statement were longer. He liked her voice, wanted to hear more of it. Then he remembered he would have the recording. Okay, that was a little creepy. He cleared his throat as if that would clear his mind, scribbled a few more notes, and then pretended to study what he had written.
“Here we are,” he said, looking up to hold Ramsey’s chocolate brown eyes. “You described the man who identified himself as John Doe as preparing for a camping trip. How did you draw that conclusion?”
“He spent a lot of time selecting items in Aisles Twenty and Twenty-one. That’s where all the outdoor leisure products are. He chose the camp stoves, sleeping bags, hobo pie irons. It seemed reasonable to assume he was planning a camping trip.”
Paul interrupted. “There are, what, six propane tanks? What did you think he was going to do with six propane tanks?”
“Seven,” Ramsey said. She did not look at her manager. She kept her gaze focused on Sullivan. “It occurred to me that he was in charge of getting supplies for a gathering, maybe a family reunion camping weekend.” She ignored Paul when he sputtered in disbelief. “Mr. Doe seemed nervous, which is what drew my attention in the first place.”
“Nervous?” Paul said, sitting straight up. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Well, I thought he might have some sort of neurological condition. Like palsy.”
“Are you serious? The man’s a tweaker and you know it.”
“I don’t know it,” she said calmly. “Store policy is clear on the matter of engaging customers suspected of being high. I did not suspect Mr. Doe of anything except poverty, poor hygiene, and the possible intent to steal.”
Paul snorted. “Did you knock him down?”
Ramsey gave a visible start and whipped her head around to look Paul in the eye. “No. I did not knock him down. I never touched him. Weren’t you listening when I explained that John Doe tripped on Mrs. Sampson’s cane?”
“I heard you. I heard everything you said. I have to be skeptical to protect the store.”
“And your job,” said Ramsey.
“You’re too damn right, and I’m not apologizing for it. Do you think the Ridge Group Stores give a shit if you saved them five hundred dollars in merchandise, when the meth head might sue them for five million and cost them hundreds of thousands in legal fees?”
The hot color in Ramsey’s cheeks drained away.
Sullivan’s eyes swiveled to Paul Shippensmith. “It doesn’t sound as if Ms. Masters violated store policy.”
