say cheese
Liam
The girl next door has left for work. I’m about to do the same. Ifworkis allaying Christian Barone’s worries, or exacerbating them.
I throw the brownies in a plastic zip-top bag and slide them into the Harley’s saddlebag, aware of the leather glove I’m wearing hitting the band on my ring finger. The point of wearing it is so I don’t notice I’m wearing it. How long will this take?
My first tat took a while to stop staring at, but soon enough it was second skin. Next time—if there ever is a next time, marriage may not be in my cards—I’m having the ring tatted on permanently and never worrying about the jewelry.
The app on my phone confirms Lorien’s front and back deadbolts are locked. I programmed them to auto lock last night after I hung up with Ayla. Mine are too. I need to do the same with the door to her garage and get that garage door add-on done. I’ll do that when I return.
I’m pulling the Harley out of the garage into the alley, when I notice a suspicious vehicle behind the last house in our row. It’s not moving. But someone is inside. It’s not an SUV owned by anyone in this row, that much I know since I dug into each of them when I bought, and any who have purchased or rented since.
Verifying the camera on my Harley is recording, I turn mybike toward the offending vehicle and wait until the garage door has gone all the way down. I rarely go down the alley in this direction. My townhome is on the end, and it’s a clear shot out, but suspicion raises the hair on my arms. I’d rather confront it head on than avoid it. I drop the mask on my helmet, blacking out my identity and give myself enough throttle to announce my path. I slow enough to record the front plate, the vehicle make and model, and the man staring straight at Lorien’s unit.
I tap his window and use my hand to gesture he should move along. He stares back, trying to look intimidating, but seeing nothing. I know because it’s the best helmet money can buy, and part of that is the privacy visor.
When he refuses, I tap the side of my helmet. “Call Jefferson County sheriff’s department non-emergency line,” I enunciate every word.
When connected, I give the receptionist my name and address, all the details I have on the man and vehicle and ask for patrol units to be dispatched. Once I receive confirmation, I leave the alley, but only to turn onto the front road, snaking my way down the next row and killing my Harley.
I wait until there’s been what seems to be enough time and walk back around the corner to see the man down the alley, breaking into Lorien’s garage door with a crowbar.
Let the man hang himself.
It’s not what I want to do. Instead, I wait and watch, letting the cameras I set up record the whole thing. In the meantime, I deflate both of his rear tires and allow the front driver one to meet a nail it hadn’t seen. That’ll be a slow leak. How inconvenient.
I can’t wait any longer, I dial 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Liam Murphy.” I give my full address and phone number. “I called the non-emergency line about a suspicious man earlier who was loitering in my back alley. The man is now attempting to break into my garage with a crowbar. Please send units immediately.”
“Units are en route. Do not engage.”
“I have camera footage showing his breaking and entering. Where should I send it or is it better directed to my attorney?”
She gives me an email, and I quickly memorize it.
“How far out? And how many units?”
“One and seven minutes.”
“I don’t have seven minutes.” I disconnect, ignoring the return call ringing in my helmet.
Once the man has entered the garage, we have evidence of trespassing. That and the vandalism should be enough. He’s through and into the backyard working on the backdoor when I catch up to him. Dumbass could’ve hopped the fence faster. That is, if he’d had any upper arm or ab strength at all.
I run, tackling him, helmet to shoulder blades and pin him to the ground. He squirms and rotates so he’s no longer face down. Stupid, stupid man. Incapacitated is one thing. It’s annoying and inconvenient and would’ve meant he left here embarrassed.
As it is, he’s scrapping, trying to find purchase against a leather jacket with armor in it, a helmet meant to protect me against falls at speed. And, of course, the gloves. Unless he thinks to go for the thighs, he’s shit out of luck. For a moment I wonder why smart criminals are so few and far between. There are brilliant thieves out there. But the B&E crew are common thugs.
The sirens must reenergize him because he flails and grabs, eventually slinking away into too loose a hold.
We don’t need another lawsuit. Why should I have to tell myself these things? I could headbutt his jaw, but this helmet and that weak chin makes for problems. Instead, I fold his thumbs back to his forearms. It’ll hurt, but there will be no permanent injuries.
This is how the deputy finds us… Me on top of him, straddling his hips, thumbs tucked into his wrists as he screams.
The deputy draws his weapon, pivoting between me and the actual criminal, and orders me to stand down.
