Free Switcheroo by Robert Lewis Clark Page B

office I made coffee and
frantically started dialing my phone.  My first call was the hardest one to
make.  I called Lt. Stratton at KPD.  He did not sound like the Big Bopper when
he answered.
    “Listen, I gave you a free bust
last weekend.  I need a favor.  I need a plate number run and no one else at
the department will help me.  I don’t even do much real detecting anymore,
mostly just field investigations, so I just need help this once. What do you
say?”  I tried to inject real sincerely into this appeal, but it still sounded
cheesy.
    “Okay, but I need to know what
this is for,” Stratton said.  I heard keys tapping in the background as I began
to talk.
    I started from the beginning,
skipped ninety-five percent of the story, made up a few things and basically
just told him that I was trying to chase down a stolen vehicle for a client. He
asked my client’s name, checked his computer, and he said there was no case in
the file.  She should have called the cops.  I told him that she lacked
confidence in our law enforcement, although I did not share her view.
    “How did you meet this girl?”
Stratton asked.
    “I was inspecting her dead
husband’s vacant house trailer.” Try a little truth for a change.
    “I don’t know why I even asked,”
sighed Stratton. “The State of Tennessee shows Tammy and Travis McHenry as
owners.  Prior owners, Vanguard Leasing. Doesn’t show who the lessee was.
There’s no way for me to pull up the actual person driving the car,” Stratton
said.
    I had Stratton read me the vehicle
ID number, hung up and called my pal Nick at Dickinson Ford.  He put me on hold
and called Vanguard Leasing to get me the lessee’s name for the truck.
    My pen was on the paper, eagerly
ready to write. Here was the answer to this case.
    “So, what’s his name?” I said.
    “There ain’t no him. The truck’s
leased to Oakridge National Labs.”
    “Thanks, Nick. I’ll see ya.”
    I said bye and hung up.
    Not registered to an individual,
but to an institution.  This was getting way too involved for pro bono work,
damn it. Now what?
     
    The dear old woman who opened the
door Wednesday morning looked at me with motherly affection. Unfortunately, she
was not my mother.  He name was Ruby Harper and she was my mother’s personal
assistant. The term “maid” was beneath both of them, but Ruby did a lot of that
kind of work. Some cooking, too, but no windows. Ruby was a solid woman with
hair the color and texture of steel wool. She worked five days a week, from ten
until six.  Her main duties were cooking and dealing with lawn and cleaning
contractors.  She had worked for my mother for thirty-some years now.  She had
seen me grow up, graduate from high school and college, and had followed my
illustrious detecting career.
    “Rust, how have you been?” She
said, hugging me. “You look thinner than the last time I saw you.”
    Previously, jockeying a desk at
the police station and all those donuts had worked their magic.  I was now on
the south side of two hundred again and feeling healthier.
    I thanked her as she stepped aside
and I walked through the tall double doors into my mother’s high-ceilinged
foyer. The cold marble floor was a reminder of the reception I would probably
receive from mother.
    She came into the sitting room
wearing a dress with a floral pattern. Mother rarely wore pants. Maybe only to
garden, which she never did.  She kissed my cheek and I sat down.  I hadn’t sat
down with her like this for several months even though I lived only two miles
away.
    “Are you stilling detecting or
have you switched again?” She asked.
    “Still detecting.” I went on to
tell her about my missing truck case, leaving out the teleportation part, of
course.
    “Listen, I know you still go out with
Drew Chandler sometimes and I was wondering if you could arrange for me to meet
with him.” At one point her being seen with this man in public had been a sore
spot for me.  I