By Natasha Julius
I close my phone and sigh. Lucy’s not the type of girl to cry wolf; if she thinks there’s something going down, that means that right now some punk with sticky fingers is trying to pocket store property. Well, he picked the wrong books, music, DVD and coffee retailer to target today.
“Something wrong?” asks the blonde. She’s leaning forward in her chair with a concerned look on her face.
“No, it’s just, uh . . . That was my office. I’ve got to get back.”
She stands up and walks toward me, her wavy hair falling like liquid gold around her shoulders. “So soon? You must have a pretty important job.”
“You could say that,” I tell her. I look towards the escalators, trying to see who’s working the front door. I’m hoping it’s Lenny. No one has my back on a bust like Lenny.
She’s standing in front of me now, holding out her hand.
“My name’s Rose, by the way.” Of course it is. A woman as beautiful as her has to have a name to match.
“Jim Brody,” I tell her, taking her soft hand in mine. “Listen, I . . . ”
Her lower lip quivers a little as she smiles. “I know. You have to leave. I understand.”
“I wish I had more time, Rose.”
“Well, maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time. Like I said, I come here every week.” She reaches toward the book in my other hand. “Or maybe I’ll see you in Portugal.”
“Yeah, Portugal.” I give her a little wink and squeeze her hand. “Why not?”
It hurts walking away from a woman like that, but right now I’ve got to focus on one thing and one thing only: Protecting store merchandise. Besides, there’s only two types of people in this job–suspects and witnesses–and I can’t afford to get close to either one.
The escalator is slower than a Monday morning in the kids section, but I’ve got to be patient. If I’m going to keep my cover I can’t do anything to draw attention to myself. I look up and see Lenny standing to the left of the security monitors. I catch his gaze for a second and rub my index finger on the side of my nose, pointing up. His brow furrows but he nods, just a little dip of the chin to let me know he got the message.
I hit the second floor and slip into the cafe, taking a seat in the corner near the sugar station. It’s a little after noon now and the place is filled with lunch-hour shoppers. Lucy comes out of the back, her arms full of freshly-baked muffins just like she promised me this morning. She makes her way over by me and pretends to refill the creamers.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Jim. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on the perp, but I couldn’t let the muffins burn. Big Ben would fire me for sure . . . ”
“Just calm down, Lucy. I need you thinking straight. Do you see the suspect anywhere?”
She takes a deep breath and turns to face toward the music section. “Oh God, Jim . . . she’s still there. She’s heading right for the Budget Buys bin!”
I follow Lucy’s eyes and see a woman in her mid-30s pushing a baby stroller. “You mean Mother Theresa over there?”
“Trust me, Jim, she’s no saint. I saw her looking over a couple of CDs one minute, the next thing I know she’s holding the baby and the CDs are nowhere to be seen.”
My eyes search for some sign of the lady’s stash, but she’s got way too many hiding places. She could haul out half the movie soundtracks in her diaper bag alone. But before I can give Lenny the sign, I’ve got to see something with my own eyes.
“Concentrate, Lucy. Did you see anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Jim, it just happened so fast. But I know what I saw. That woman’s up to no good.”
“Take it easy, kid, you did great. You go back behind the counter there and keep one of those muffins warm while I get to the bottom of this.”
I haven’t got much time for strategy; Hot Mama’s already wheeling Junior to the second bargain rack. I head into the music shop and start sorting through the new releases. Hot Mama’s purse is way too small to fit a CD case. I take a closer look at the diaper bag. If she’s smart, that’s where she’s dumping the goods. The bag is hanging open and I have a clear view inside. All I can see is a couple of Pampers and a canister of baby wipes.
I look Hot Mama up and down. No deep pockets, no over-sized coats. There’s only one more place she could hide the CDs, but I don’t think she has it in her. It’d take one cold bitch to use her baby’s stroller that way.
Just as I’m thinking this, Junior starts crying. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” Hot Mama coos. “What’s wrong with mommy’s little boy?”
She shakes the stroller gently, and there it is. The sick, grating moan of jewel case on jewel case.
[To be continued . . . ]
Posted on April 3, 2006