Life After Theft
Page 44

“Yessir,” I whispered.
“That’s better,” he grunted. “Now we’ll just sit tight till the higher authorities get here.”
He leaned over and switched on a television. “Y’like baseball, Jeffrey?”
Great.
Officer Herrera suppressed a grin as he looked through the contents of my backpack. “I’ll take care of this, gentlemen,” he said to the hovering security officers, dismissing them.
Both guards gave me a nasty look before retreating behind their door. To the baseball game, I was sure. “Let’s go out this way,” the deputy said quietly, gesturing toward a back exit. Kimberlee walked ahead of us, sliding right through the wall before the cop got there.
“Where’s your car?” he asked, hands on his hips. It was probably a casual stance, but all I could focus on was the gun that was now mere inches from his fist.
“That way,” I said, pointing toward the parking row where Halle was. We walked over and Officer Herrera had me unlock all the doors, then stand with my hands on the trunk while he sorted through the contents. At least he didn’t cuff me.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go to my car.”
My face must have gone white because Kimberlee said, “You worry too much,” as she playfully tried to grab at the cop’s gun. “This guy obviously thinks the security morons are idiots. He’s just going to give you a ride. I get shotgun!” she called.
But when we reached the car, Officer Herrera opened the passenger door for me.
“I don’t have to ride in back?” I asked, inclining my head toward the seat behind a sturdy mesh of metal.
“Well, I guess that’s up to you,” he said. “But if you sit there, I have to turn my lights on.”
As Herrera walked around to the other side I looked at Kimberlee and jerked my thumb covertly toward the backseat.
“You suck,” she said, settling in behind the bars. I couldn’t help but smile. Technically, that was where she belonged.
Officer Herrera was quiet for several minutes after entering my address into his GPS. “Well, the security guys seem to think you’re a menace to society and a liar on top of that,” he said, starting to run down familiar streets. “Personally, I believe your story. Especially since your backseat is full of girly stuff. So, am I going to have any more luck getting you to rat out your friend than they did?”
I sighed. “She’s dead, okay? I just thought the stuff she stole should go back to where it came from.” Oh, man, it felt good to just tell someone that! Even if it wasn’t the whole truth.
Herrera chuckled. “You sound like you just walked out of confession in church after a wild Saturday night. Makes sense, though. The merchandise is old. And I guess if she’s dead the actual theft problem is taken care of. Except that you now have a carload of stolen stuff.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“Your parents know you’re doing this?”
“No.” I sat up straighter. “Listen, I know you have to tell them, but could you skip the part about my friend being dead? I haven’t told anyone else and I don’t want her to get a reputation for being a thief.” Admittedly, that wasn’t my main concern, but I thought it sounded rational.
The cop shrugged. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Bad luck. I can keep that to myself.” He turned a little. “I come down here a couple times a week and take kids home on calls like this and I’ve gotten a pretty good sense of who’s guilty and who’s not. And I gotta say, not-guilty waves are pouring off you.”
Thank you, universe!
“Let me tell you something, Jeff. I see a lot of victims in my line of work. Victims of muggings, robberies . . . when people get stolen from, they don’t just lose their stuff. They lose a piece of their security, their ability to believe things are right in the world. I’ve seen very few of those victims have their belongings returned. But when it does happen?” He paused and smiled. “It’s amazing. They get their confidence back. And sometimes more than they had before. Suddenly humanity isn’t so bad; the world isn’t so dark.”
His impassioned speech made me suddenly—irrationally—want to tell him about the other stuff I’d given back. But I wasn’t going to push my luck.
“You seem like a good kid,” Officer Herrera said, “so I’m going to give you a suggestion. None of these stores is going to benefit from what you’re doing; the merchandise is too out-of-date. At best the employees will take it home, but it’ll probably just get trashed. If you’re really as sincere as you say you are, find a charity secondhand store and donate it. Goodwill, Deseret Industries, Saint Vincent DePaul, that sort of thing. I think that’s a better salute to your friend’s memory than taking a bunch of hair clips back to a corporation that wrote this stuff off last year. This way, maybe it’ll do someone some good.”
“That’s a really good idea, actually,” I said, thinking of the six other boxes full of merchandise that were still in the cave.
When we reached my cul-de-sac, Officer Herrera shifted into park and looked over at me. “I have to take you in and explain things to your parents, but I’ll try to help them see that this was mostly just a misunderstanding.”
Despite his assurances, I don’t think anything can make that moment when your mom opens the door to find you on the porch with a cop easier. Her face went pale and she looked up at Officer Herrera with a dazed expression. “Don’t worry, ma’am, your son’s not in trouble.” He chuckled. “Not with us, anyway.”