Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 03 - Ends and Beginnings Page 4

  “It’s just Riley, and I’m wondering if you can help me out.”

  Marco smiled at me. He’s oral hygiene wasn’t great. Neglect and cigarette smoke had stained his teeth yellow. One of his front teeth was missing and replaced by a gold one. Combined with his lumpiness and copious amount of body hair, it wasn’t very attractive.

  “That depends on what you need help with.”

  “In late July 2001, you bought a car, a Trans Am?”

  Marco corrected his posture. “You a cop?”

  That was a question I got on a regular basis. If someone comes sniffing around and asks questions, people automatically assume you’re the law. It’s understandable. But I hardly looked like law enforcement.

  “No, I’m just looking for someone.” I decided not to tell Marco that I was a private investigator. In my experience, disclosing that fact could and most likely would turn a man like Marco Abreu off of the idea of answering any of my questions.

  “What makes you think I can help you?” Marco took a drag of his cigarette with both eyes squinting at me.

  I pointed at the rusted out Stingray. “You’re clearly a guy who likes his cars, am I right?”

  “Lots of people like cars, Riley.”

  “True enough. But not everyone has an appreciation for the classics.”

  Marco took a swig of his beer. “You getting to a point? I’ve got shit to do today.”

  Mr. Abreu was out in front of his house nursing a beer in the afternoon. He clearly had nothing to do. But from his lie, it was apparent that his patience was wearing thin. And I needed him willing to answer my questions. Both the angry and the annoyed make the most uncooperative subjects.

  “You bought a car from the person I’m looking for.”

  “Really? You’re going to have to be more specific. I used to buy, refurbish and sell all sorts of cars.”

  Refurbishing classic cars must’ve been his former occupation. From the look of Marco and the remains of the vehicle next to his trailer, he must’ve retired.

  “A 1978 Pontiac Trans Am. It had a gold firebird on the hood.”

  Marco took another drink and another pull. It was as if it helped him think, as if the beer helped him access his vault of memories. Whatever worked for him. To each his own. As long as I got what I was after, I didn’t care.

  “I’ve bought a couple of Trans Ams over the years. Only one was a 1978, though. I remember it clearly. Ever since I saw one just like it in ‘Smokey and the Bandit’, I wanted to get my hands on one.”

  “And you did?”

  “One day, a guy comes in with his wife or girlfriend or something. He looked like shit. When I asked him what he wanted, he told me that he had a car to sell. He’d gotten my name from one of my friends down at the used car dealership in the city.

  “Normally in that situation, I’d tell someone to get lost. I’m not in the habit of dealing with complete strangers, unless I am the one who come to them. But this guy … he was desperate. He was so desperate that I almost got the thing for free. I only paid about a quarter of what it was worth.”

  “Why? I mean, why was he willing to sell it for so cheap?”

  “I think he was running from something.”

  That seemed like jumping to quite a conclusion. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling, I guess. Plus he really seemed like he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to get into any small talk or waste any time. Also, it looked like he hadn’t taken a shower for days. He was scruffy and his clothes were dirty.”

  So does that mean you’re on the run? For some reason I found myself getting angry with Marco. There was no way he could’ve known that it was my father he was talking about. Even if he did, I still don’t know why it bothered me. I guess sometimes feelings are unexplainable. That is especially true when it comes to someone’s parents.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “About?”

  “About where he was going? Maybe what he was running from? Were you able to get a name?”

  Marco got up from the front steps. He stretched out his back and groaned. When he did, his gut stuck even further out.

  “He said something about leaving the state. He said something about going west. I’m not sure if he meant California or just West Virginia. And I didn’t ask. As far as a name goes, I think I have it written down somewhere.” Marco started towards the door to his trailer. “Let me take a look inside.”

  Marco opened his screeching screen door and disappeared into his trailer. I stood there in front of it, awkwardly. In order not to feel so silly, I walked up the stairs and stood at the entrance.

  “Don’t just stand there, c’mon in,” said Marco as he sifted through a table full of papers. “C’mon, I don’t bite.”

  As you might expect, I had major reservations about going into Marco Abreu’s trailer. Put aside the looks he gave me when we were both outside. Getting into a confined space with one entrance and exit, like a trailer, with a stranger was not a good idea. It wasn’t a gender thing. I think any man or woman would be hesitant to do it. And my gun was in my purse in the car. But I have always been more curious than cautious.

  Marco was babbling about something. I think it pertained to him knowing that he had the information I was after written down somewhere. It’s hard to remember exactly what he said. I was too distracted by the disaster that he called home.

  All trailers are a bit crowded and cramped. I knew that before I opened the screen door and ventured inside. But Marco didn’t seem to notice. There were piles and stacks of everything from old newspapers and mail to DVDs, CDs, books, magazines, clothes and tools. That day, I learned that even people living in trailers could be hoarders.

  At least there wasn’t a bunch of unwashed dishes or left over food on the kitchen counters. The trailer was crowded and messy but it didn’t smell. I guess I should have been thankful for that.

  “Here we go,” said Marco. He walked over and met me near the entrance of his trailer. In both hands he had some papers. “Barry, his name was Barry Porter. I bought it from him on August 1, 2001.”

  Barry was my dad’s middle name. And Porter was my mom’s maiden name. It wasn’t that clever a fake name. Then again, my father was never that clever of a man.

  “Then I fixed up and sold the Trans Am to…” Marco went through the papers in his hands. “I sold it to Kevin Reid about a year later, on August 5, 2002.”

  Who was Kevin Reid? Could he have been related to my father? I had never heard of him. But I’d never heard of or met much of my dad’s family. His father was dead by the time I was born. My grandmother died when I was ten. Other than them, I didn’t even know that he had any other family. Maybe Kevin was a cousin or something?

  “Do you have an address or phone number for Kevin Reid?”

  Marco gave me a sideways look. “Yeah, I do but … I thought you were looking for someone, not the car.”

  “I’m looking for both. Do you have an address?”

  “Of course. 17 Fox Run in Roanoke.”

  I shook Marco’s sweaty hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Abreu. You have no idea how much this helps.”

  I left the trailer and went back out into Sunny View.

  “Did it help enough to get me a dinner with you?”

  I smiled at Marco and went to my car. “Have a good day.”

  Marco was also smiling. He shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  Upon getting back into my car, I entered the address Marco gave me into my GPS. There were several hits. I chose the match that was in Roanoke, Virginia, southwest from Richmond.

  As I was leaving Sunny View, I noticed something, or rather someone, odd outside the security booth. A large man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his arms and neck watched me as I drove up and passed by. There was something about him that set off alarm bells in my mind. He seemed a bit too interested in me and my car.

  I left Sunny View and headed to my hotel to check out. When I planned
my trip, I figured I might need the room if there were more leads in Richmond. As it turned out, I’d gotten all I needed from the Virginia state capitol in one afternoon.

  From my hotel, I headed towards Roanoke. I went with full knowledge and anticipation that I might’ve been going to meet family. But I’m a pessimist by nature. So I didn’t get my hopes up.

  Roanoke

  On the way to Roanoke, I tried my best to remember any mention of a “Kevin” by my father. Memories of my teenage years and younger were hazy, at best. I could recall specific events and things that were important. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember any mention of my dad having any siblings or cousins.

  I realized that it was very unlikely that my father, Troy Reid, didn’t have any living family members. Whether they were extended or immediate, there had to be some surviving members of the Red clan somewhere in the country. Just because he never told me about them or I never met them, that didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  The drive to Roanoke was long and pretty boring. It took longer for me to get from Richmond to Roanoke than it had taken me to get from Stone Harbor to Richmond. To make it worse, the scenery was all highway, flanked by identical looking woods.

  Finally, as the sun started to fall, I saw a sign for an exit that led into Roanoke. I took it, then stopped at a gas station before going any further. Not only did I have to fill up, but I also needed to use the bathroom.

  When I entered the convenience store section of the gas station, I headed straight towards the front counter. Behind it was a middle-aged Indian man. I asked him for the keys to the bathroom and he granted my request.

  After I finished with the facilities (and feeling filthy having used them), I went back into the store to return the keys and pay for my gas. A man with his son caught my eye and attention. The father had the child on his shoulders. They were joking with each other and laughing. I may not have many clear memories of my childhood, but I know I never had as much fun with my dad as those two were having.

  I paid for my gas and left. After filling up my tank, I got back into my car. Before leaving, I watched the father and son from the store go back to their car. Inside, a woman was waiting for them. I could only assume she was the kid’s mother and the guy’s wife.

  I’m not sure why that family was so fascinating to me. It could have been jealousy. Maybe jealousy is a little too negative a term to apply to it. More likely it was envy. What’s the difference between the two? Jealousy, in my interpretation, meant that someone else had something you wanted and you had the urge to take it. Envy was simply wanting something someone else had and leaving it at that.

  The family left the gas station. Then I did. According to my GPS, 17 Fox Run was only about ten minutes away. That made me happy. At that point, I was a little sick of being on the road.

  Fox Run turned out to be a small development. It was gorgeous. I didn’t see one house that wouldn’t cost less than a quarter of a million dollars. Even in the approaching darkness, they were picturesque. All manner of complicated lighting schemes made them impressive.

  It didn’t take me long to find 17 Fox Run. There were maybe twenty-five houses in the development, all on the same road that formed a very big oval. 17 Fox Run was perhaps one of the largest and most impressive houses in a neighborhood full of them.

  I counted three floors from the outside. There were little fake electric candles in every window, of which there were many. It looked like something you might’ve seen in colonial times, but modern and nicer. The front lawn was bigger than most properties. Before this, my yardstick for fancy houses belonged to the parents of Dennis Clark, from the case that dumped me in the middle of this whole mess to begin with. What I saw put the Clark residence to shame. You could probably fit two of their house inside the one I was parked in front of.

  Before I could get out of my car, another one drove past me slowly and pulled into the driveway. It was a luxury vehicle, a Lexus. I decided to watch as a tall man with clean-cut, sandy blonde hair and a suit got out and went inside the house. He must’ve just gotten back from work.

  I waited another five minutes, not only so the man who just got back could get situated, but also because I was a bit nervous. There was a very good chance that when I walked up and rang that doorbell, a member of my family that I never met would answer. What would I say? How would I approach it?

  There was one other possible outcome that scared me more than any other. What if Kevin Reid wasn’t related to me at all? Then I would have to struggle to explain why the hell I was at his front door, asking about a Trans Am and a guy named Troy. But I figured that the chances that a man with the last name of Reid bought the car that my dad sold a year before were slim.

  I got out of my car. Even the air in Fox Run smelled great. It was a mix of grass clippings and clean, crisp night air. The walkway that led up to the front door was made from some pretty-looking stones and lit by lights hidden in rocks. There wasn’t so much as a fallen leaf on it, despite the two towering trees in the front lawn. They must’ve had some good landscapers.

  My finger pushed in the front doorbell. It made a traditional sound. Part of me wished that no one would answer, that I could retreat back to my car and return to Stone Harbor. I could tell everyone that I had looked but met a dead end. No one would question it.

  “I’m coming,” I heard someone yell from the other side of the front door. There was also some laughing. It came from children, plural.

  The handle turned and the door opened. I saw the same man who pulled into the driveway in the doorway. He was older than me but not as old as Richard. If I had to guess, I’d say he was maybe fifty. Or he was at least in his mid-to-late-forties.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man. He had sandy blonde hair, but I could see traces of grey up close. But what really caught my attention was his face. As I stated before, my memories are a little hazy. That man looked like my father, though. He looked almost exactly like him. The only real difference was that his nose had clearly been broken at some point and he had a well-trimmed beard.

  “Yeah … I’m … I was wondering…” I stammered. Seeing the spitting image of my father caught me completely by surprise. I was at a loss for words.

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  “Who’s that?” I heard someone behind the man from another room. It was a woman’s voice.

  “I don’t know, honey,” said the man as he turned his head, but not his body, to answer. Then he turned back to me. “I was just about to find out.”

  “I’m Riley Reid, a private investigator.”

  “A PI huh? Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I just need to ask you a few questions. That is, if that’s okay with you.”

  The man thought about it for a few seconds. Then he said “Sure, but let’s do it out here. Honey, I’ll be right back!”

  A lovely woman with long, red hair appeared in the hallway. She gave me a suspicious look then told the man, “Okay, but be quick. Dinner’s ready. I don’t want it to get cold.”

  “Sure, honey, no problem,” replied the sandy-haired man. He closed the door behind him. I could see the woman staring at me as he did it.

  “So, Ms. Reid, what is this about?”

  “It’s about a car, Mister…?” I held out my hand for him to shake.

  “Funny enough, my name is Reid as well,” said the man as he shook my hand. “I’m Kevin Reid. Nice to meet you. Now, what car?”

  “A 1978 Pontiac Trans Am. A man named Marco Abreu in Richmond gave me this address. He told you he sold it to you back in the summer of 2002.”

  Kevin smiled. “He told you that, huh? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like he was professional or anything. At least, not from what I remember.”

  “Do you still have the car?” I asked.

  “Actually, I do,” replied Kevin. “It’s in my garage.”

  He still had the car. I couldn’t believe it. It had been
sixteen years since I saw it. Hell, I could picture in my mind clearer than I could either of my parents.

  “Can I see it? If it’s not too much trouble?”

  Kevin considered my request. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he refused. After all, I was just some strange woman who showed up to his front door one evening and inquired about a car he bought twelve years ago. Luckily, he agreed to show it to me.

  We walked across the lawn to the garage, which was attached to the house. The large doors weren’t automatic, so he had to lift one up. It made a sound like a roller coaster.

  The garage was very clean. I’d never seen one so neat and organized. Usually, they were full of boxes and old furniture. Most people used them as storage spaces when their basements or attics were full.

  There were several cars in the garage. All of them had cloth blankets draped over them. Kevin walked over to one in particular. He took off the cover, and there she was.

  Seeing the Trans Am again was an emotional experience. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. Through willpower, I managed to fight them back.

  I wasn’t attached to the car. With it came memories. With it came feelings. It was what it represented that mattered.

  “Here it is. So what’s this all about?”

  I ran my hands across the car. It was in great shape. “For years, I saw this car in my dreams.”

  “This car, or one like it?”

  “This car, definitely this car. It used to be my dad’s. He used to love it. I can’t tell you how much time I spent in this thing. I even learned to drive in it.”

  “You mean, it’s like the car your dad used to have?”

  I turned to Kevin for a quick second. “No, this is the one. I’m telling you, I’d never forget it.” My attention went back to the Trans Am. Specifically, I became focused on the golden firebird on the hood that looked better than ever.

  “I’m sorry if this comes off a little bit rude but … I think you’re mistaken, Ms. Reid.”

  “No, I’m not. This is the car.”

  “This car, it belonged to my brother. I tracked it down knowing that, and bought it.”