Most online searches can yield an address, phone number, and even relatives, but other than the social-media sites, none that I knew of displayed pictures. Somehow, Sleeveless didn’t strike me as a social person. It would be tough to put a face to a name without a picture, especially a face I’d only seen for less than a minute.
His tattoo suggested he might have been a Marine at one time, so I could probably search the Department of Veterans Affairs database, or the National Personnel Records, but the paperwork to do so would take months. Fortunately, there are online sites that have instant access to those databases. Only they could be costly, so I’d have to narrow my list down to one or two names before I paid for one of those services. But where did I know him from? It had to be on a construction site unless he was one of those weekend bikers who wore a business suit the rest of the week. Anything was possible.
On the other hand, Sleeveless fit the classic profile of an ex-con: bald, tattooed and a build only obtained from having spent endless hours lifting weights, or maybe he cheated and took steroids. Maybe an online background check would work; but then again, maybe I’d seen too many Stallone and Schwarzenegger movies.
Fred woke me from my thoughts with an “I’m hungry” bark when we pulled into the parking lot of the building-supply store. His favorite fast-food restaurant was right next door. “Not today, Freddie. Julie might be watching.” It was another bad habit she’d made us promise to quit.
It would have been torture to leave him in the Jeep in sight of those golden arches, so I put him on his leash and brought him with me. Evergreen’s version of the national big-box store was half the size of its cousins in the Denver area. It was also pet-friendly, which saved me from pretending I was half blind and he was my service dog.
***
We had picked out a pre-hung, steel-clad entry door and were looking at some new deadbolts when Fred began to growl. I looked up just in time to see Sleeveless over in the roofing section. “Hush, Freddie,” I whispered, trying to become invisible so I could follow Sleeveless back to his truck and get a license number. I was too late. He heard Fred, looked over at us, and froze like a cat stalking a bird. It was only a second or less, but long enough to feel the air temperature drop several degrees. For a moment our eyes locked on each other, then he picked up a gallon can of roofing cement, and threw it at us before he took off running.
The projectile missed us and hit the cart I had been pushing, creating a huge dent in my new door before it broke open and spilled its black, gooey tar all over the door and floor. I didn’t see the glob on the floor, and slipped in the mess when I tried to give pursuit. Fred had been on the other side of the cart, so he missed stepping in it and managed to drag me another ten feet before giving up the chase. All I needed to complete my humiliation was a bag of feathers. I was covered from head to foot in tar.
“What the hell is going on here?” I looked up to see a huge figure clad in khaki colored pants, and wearing a white dress shirt. His nametag said Robert something, with Manager in big, bold letters. Before I could answer, several orange shirted employees started to gather. “I’ve already called the sheriff on the perp, Bob,” one of them answered. She was an older woman, heavy set, and looked to be in her mid-fifties. I wasn’t too sure about her age, for she lacked any makeup, and had really short hair. Sitting there on the floor, I had a great view of her hiking boots and a feeling she wouldn’t mind planting one in my face if I tried to get up.
Fred came over to sit by me as the crowd grew bigger. I put my arm around him just in case someone tried to take him from me. “Maybe you should have called an ambulance instead,” I said, without taking my eyes off the boots. “I hope your insurance is paid up.” I had no intention of suing, and hadn’t even thought about it until I realized I might be in trouble.
The manager’s attitude changed faster than a politician at a news conference. “I’m sorry, sir, are you hurt?”
I slowly got to my feet, making a horrible face and holding my lower back. “Just bruised, I think. You really should be more careful who you let in your store. The guy who threw that can at me, must be some kind of maniac.”
“Someone threw roofing cement at you?” By the tone of his voice, no one would suspect that only moments before he had been angry enough to swear.
Boots answered before I could. “That’s why I called the sheriff, Bob. I thought they were fighting.”
“Fighting! Fred and I were minding our own business when that psycho came out of nowhere and threw the can at us. Surely your cameras must have caught it.”
“Fred? Who’s Fred?” Bob’s tone suggested he’d given up politics and gone back to being a manager.
Before I or anyone else could answer, I saw two deputies approach. One had a microphone he was talking into and the other was watching me with a hand on his holster.
“Negative on that ten-ten,” said the cop on the mike, and then slipped the mike on a shoulder strap. He was older and shorter than his partner, but with three stripes on his sleeve, I assumed he was the boss.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked.
“I am, Sergeant, but everything is under control now,” Bob replied. Then turning to his employees, he said, “Don’t you people have something to do?”
Boots was the last to leave; she gave me a look that suggested she’d like to meet me out in the alley, and I knew it wasn’t to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
“We got a call on a fight in progress. Is anyone hurt?” the sergeant asked.
“It wasn’t a fight, Officer,” I answered, holding Fred even tighter. “Some maniac threw a can of roofing tar at me and then ran out of here. I tried to catch him and slipped on this mess,” I said, pointing to the floor.
The sergeant looked briefly at the tar on the floor before turning back to me. “That sounds like a fight to me. Can I see some identification?”
He took my driver’s license then handed it to his partner. “Run this for me, Brandon, while I talk to the manager.”
The sergeant took Bob aside while Deputy Brandon talked into his microphone, reading my name, address, birthday, physical attributes, and driver’s license number to whoever was on the other end. I’m surprised he didn’t mention my donor status too. In the meantime, I could barely hear what the sergeant and Bob were discussing. Although I missed most of it, I did hear Bob say something about Fred and lawyers.
All I could do was stand there holding Fred’s leash, and wonder if I’d be asked to pay for the damaged door and cleanup costs. I didn’t have to think about it for long before a page came over the loudspeaker asking for a manager. I saw the sergeant hand the manager a card, and then walk over to his partner. After a few words that I couldn’t hear, they both came over to me.
Sarge did all the talking. “The management isn’t going to press any charges at this time so you are free to go after a few more questions, Mr. Martin,” he said, handing me my license back.
I started to ask, “Why would he press charges?” but bit my tongue and nodded okay instead.
“First off, who is Fred? Was somebody else with you?”
“Fred, give this nice officer a handshake and introduce yourself,” I said.
The sergeant cracked a smile when Fred sat and offered his paw. “Well, aren’t you a smart doggy?” he said before turning back to me. “What can you tell me about this man who assaulted you? Do you know him and why he would want to hurt you?”
“I believe he’s the one who broke into my home.”
“You had a burglary?”
“Last Friday.” Officer Brandon said before I could. “According to dispatch, he reported a break-in and a missing shotgun.”
“Not to mention a rare book, some silver coins and a gold ring,” I added.
The sergeant looked annoyed. I assumed because his partner didn’t tell him sooner, but then for all I knew it might be his lunch hour and I was keeping him from visiting Fred’s favorite restaurant next door. “So you do know the suspect?” he asked, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.