On foot, he’d likely be apprehended in mere minutes. But if he got in the tiny clown car he still stood a chance—however small—of getting away scot-free. He dashed to the car, lifted the back hatch, and dove inside, pulling himself over the seatback just as Smokestack punched the gas and took off with the hatch door sticking up in the air.
Screeeeeee!
Chapter Nineteen
Drive Me Crazy
Megan
Brigit stood directly behind me, breathing down my neck on the entire drive to Vogel’s place. Thanks to her moist breath, my dark hair bun was now frizzy around the edges and smelled like fried chicken parts.
Lovely.
Vogel lived in a first-floor apartment at a mega complex on University Drive. I parked my cruiser in front of his building, and Detective Jackson and I climbed out.
She rang his bell twice—ding-dong ding-dong—and knocked three times—rap-rap-rap—but nobody came to the door. “Looks like he’s out,” she said.
“Probably looking for a new job.”
She gestured to the window flanking the door. “Let’s see what we can see.”
We sidled onto a grassy patch next to his porch, a common area shared with the apartment next door. Stepping as close to the prickly holly bushes as we dared, we peeked through his mini-blinds, which, though fully lowered, were tilted at an angle that allowed a partial view into the interior.
A peek through the window revealed a blue sofa facing a wall-mounted TV and a single end table with three drawers. Filling the rest of the living room, and leaving precious little space to maneuver, was what appeared to be a ping-pong table converted to a base for an extensive model train display. Multiple plastic and wooden buildings were situated facing one another, forming an old-fashioned Main Street behind which ran two rows of track marked with the standard yellow warning sign—a large black X in the center separating two R’s on either side. Miniature people stood about as if frozen in time on their way to purchase bread at the bakery, have lunch at the café, or buy socks at the five and dime. A neighborhood of adorable Victorian houses sat off to the left of downtown, a white poodle frisking in one yard, a calico cat traipsing through another. A white water tower lorded over the entire display, large black letters on the side proclaiming the name of Christopher Vogel’s idyllic town: Serena, Texas.
“Poor guy,” I said. “He really had it bad for her.”
Jackson took a step back. “It’s hard to envision a guy who plays with toy trains robbing a bank.”
Hard to envision him getting laid, either. Not that I was trying to envision such a thing.
Though many considered model trains nerdy, I had to admit I found the little people and buildings and scenery cute and quaint. My father always set up his old train set at Christmastime so that it ran in circles around Mom’s miniature snow-covered village. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the sound of Dad’s train making its rounds and eventually derailing when one of Mom’s tabbies wreaked havoc on the city like a feline Godzilla.
The detective pulled out one of her business cards, scribbled “Call Me” on it with a ballpoint pen, and wedged it between the door and frame.
We returned to my cruiser, where we attempted to do online what we’d failed to do in reality. Find Christopher Vogel.
I pulled up his Facebook page and scanned his recent posts. “I don’t see anything on here indicating where he might be today.”
Though Vogel hadn’t posted anything to clue us in on his whereabouts, he’d made dozens of posts in recent weeks. One dated two months earlier included a photo of a trophy that featured a gold-plated antique train engine. The engraving on the plate affixed to the base read FIRST PLACE 2015 HO SCALE DIORAMA COMPETITION. There were also dozens of posts with photos of him and Serena. The two of them smiling as they raised full glasses of beer at a bar, a neon Coors Light sign illuminated on the wall behind them. A full-length photo of Serena holding the roses Chris had given her for Valentine’s Day last month. An off-center selfie of them at the turtle pond in the botanical gardens. The caption for that one read: Do I have the best girlfriend ever or what?
The answer to that question was clear.
Or what.
His most recent post was six days old. It said simply, “Lost my girl. Lost my job. My entire life has derailed.”
“No need for him to be such a sad sack,” Jackson said. “A cute guy like him could probably find a new girl in no time.”
True. The guy might be a model train nerd, but he was undeniably attractive. Dark brown hair cut short on the sides and left longer on top in a trendy style. Vivid blue eyes. A nice smile. He didn’t have Seth’s sexy, muscular shoulders, but he wasn’t scrawny either. Just an average-size guy.
“What now?”
“We’ve exhausted our leads from the bank for the time being,” Jackson said. “Let’s make a run by the city Transportation Authority, check up on their drivers.”
I started the car and aimed for the headquarters for the city bus service, which sat only a few blocks away from the carpet warehouse where we’d been earlier. Not knowing how long we’d be, I brought Brigit inside with us.
Detective Jackson stepped up to the receptionist and flashed her badge. “Detective Audrey Jackson, Fort Worth PD. There someone in charge here we can talk to?”
The receptionist picked up her phone, punched three numbers, and spoke into her receiver. “There’s a detective here from the police department who wants to speak with you.” She paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll send her back.”
The woman hung up her phone and motioned down the hallway to her side. “Last door on the right.”
We made our way down the hall, Brigit’s tags jingling as we walked. We reached the last door, which boasted a bronze nameplate etched with PATRICIA EWING. Jackson rapped once on the door and Ewing called out, “Come on in.”
Jackson opened the door to reveal a tall, broad fiftyish woman with fiery red hair cut in a short, intentionally messy do. We stepped inside, closed the door behind us, and shook hands with Ewing over her desk. She gestured for us to take seats in the two wing chairs facing her desk. Brigit sat at my side, her mouth hanging slightly open as she softly panted.
Jackson leaned forward. “We’re hoping you can help us figure out who robbed the bank and stole one of your buses earlier today.”
“Incredible, wasn’t it?” Ewing said. “I’ve worked for the authority for twenty-two years and never heard of anything like it. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”
“Us, too,” I said. I only hoped it stayed that way. As long as the criminals were on the loose, there was always the chance they’d up the ante to physical violence. The pressure was on us to catch these guys ASAP, before they could wreak more havoc or hurt someone. It was a heavy load to bear. A low-stress job pushing paper at an insurance company wasn’t sounding so bad about then.
Jackson pulled out her notepad. “The driver who’d been forced off the bus didn’t see which of our three suspects took the wheel, but he noted that whoever drove the thing off seemed to know how to handle it. ’Course this leads me to believe that at least one of the bus-jackers had some experience with these types of vehicles. We’re thinking he might be, or at some time have been, a bus driver. Anyone here come to mind? Someone with financial problems? A drug or gambling problem? Maybe an axe to grind?”
Ewing raised a finger. “Let me get Denise from HR in here. She interacts directly with the employees and would be more aware if one of them was having an issue.”
Ewing proceeded to pick up her phone receiver with the other hand, and used the finger she’d raised to jab a button. “Hi, Denise. Come on down to my office, please. No need to knock.”
A few seconds later, the door swung open and in stepped Denise, a bony brunette wearing a pantsuit the color of honeydew melon. Ewing gestured at a rolling, barrel-shape chair in the corner and Denise pulled it over.