The Dispatcher Brought A Bus Pass And A Tow Number

The woman at the bus stop held a paper cup with both hands. She wore a navy coat with one red button sewn among the black ones.

“You're early,” she said.

“You told me seven.”

“I expected a man accused of car theft to have transport trouble.”

Lenora introduced herself. The woman checked her office number against the one Omar had sent before she gave us her name.

Divya Rao was thirty-seven, Indian American, and looked as if she had slept sitting up. Her dark braid disappeared into her collar. She kept her cup upright while a bus shook the shelter glass.

“I didn't run away,” she said. “My mother's lift broke. I moved her to my aunt's place here until the landlord fixes it.”

“Omar said you quit,” I said.

“I did. Those are separate bad days.”

We went to a breakfast place across the street. Lenora chose a booth far from the counter and asked before turning on a recorder.

Divya agreed.

I paid $18.40 for three breakfasts. Divya counted out her share, but I pushed it back.

“You can buy next time.”

“That's a risky credit policy,” she said.

“I'm a locksmith. I trust people who ask which door.”

She looked at me for the first time without checking the window behind my shoulder. Then she took a small notebook from her coat.

“Tow job N-7318,” she said. “Blue sedan. VIN ending 4621. Tuesday, six twenty-three. Pell called the dispatch line.”

“You knew his voice?” Lenora asked.

“Four years of calls. He also gave his badge number. But don't make my ears the whole case. Get the recording.”

He had ordered a flatbed to collect the car for an inspection.

“What inspection?” I asked.

“Exactly my question. He told me the paperwork would catch up.”

Divya had entered a temporary destination, then refused to close the bill until she got an address.

The address was a garage off West Fort Street.

“Haskell Motor Works,” she said. “Dean Haskell signed the driver's tablet.”

I knew the name. Pell had once asked me to give Dean a contractor rate on a lock change.

“His cousin,” I said.

“That's what he called him on the phone,” Divya said. “Family rates apparently include free city cars.”

Lenora held up one finger.

“Did he say free?”

“No. That's me being angry. Strike the joke.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Please leave the part where I asked for the address.”

She had kept her own dated notes because Pell's complaint might affect her last paycheck. She put two pages on the table. They listed times, ticket numbers, and unanswered requests for receiving forms.

There were six other tow jobs.

“All to that garage?” I asked.

“Five. One to a storage fence behind it. Three different drivers.”

Some of those cars had later appeared on auction sheets as sold. Others had been marked returned to owner.

“I don't know if those entries were true,” she said. “I know our trucks didn't take them back.”

I looked at the numbers. Under her tidy writing, a little hook of ink marked each missing receiving form.

It reminded me of my empty seal spaces.

“Why didn't you report this?” I asked.

Her face went still.

“I did. To Omar, twice. Then to the yard desk. The yard referred it to the sergeant handling transport.”

“Pell,” Lenora said.

Divya nodded.

I wanted to take my question back. Instead, I said, “I'm sorry. I should have asked who you told.”

She accepted that with a small tilt of her cup.

Lenora called Omar from the booth. With Divya's consent, she put him on speaker.

“Pull ticket N-7318,” Divya said. “The attachment tab, not the invoice preview. Put the recording on a hold. Don't forward it through my old login.”

Keys clicked at his end.

“I see the destination,” he said.

“And the signature?”

“D. Haskell.”

Omar said he would have counsel arrange a proper copy and a statement explaining the system. He sounded shaken.

“Divya, I should have looked harder.”

“Yes,” she said.

Nothing filled the silence for him.

After breakfast, Lenora took Divya's signed account to her office. I went back to the shop and worked on a neighbor's deadbolt. I needed the $85. My hands were steady until I reached for the receipt book.

Then they shook so badly I set the pen down.

At noon, Meera brought soup. She did not tell me to stay calm. She sat beside me until I could eat.

My phone lit up under her hand.

It was a photograph from Divya. Friday's auction sheet had just reached North Reach. Beside lot nineteen, the blue sedan was listed as present and ready for sale.

Below it were three more VINs from her notes.

Attached was a new instruction: all transfer exceptions must be cleared before the auction opened at nine.