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I took Route One to the Rosewood exit, drove a half mile on Rosewood, and came to a sign for Rosewood Light Industries and Storage.
“This is it,” Lula said. “It’s like a maze after you get inside the complex. You’ll have to ride up and down a bunch of dead-end streets to look for the Escalade.”
I cruised three streets and found the Escalade on the fourth. It was parked in front of a middle unit on Avenue D. Five units on one side of it and six on the other. The entire stucco building was painted salmon. Each unit had a door. No windows. Each unit had a number, and most had plaques with names. The Escalade was in front of CJ Enterprises.
“Lots of these are used for storage,” Lula said. “They all have roll-up garage doors in the back and there’s service roads behind them.”
I was about to park behind the Escalade, blocking its escape, and immediately thought better of it. Been there, done that. I parked two units down, and we went to the door of CJ Enterprises. I knocked and no one answered. I tried the door. Not locked. I opened it, and Lula and I stepped in. It was basically an empty room. There was an old wooden desk and chair in the middle of the room. Some empty cardboard boxes lay in a jumble in a corner. A long folding table was against one wall. No stolen merchandise. No Carol Joyce, but the lights were on. There was an open door and a closed door next to the folding table.
“That’s the bathroom and the utility closet,” Lula said. “It’s a pretty basic setup.”
We crossed the room and looked in the bathroom. Sink and toilet and a double-door closet. I opened the closet and found stacks of men’s jeans.
“They’re real nice,” Lula said. “Ralph Lauren. They’re pricey jeans. I wouldn’t be leaving them in a bathroom.”
We heard a scuffling behind us, and the door slammed shut.
“What the heck?” Lula said.
I tried the doorknob. “We?
?re locked in.”
“No problem,” Lula said. “I’ll shoot the shit out of this door.”
“Where’s your gun?”
“It’s in my purse.”
“Where’s your purse?”
“It’s in the car.”
“Plan B,” I said, pulling my phone out of my pocket. “I’ll call for help.”
“Babe,” Ranger said on the first ring.
“I’m locked in a bathroom.”
“And?”
“I can’t get out. The bathroom is in the CJ Enterprises unit, Avenue D.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Nope. That’s it.”
The line went dead, and I knew help was on the way.
“This is annoying,” Lula said. “I bet it was Carol Joyce who locked us in here. I’m disliking him more all the time.”
I checked my email and text messages, and before I had a chance to look in at Facebook, I heard footsteps and a rap on the door.
“Anybody in there?” a male voice asked.
“Yep,” I said. “Can you get me out?”
“You’re padlocked in. Hang on and we’ll get the bolt cutters.”
