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“Can you call the police there and tell them?” the guy asked.
“I think it would be better coming from you.” I was pretty sure the Jackson Creek police wouldn’t take anything I reported seriously. “You said it was stolen two weeks ago? Did you happen to catch the thief on any surveillance cameras?”
“Sure did, not that it did much good. He was wearing all black and had a hoodie over his head.”
“So it was a guy?”
“Looks like it from the build, and the police thought so too, not that they put much effort into it other than taking a report.” His disgust was palpable. “Did you see a guy around the van?”
“No,” I said. “I was just wondering if you had a description so I could be on the lookout.”
“If you see a tall guy with a black hoodie, ask him what he did with the cabinets in the back. Took me nearly a week to make ’em and now I’m a week behind because I have to remake ’em.”
Confronting the thief would be an incredibly stupid thing to do—not that a black hoodie was enough of a lead for me to find the guy—but instead of saying so I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll call the police there,” he said, “although I doubt they’ll do much more than the Memphis cops did. But if you happen to see the van, can you give me a call? And maybe make a citizen’s arrest?”
“I can’t promise to make the arrest,” I said, “but I’ll definitely give you a call.” Then another idea hit me. “Say, if I happen to see it, do you want me to open it up and check to see if the cabinets are still inside?”
He was silent long enough that I thought he was going to say no, but then thankfully, he asked, “Shit, would you? If you find them it would save me a ton of work.”
“Absolutely.” Now I had the owner’s permission to search the van, but what were the chances I’d find it?
I told him my name was Harper and that I’d made the call from my cell phone. He gave me his name—Mike Rivera—as well as his cell phone number, which I typed into a notes app on my phone.
When I hung up, I realized I needed a notebook not only for interviews but to keep track of contacts and jot down ideas. I was about to drive to the grocery store when I noticed a bookstore a few businesses down the street. They likely had journals, and while it might cost a few more dollars than I wanted to spend, it would save me some time.
I got out and headed down to Morty’s Bookstore, which had two large picture windows on either side of an old wooden door with a window in the center. All I could think about was how easy it would be for someone to smash the single pane glass and break in. The door was as flimsy as I’d expected when I pushed it open, a bell on the inside window jangling. The shop wasn’t very big, but it held the usual tableaus of featured books along with a couple of stuffed chairs by the window and a few peeking out behind the bookcases. It looked cozy but deserted.
A man emerged from the back wearing jeans and a black sweater. His dark hair was a little on the long side and his black-framed glasses gave him a studious look. He smiled when he saw me. “Welcome to Morty’s. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Journals?” He looked familiar, yet I couldn’t place him. I guessed him to be about my age. Then again, the older I got, the bigger the age span got for “my age.”
“I can help you out with that.” His brown eyes brightened as he walked around the counter. “Right this way.”
I would have preferred if he’d just pointed me in the right direction, but I suspected he was bored. Or maybe he worked on commission.
“We have several different kinds,” he said, stopping in front of a shelf in the middle of the store. “Journals with prompts, bible study journals, lined journals. Take your pick.”
“Lined. And cheap. To take notes.”
If the request for something cheap bothered him, he didn’t let on. Instead, he pulled a book from the top of a shelf and handed it to me.
It was covered in textured cheap—or maybe fake—black leather. I opened the thin cover and flipped through the lined pages. “This will work.”
“If you want options, I have a few other styles you can choose from.”
I held it up with one hand. “Is this the cheapest?”
He grinned. “It is.”
“Then this is it.” I headed to the cash register, leaving him to follow.
He slipped behind the counter and took the journal from me. He scanned the bar code then told me the total.
There was no doubt it would have been cheaper to buy a two-dollar spiral notebook at the grocery store, but this would make me look more professional. I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and he started pulling out my change.
When he handed it back to me, his gaze held mine. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
