Partners in Crime

“I hate this god-awful tile” Jane thought to herself, as she chipped away at the walls of her bathroom, noting the damaged drywall underneath, which would definitely need replacing later. She hadn’t even wanted this house with it’s never ending projects, but Don insisted.

Jane’s shoulders were aching, and the beads of sweat formed on her face had turned into streams running into her hairline and pooling at her neck. The fact that years earlier she could spend her mornings running six miles and her evenings chasing and tackling accused suspects of assault, murder, you-name-it had not eluded her. Her, also retired, partner lay outside the door on the hardwood. Sal, her German Sheppard, was the only one in her life who understood her. Don tried, but she and Sal, their minds were still on the force, but after a firefight that almost ended them both, their bodies just couldn’t keep up.

“Where is he?” she muttered and Sal’s head perked up. She peaked her head outside the door to hear Don on the phone, with his mother again, no doubt. Don was a good man, and she loved him, but the man operated on a different wavelength. He was gentle and free-spirited, but his laid-back nature drove her insane at times. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe she’d agreed to marry him, but when you’re a 48 year old single, retired police officer, your options are somewhat limited.

Jane returned to the pink tile, wondering how it was ever in style. Suddenly she stumbled forward, as the crowbar went straight through the drywall, unexpectedly. Damn it, Don. Why isn’t he in here helping me?

She stood for a moment to catch her breath, before deciding to take out her frustrations on this poor, old bathroom. With the third blow, the hammer revealed navy blue fabric underneath the chips and dust. She put down her hammer, and slowly, she pulled away the drywall with her gloved hands. Sal stood slowly, walked toward the bag, and then laid in the middle of chipped tile, dust, and debris with his nose pointing toward it. Police dogs never forget their training. What the hell was in this bag?

Jane quietly unzipped the bag. Money. Rolled and sealed with colored rubber bands. She kept her gloves on and gently shifted the money aside to reveal a small black book. She carefully removed the book and saw pages and pages filled with letters and numbers. On each line, initial, last name, state, dollar amount. Some of them with X’s in the margin. Instinctively, she stood to go to Don, knowing he’d be no help.

She and Don stood over the duffel bag, as she explained, as a retired detective, what lie before them. Sal, who was now at ease, was a highly skilled drug dog. There were traces of drugs on this bag full of money. Who knows how many answers to unsolved cases could be solved with this bag? Don casually, but loudly, took another bite of an apple, nodding. Finally, “This is our house now, and that’s clearly been there for a while. It’s ours. It came with this house. I’ll deposit it tomorrow.”

Did I really marry this idiot? Does he honestly think you can walk into a bank with this amount of money? Does he really think that’s the best thing to do?

I’m not sure how long I yelled at him, before agreeing to sit down for a glass of wine and worry about it tomorrow. He knows that I’ll never say no to a bottle of a Pinot Grigio. He also knows I’d never actually just worry about it tomorrow so with the black book beside me, I pulled my laptop onto my lap and began researching the names in the black book. Finally, the seventeenth name in the book, S. Parkman, TX with an X in the margin, possibly the, now deceased, owner of a large business in Texas. Alone, this might not have stood out to me, but the owner’s son, Elliott Parkman, had taken over the business, and the next name in the book - E. Parkman. Elliott Parkman was recently arrested for his involvement in drug smuggling near the Texas border.

I began rattling off my theories to Don, who assured me that it didn’t matter what I’d found. The money was in our house, and it was ours. He insisted that someone who didn’t trust banks had hidden the money there without ever mentioning it to their children. He’s so naive; it almost embarrasses me.

An hour later, just as Don steps into the kitchen to refill our wine glasses, a knock at the door startles Sal first. I glance out the window to see a large, older man dressed in a tan sheriff’s uniform on the porch. I slowly opened the door. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

I glanced around at the forest surrounding us, wondering what neighborhood he was referring to, and he must’ve read my mind. “I’m Sheriff Todd. My wife and I live about a mile up the street. We saw the moving van earlier today so my wife sent me over with a cake.”

He removes his like-new hat and steps through to doorway, taking a look around. Despite his uniform, his actions are unlike any officer I’ve met, and his cake is obviously store bought. Red flags are flying around me, but my weapon strapped tightly to the back of my nightstand. “Whatcha got there?” as he picks up the black book from the table.

“Just my journal. It’s private.” I gently remove the book from his hands. “Actually, can I see some identification? Can’t be too careful these days”

“Not a smart question” as he shoves me against the wall, taking the book from my hands. Sal, always my partner, leaped toward the man taking him to the floor.

My head is pounding from the blow, as I hear Don round the corner and give Sal the command to stand down. The man eases to one knee, and I hear “Donny boy, didn’t take you long to get here.” Don’s laughter, but a laughter I’m not familiar with. “Don’t Don. You keep the money. I just want the clients.” followed by the unmistakable sound of gunshot. I look up to see my gentle, free-spirited husband holding a 9mm pistol, as if it were simply an extension of his arm. Who is this man? He picks up his glass of wine, holding the pistol toward me, “Come on, Janie, we need to talk.”

He nudges me with the pistol toward the bedroom. I back toward my nightstand, as Don laughs again and pulls my .38 from his waistband. “Sit.”

“Todd may be an idiot, but I might be a little smarter than I’ve let on. See, this is my grandfather’s house. That little bag you found - the fruits of his labor. He worked too hard to have his business die with him, and your little detective mind is exactly what I need to help me run it. Hell, you put it together in two hours. You’re impressive, Janie, so who do you want to work with, me or Todd?”