But the real bomb dropped on Monday morning. I was working at my desk when my phone rang. Unknown number. “Bennett?” The voice was raspy. “Sal.” “Sal, did you find something?” “Find something?” Sal let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Kid, you better sit down. Are you sitting?” “I’m sitting.” “Good. Because I didn’t just find dirt. I found an archaeological dig site.” My stomach did a flip. “What is it?” “Not over the phone,” Sal said. “This is too good. Meet me at the diner on third, the one with the greasy spoon. 20 minutes?” “I’m on my way.” I grabbed my keys. I texted Mike. “It’s happening.” I drove to the diner faster than I probably should have. Sal was already there, sitting in a booth in the back,
nursing a cup of black coffee and a slice of cherry pie. He had a Manila folder next to him. A thick one. I slid into the booth opposite him. “Tell me.” Sal took a slow bite of pie. He chewed deliberately. He was enjoying the dramatic tension. “So,” Sal said, wiping crumbs from his lip. “Your friend Brenda, or should I say Brenda Kowalski?” “Kowalski?” “Her maiden name. Or at least the name she used in Ohio about 10 years ago.” Sal tapped the folder. “She moved here 5 years ago, right?” “Yeah, that sounds right.” “And she’s been a model citizen ever since. A pillar of the community.” Sal smirked. “But back in Ohio Brenda was a busy girl.” He opened the folder and slid a stack of papers toward me.
They were photocopies of court dockets, mug shots, police reports. I looked at the top photo. It was definitely her. Younger, less Botox, hair a little wilder, but the eyes were the same. The eyes of someone who wanted to speak to the manager of the universe.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. “You are looking at three outstanding bench warrants,” Sal whispered. “Warrants? Like arrest warrants?” “Active ones,” Sal nodded. “She skipped town. Never showed up for court. And because they were misdemeanors, nobody came looking for her across state lines. But they never go away, kid. They just sit in the system waiting for someone like me to run a national check.” “What did she do?” I scanned the papers. The charges were listed in bold. “Read them and weep,” Sal said. I read the first one. Illegal dumping. “Illegal dumping?” I asked. “She was throwing her household trash into a construction dumpster behind a strip mall to save on pickup fees,” Sal explained. “Got caught, refused to pay the fine, fought the cop who wrote the ticket.” I read the second one. Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace. “That one,” Sal pointed, “was at a coffee shop. Apparently, the foam on her cappuccino was insufficient. She threw the cup at the barista, screamed for 20 minutes, resisted arrest when the cops showed up.” “That sounds about right,” I muttered. “And the third one,” Sal said, “is the kicker. Leaving the scene of an accident, property damage.” “A hit and run?” “Fender bender in a parking lot. She backed into someone, got out, looked at the damage, got back in her car, and drove off. Witnesses got the plate. She never showed up for the court date.” Sal leaned back. “She’s a fugitive, Jason.
