“It’s the black Honda Civic,” Grandma said.
“Say what?” Lula said. “He drove a Honda Civic? Not that it isn’t a good car, but it’s not what I would expect. The people I know who kill people drive big cars. Hummers and monster trucks. Of course, they’re all gangbangers and dealers. They gotta make a statement. It’s like look how big my car is and that’s nothing compared to my dick. I guess it’s different with mob killers. They’re more in the professional category, keeping a low profile. Or it could be that Jimmy didn’t have any money. Maybe wet work doesn’t pay anymore.” She stood in front of the car. “It’s not even new. This here’s an old Civic.”
“It ran good,” Grandma said. “And he kept it clean inside.”
I tried the door and found it unlocked. Probably because forty-five people had already looked through it for the keys.
We did our own search, using our cellphone flashlights, looking under the seats and in the trunk.
“This is depressing,” Grandma said. “I don’t like looking for the keys. It’s not what it was about with Jimmy and me. I don’t even know if I want his money anymore.”
“I get what you’re saying,” I said to Grandma, “but we’re looking for the keys to keep you alive. The money is a different deal. You have to figure that one out yourself.”
“We should have a change of pace and go looking for the shoplifter,” Lula said. “That would perk Grandma up.”
Grandma joining us on an apprehension? Disaster! “No, no, no,” I said. “I’m sure Grandma has things she needs to do at home.”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Grandma said, “but a shoplifter doesn’t sound exciting. Don’t you have something better? Like a bank robber or a terrorist?”
“I haven’t got any of those,” I said. “I have a hijacker and attempted murder.”
“Tell me about the attempted murder,” Grandma said.
“Barry Strunk. He got screwed at the Cluck-in-a-Bucket drive-thru and pulled the minimum-wage worker through the drive-thru window. He had the kid on the ground, and he was shoving a Double Clucky Burger down his throat and yelling This is all wrong. It’s all wrong!”
“That’s questionable attempted murder,” Lula said.
“Strunk was also yelling to the Clucky kid that he was going to kill him. They have it on Clucky tape. He said it a lot. And according to this report, the kid almost choked to death.”
“The problem here is that this man had unrealistic expectations. It’s a known fact that you get fucked at the drive-thru.”
“Let’s go after this one,” Grandma said. “I want to see the man who got fucked at the drive-thru.”
“He didn’t really get fucked,” Lula said to Grandma. “You know that, right? He just got figuratively fucked.”
“Good enough for me,” Grandma said.
I read the file out loud. “Barry Strunk. Forty-two years old. Divorced. Works at the button factory. No priors. Looks crazy in his mug shot.”
Lula and Grandma leaned in and looked at the mug shot.
“I could tell right off that this boy needs anger management,” Lula said. “He’s got big frowny marks in his forehead and his mouth is all snarly.”
“He should be getting off his shift at the button factory soon,” I said.
“We could catch him in the parking lot,” Lula said.
“The parking lot is a mess when there’s a shift change,” I said. “I’d rather wait for him at his house. He lives in one of the little row houses on E Street.”
“I didn’t bring my cuffs,” Grandma said.
“That’s okay,” I told her. “I have cuffs. And I don’t expect him to be difficult. He’s not a career criminal. He just had a bad day.”
I didn’t entirely believe this, but I didn’t want Grandma going all Dirty Harry on me.
We’d been driving around in Lula’s car with the Rangeman guys on our bumper.
Grandma was in the back seat, and from time to time she’d turn and wave at the SUV.