Rude Awakenings: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 2)

Chapter Sixty: Lauren, Sunday

When Lauren hung up on Al, she concentrated fully on following the guy. What she didn't expect was for him to make a stop so soon.

The truck suddenly slowed down and indicated a right, then pulled over to park at the side of a row of shops. She passed by without looking at him, then made the necessary turns to go back around and find a parking spot a block before him. The truck was there, but she could see the driver wasn't. He must have gone into one of these shops. Which one, though? Shit. If she'd anticipated quickly enough she could have parked without having to go all the way around so as not to tip him off.

The only thing she could do was watch his truck. He'd come back to it eventually.

She waited for a while, and was just about to call Al with her new location when she saw him emerging from a store on the other side of the road. A pet store. He carried a huge bag of kibble over his shoulder, and another bag of assorted pet supplies in the opposite hand. Okay, so he owned a dog. Or, and this was an interesting scenario, Carrie MacDougall continued breeding prize poodles, and this guy was buying supplies for her. Could that have been the reason they were meeting? But why wouldn't she just call him and ask him? That would have been easier. No, this had to be for his dog, and they'd met for some other reason.

The guy loaded his stuff into the flatbed and opened his door. She readied herself to start her engine again, but he didn't climb in. Instead, he pulled something from the cab and closed the door again.

It was her sword. She would have recognized it from even further away.

She was so stunned that she was too slow to react when the guy took it into another store, this time on their side of the street. She looked at the sign and gasped. It read Crazy Ed's Pawn Shop.

She should have been furious that he was trying to sell her sword, but she was delighted. If he sold it he would have to provide a Driver's License for the pawnbroker to keep on file in case the item was stolen, and also in case the customer returned to buy back the item they pawned. As soon as he left the store she could go right in and claim it back, show her private investigator credentials and intimidate the pawnbroker into handing it over with the accusation it was stolen. If the pawnbroker wasn't intimidated, all the better; she could demand the copy of the driver's license to find the address of the guy, or, even better, get the police involved so they could go knocking on his door. Either way, it was a win for her.

Her phone rang, and she saw that it was Al. She should have answered it, but if she took her eye off that store he could come out without her noticing. There was always the possibility that he'd come right back out with the sword still in hand, unsatisfied with what the pawnbroker offered him for it. She needed her sword back. Its absence felt like a missing tooth whenever she looked at the empty rack in her office. Her grandfather had won it in the war and kept it as a fuck you to the Canadian government, and she couldn't let it stay in the hands of some redneck whose family was probably on the side of the Internment, or let it languish in some pawnshop in the middle of nowhere, its history unappreciated.

Her phone stopped ringing, but a minute later started ringing again. Al. He must have been worried about her. Sweet, but annoying at this moment. She'd call him back as soon as he left without the sword, or some other resolution presented itself.

The guy was in there a while, and he must have been securing the deal. All the better.

The phone rang again. "Jesus, Al," she hissed to herself. "Just give me a fucking minute."

It kept ringing, and she thought she should finally answer just to give herself some peace when the guy suddenly emerged from the shop.

He was still carrying the sword.