Chapter 33
At 7:38 AM the phone on the nightstand was ringing. It was loud and annoying. On the third ring David rolled over to his right and grabbed the handset. Where is Chantelle? Is she still in the bathroom?
“Hello,” David sleepily sputtered. I guess Chantelle split. My erotic goddess went poof during the night. Did I not perform up to her satisfaction? Or, was it something else?
“Hello, this is Detective Larkson from the Wilmington Police Department. Is this David Scrapalski?” Oh, shit! It’s way too early for this. Oh, crap.
“Yes, this is he.” Cindy must have turned me in. Damn her!
“Mr. Scrapalski, we would like to ask you a few questions with regard to the murder yesterday of Dale Smite. It should take less than twenty minutes. When do you think you could come down to the station?” Hell, give me at least forty-five minutes.
“Uh, I just woke up. Is eight-thirty ok?”
“Sure, that’s fine. Anytime this morning.”
“Where are you located?”
“We’re at 615 Bess Street. Just head north on 6th Street. Eventually the road will bend sharply to the right; this is where Bess Street starts. We’re on the left.”
“Ok, thanks,” David said as he hung up the phone. What a day this is going to be. Payback for last night.
He looked back again at where Chantelle had been sleeping. He wasn’t totally surprised that she was gone. I wonder if this episode will become part of her first novel. Well, I better take a shower and shave, and get mentally ready for this interrogation. Try to shake off this little hangover.
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David rolled into the headquarters of the Wilmington Police Department at 8:27 AM on a humid, steam-fog Saturday morning. He was in Detective Larkson’s office at 8:30 on the dot. Made it on-time.
Detective Lazarus Larkson was an African American of large frame. He was in great shape and looked like a linebacker. He was bald and wore dark sunglasses. A large, brown, 24-ounce cup of convenience-store coffee proudly sat on his wooden desk. He quickly got to the crux of the matter.
“Mr. Scrapalski, did you know Dale Smite?” Detective Larkson asked while looking at his yellow notepad.
“No, I had never met him before last Friday morning,” David stated with confidence.
“Exactly when on Friday morning? And, where did you meet him?” Stay steady, boy.
“It must have been a quarter to nine at Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage.”
“And, what was your reason for meeting him?” I got this.
“I went to Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage to buy a trunk door for my 2011 Ford Focus. My trunk was struck by a blown-over tree in Raleigh during Tropical Storm Dorn.”
“I see. Ok, how would you characterize your conversation with Dale Smite?” Just stick to the e-mail. Don’t adlib.
“It was just your normal business-transaction stuff. Just talk about the trunk door. The model type. Price negotiation. Nothing else.”
“When did you leave the salvage lot?”
“At nine. But, I returned around two.” The exact truth.
“You came back? Why did you come back? Did you not get your trunk door at nine?” Ok, let’s not let this blow up. Remember that Dale is dead; thus, he can’t contradict whatever I say that he said.
“I came back at two to meet with Gerald, the owner. Dale had told me that he couldn’t sell me any parts off that car because it had been underwater. He told me that Gerald would have to approve any and all part sales from that car.” Gosh, I hope that sounded believable. I kind of think it didn’t.
“So, there was no sale at nine o’clock?”
“No, sir. There was no sale at that time. I left with nothing. I didn’t pay Dale a dime.” His story checks out so far.
“Do you know Gerald Zowen?” Detective Larkson asked with a blank expression that David couldn’t read.
“No, I had never met him until two o’clock on Friday afternoon, when I came back for the trunk door.” No lies so far.
“How would you describe Gerald Zowen’s demeanor?”
“He was agitated. Very upset. In fact, he was furious – furious at Dale. He kept telling me that he was going to get even with him for ripping him off. Something about a missing ‘large wad of cash’ from the safe.” I think that sounded ok. Hope so.
“Did he sell you the trunk door?” Odd question. What difference would it make who sold me the trunk door? What’s his angle? What is he digging for? Gold? Ha-ha.
“Yes, he did, Detective Larkson. Gerald gave me the proper legal disclosure; he told me that the car had been underwater for a couple of hours. I looked at the trunk; it looked fine. I bought it for one hundred and fifty dollars. He unbolted it from the wrecked car and put it inside my trunk. It’s in there now. I plan to install it once I get back to my home in Raleigh. Would you like to come out and see it? See, I’m telling you the truth, robo-cop guy; I’m not lying. / This guy is clean.
“No, that’s alright. Ok, so you got your trunk door around two-thirty on Friday, is that right?”
“Yes, that would be correct, sir.”
“Then why are you still in Wilmington?” Yikes! Don’t say ‘for the water’. Think fast.
“I had decided in advance to make a mini-vacation out of this auto-part trip to Wilmington. I hadn’t taken a vacation in some time. My boss was even demanding that I take some time off. I’d become a work-work-work robot.” That sounds believable.
“What else do you know about that wrecked, white, 2011 Ford Focus, other than that it was underwater?” Detective Larkson asked as he peered at David with laser sights on his brown eyes. Don’t choke now. Just answer calmly and assuredly.
“Well, I later learned from the Wilmington newspaper and local TV, radio, and internet news websites that the car went off the Snow’s Cut Bridge last weekend, and that the driver died in the accident.”
“Did Gerald or Dale also tell you this?” Huh?
“No. Neither one of them told me about the death of the car’s driver. They just told me that the car had been underwater for a considerable period of time.” He seems to be telling the truth. / Hope he believes me. I don’t want to be here tonight.
“One last question: “Did you know Mark van Buren or Susan van Buren?” Whew, that’s an easy closer. No sweat.
“No, I had never heard of their names until I saw them in the Wilmington media.” Seems to be the truth.
“Ok, David, you can go now. I’m done.” Success! Maybe not a home run, but I certainly passed the test. I can tell that the police are unaware of the gold. I’m sure that it wasn’t in either vehicle. I sincerely doubt that they found it in anyone’s residence, either. It’s still somewhere on Dale’s property. Somewhere. And just waiting for me.
“Thank you, sir. Have a fantastic day.” Spare me, dude.
“You, too, Mr. Scrapalski.” It will be the most fantastic day ever if I find that gold later. / We’ll be keeping tabs on you.
David got up and began to exit the room. I think I did pretty well. On a scale of one to ten, I think that I would give myself a nine; ok, maybe an eight-point-five. / He’s still a person of some interest. I think he knows more than I asked.
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David then drove back to the hotel and extended his stay by one night. When he got back in his room, he laid his aching head down on the re-sheeted bed and sank into the quicksand of sleep. He was out for four hours, and had a dream involving a bright-yellow, hand-held metal detector, combing over acres and acres of blue sand.