Текст книги "Upholding the Paw"

Автор книги: Diane Kelly

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

Chapter Seventeen

Heavy Breather

Brigit

Her partner could be such a killjoy sometimes. What would it have hurt to let Brigit chase those two squirrels? The odds of her catching the speedy suckers were slim to none. And even if she did manage to catch one of them, it’s not like they were on the endangered species list. Heck, there had to be at least three million of the pesky rodents in the city of Fort Worth alone.

Brigit knew if she expressed her displeasure via incessant barking Megan would eventually muzzle her. No, the dog was smart enough to exact a more subtle form of revenge. She stood directly behind Megan and panted her warm, moist, chicken-nugget scented breath down her partner’s neck.

Heh-heh-heh.

Chapter Eighteen

Cocktail Hour

The Conductor

Smokestack was the weak link in their group, the only one with a criminal record and definitely the least intelligent. Why the Conductor had ever decided to go on a crime spree with a man he had little respect for and didn’t trust was beyond him. But Smokestack had preyed on him in a moment of weakness, preyed on the Switchman, too, proposing the plan, implying that if they didn’t vindicate themselves they were a couple of doormats.

So here they were, looking around for their dumber-than-a-doorknob partner-in-crime. They spotted him standing behind one of the gas pumps.

The Conductor raised his hand and pointed. “There he is. Let’s get our money and split. This stopped being fun an hour ago.”

The Switchman lifted his chin in agreement and the two stepped over to the pump.

“Look,” the Conductor said to Smokestack, “we’re not doing ourselves any favors hanging together like this.” He gestured at the bag of cash creating an odd bulge in Smokestack’s pants. “Let’s step behind the store, divvy up the money, and go our separate ways before the cops find us.”

“Sure, sure,” Smokestack said. “I just gotta do one more thing first.” He raised his hand, which held the beer bottle. Only now, the bottle was filled with a clear liquid with a slight yellow tint and had a paper towel stuffed in the neck. The beer had morphed into a cocktail. A Molotov cocktail.

Before the Conductor could stop him, Smokestack whipped out his lighter and set the paper towel aflame.

“What the hell are you doing?!?” The Conductor made a grab for the bottle. Didn’t this punk realize that starting another fire would only give the cops a fresh trail to follow?

Smokestack—THE GODDAM MORON!—yanked the bottle out of the Conductor’s reach. The Conductor watched helplessly as his accomplice bolted toward the doors of the convenience store, yanked one open, and tossed the glass bottle inside. There was a crash and tinkle as the glass shattered and showered the floor, followed by a fwoom as flames leapt up from the puddle of gasoline rushing across the floor.

Dammit! That stupid little fucker might as well have shot a flare gun into the air to signal the cops.

“Let’s go!” hollered the Switchman, stepping back and waving for the Conductor to follow him. “Let’s just go!”

If the Switchman thought the Conductor was going to let Smokestack keep his share of the money, especially now, he was as stupid as that pot-smoking hipster. “Hell, no! I’m not leaving without my cash!”

The Conductor ran back into the store to find the air filled with a mixture of gray smoke and white fog from the fire extinguisher the clerk held aimed at the flames. Smokestack lay sprawled over the checkout counter, three inches of ass-crack showing above the waist of his grungy jeans as he pounded a fist on the cash register, trying to get it open. Bam-bam-bam!

The fire snaked its way down the aisles, igniting boxes of cookies, Twinkies, and tampons. The Conductor grabbed Smokestack’s legs and tried to pull him backward, but the moron wrapped his free hand around the counter and hung on tight. Bam-bam-bam!

“Come on, you idiot!” the Conductor yelled. Honestly, he didn’t give a shit what happened to this pasty-face punk, but he knew that if Smokestack was apprehended he’d take the Conductor and the Switchman down with him. He yanked again on Smokestack’s legs but only managed to pull his jeans down farther, a full half foot of ass crack now visible.

Ching! Evidently Smokestack had finally hit the correct button because the drawer slid open. He released his hold on the countertop and snatched two fistfuls of cash before the Conductor was able to grab him by the shoulders and pull him off the countertop. Hot with fury, he shoved Smokestack through the thickening smoke toward the doors.

The instant they were outside, he heard the wail of approaching sirens. Hell! The clerk must have activated a silent alarm before grabbing the extinguisher. Or maybe the store had one of those smoke alarms that automatically contacts the fire department when it goes off.

“Run!” yelled the Conductor, motioning at the Switchman this time.

The Switchman, who’d been waiting by the pumps, began running before even turning his head. Screech! Thunk! He plowed right into a car that had been headed toward the pumps, doubling over the hood. Fortunately, the car was one of those tiny Fiats. A pistachio-green one. Not big enough or moving fast enough to cause life-threatening injuries.

A petite woman with curly blonde hair leapt from the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door open. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

Smokestack was on the woman in an instant, shoving her aside and slipping into the driver’s seat. “Get in!” he hollered.

A hand on his injured knee, the Switchman limped around to the passenger door.

The Conductor froze for a split second.

Should he get in the car? Or take his chances running off on his own?

On foot, he’d likely be apprehended in mere minutes. But if he got in the tiny clown car he still stood a chance—however small—of getting away scot-free. He dashed to the car, lifted the back hatch, and dove inside, pulling himself over the seatback just as Smokestack punched the gas and took off with the hatch door sticking up in the air.

Screeeeeee!

Chapter Nineteen

Drive Me Crazy

Megan

Brigit stood directly behind me, breathing down my neck on the entire drive to Vogel’s place. Thanks to her moist breath, my dark hair bun was now frizzy around the edges and smelled like fried chicken parts.

Lovely.

Vogel lived in a first-floor apartment at a mega complex on University Drive. I parked my cruiser in front of his building, and Detective Jackson and I climbed out.

She rang his bell twice—ding-dong ding-dong—and knocked three times—rap-rap-rap—but nobody came to the door. “Looks like he’s out,” she said.

“Probably looking for a new job.”

She gestured to the window flanking the door. “Let’s see what we can see.”

We sidled onto a grassy patch next to his porch, a common area shared with the apartment next door. Stepping as close to the prickly holly bushes as we dared, we peeked through his mini-blinds, which, though fully lowered, were tilted at an angle that allowed a partial view into the interior.

A peek through the window revealed a blue sofa facing a wall-mounted TV and a single end table with three drawers. Filling the rest of the living room, and leaving precious little space to maneuver, was what appeared to be a ping-pong table converted to a base for an extensive model train display. Multiple plastic and wooden buildings were situated facing one another, forming an old-fashioned Main Street behind which ran two rows of track marked with the standard yellow warning sign—a large black X in the center separating two R’s on either side. Miniature people stood about as if frozen in time on their way to purchase bread at the bakery, have lunch at the café, or buy socks at the five and dime. A neighborhood of adorable Victorian houses sat off to the left of downtown, a white poodle frisking in one yard, a calico cat traipsing through another. A white water tower lorded over the entire display, large black letters on the side proclaiming the name of Christopher Vogel’s idyllic town: Serena, Texas.

“Poor guy,” I said. “He really had it bad for her.”

Jackson took a step back. “It’s hard to envision a guy who plays with toy trains robbing a bank.”

Hard to envision him getting laid, either. Not that I was trying to envision such a thing.

Though many considered model trains nerdy, I had to admit I found the little people and buildings and scenery cute and quaint. My father always set up his old train set at Christmastime so that it ran in circles around Mom’s miniature snow-covered village. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the sound of Dad’s train making its rounds and eventually derailing when one of Mom’s tabbies wreaked havoc on the city like a feline Godzilla.

The detective pulled out one of her business cards, scribbled “Call Me” on it with a ballpoint pen, and wedged it between the door and frame.

We returned to my cruiser, where we attempted to do online what we’d failed to do in reality. Find Christopher Vogel.

I pulled up his Facebook page and scanned his recent posts. “I don’t see anything on here indicating where he might be today.”

Though Vogel hadn’t posted anything to clue us in on his whereabouts, he’d made dozens of posts in recent weeks. One dated two months earlier included a photo of a trophy that featured a gold-plated antique train engine. The engraving on the plate affixed to the base read FIRST PLACE 2015 HO SCALE DIORAMA COMPETITION. There were also dozens of posts with photos of him and Serena. The two of them smiling as they raised full glasses of beer at a bar, a neon Coors Light sign illuminated on the wall behind them. A full-length photo of Serena holding the roses Chris had given her for Valentine’s Day last month. An off-center selfie of them at the turtle pond in the botanical gardens. The caption for that one read: Do I have the best girlfriend ever or what?

The answer to that question was clear.

Or what.

His most recent post was six days old. It said simply, “Lost my girl. Lost my job. My entire life has derailed.”

“No need for him to be such a sad sack,” Jackson said. “A cute guy like him could probably find a new girl in no time.”

True. The guy might be a model train nerd, but he was undeniably attractive. Dark brown hair cut short on the sides and left longer on top in a trendy style. Vivid blue eyes. A nice smile. He didn’t have Seth’s sexy, muscular shoulders, but he wasn’t scrawny either. Just an average-size guy.

“What now?”

“We’ve exhausted our leads from the bank for the time being,” Jackson said. “Let’s make a run by the city Transportation Authority, check up on their drivers.”

I started the car and aimed for the headquarters for the city bus service, which sat only a few blocks away from the carpet warehouse where we’d been earlier. Not knowing how long we’d be, I brought Brigit inside with us.

Detective Jackson stepped up to the receptionist and flashed her badge. “Detective Audrey Jackson, Fort Worth PD. There someone in charge here we can talk to?”

The receptionist picked up her phone, punched three numbers, and spoke into her receiver. “There’s a detective here from the police department who wants to speak with you.” She paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll send her back.”

The woman hung up her phone and motioned down the hallway to her side. “Last door on the right.”

We made our way down the hall, Brigit’s tags jingling as we walked. We reached the last door, which boasted a bronze nameplate etched with PATRICIA EWING. Jackson rapped once on the door and Ewing called out, “Come on in.”

Jackson opened the door to reveal a tall, broad fiftyish woman with fiery red hair cut in a short, intentionally messy do. We stepped inside, closed the door behind us, and shook hands with Ewing over her desk. She gestured for us to take seats in the two wing chairs facing her desk. Brigit sat at my side, her mouth hanging slightly open as she softly panted.

Jackson leaned forward. “We’re hoping you can help us figure out who robbed the bank and stole one of your buses earlier today.”

“Incredible, wasn’t it?” Ewing said. “I’ve worked for the authority for twenty-two years and never heard of anything like it. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

“Us, too,” I said. I only hoped it stayed that way. As long as the criminals were on the loose, there was always the chance they’d up the ante to physical violence. The pressure was on us to catch these guys ASAP, before they could wreak more havoc or hurt someone. It was a heavy load to bear. A low-stress job pushing paper at an insurance company wasn’t sounding so bad about then.

Jackson pulled out her notepad. “The driver who’d been forced off the bus didn’t see which of our three suspects took the wheel, but he noted that whoever drove the thing off seemed to know how to handle it. ’Course this leads me to believe that at least one of the bus-jackers had some experience with these types of vehicles. We’re thinking he might be, or at some time have been, a bus driver. Anyone here come to mind? Someone with financial problems? A drug or gambling problem? Maybe an axe to grind?”

Ewing raised a finger. “Let me get Denise from HR in here. She interacts directly with the employees and would be more aware if one of them was having an issue.”

Ewing proceeded to pick up her phone receiver with the other hand, and used the finger she’d raised to jab a button. “Hi, Denise. Come on down to my office, please. No need to knock.”

A few seconds later, the door swung open and in stepped Denise, a bony brunette wearing a pantsuit the color of honeydew melon. Ewing gestured at a rolling, barrel-shape chair in the corner and Denise pulled it over.

Ewing introduced us to Denise and explained the reason for our visit.

“Financial problems?” Denise said. “Harry Waltham comes to mind. He had to file bankruptcy after his wife had a prolonged illness. He missed a lot of work. Some of the other drivers complained about having to cover for him. Harry seems like a decent guy, though. Despite his money issues I can’t see him robbing a bank.”

The detective and I exchanged discreet glances. Desperate people sometimes took desperate measures. The police constantly arrested thieves, embezzlers, and con artists whom others had seen as upstanding citizens. Still, if one of the thieves was Harry Waltham, who were the others? Friends of his? Family members? Other bus drivers?

Despite Denise’s sense that Waltham wasn’t our guy, Jackson made a note of his name on her pad, adding his address and phone number after Ewing pulled it up on her computer. Ewing also showed us a photograph of Waltham. The guy was a light-skinned African American with short black hair, a longish face, and a strong chin. He appeared to be in his forties. He fit the general description of the man who’d brandished the rifle on the bus.

Turning back to the HR director, Jackson asked, “What about drug or gambling problems? Any drivers you know of with those types of problems?”

Denise’s face contorted as she appeared to be thinking things over. “We had a driver named Ronnie Butler who used to go to Vegas every time he took vacation. He eventually quit working here when he got a job driving a tour bus to the casinos in Oklahoma. I remember when he turned in his resignation he joked about finally getting his dream job, that he’d be able to gamble on the clock.”

“How long ago was this?” Jackson asked.

Denise sucked her lip in thought. “Two, maybe three months ago.”

Jackson jotted down his name and contact information, too. “What about disgruntled drivers? Anybody get reprimanded or fired and not take it well?”

Denise chuckled. “Does anyone take getting fired well?”

Jackson merely raised an impatient brow in return.

Denise sat up straighter in her chair. “We had to let one of our more senior drivers go recently when we discovered he’d been carrying a handgun on the job. He drove a late shift in east Fort Worth and said he didn’t feel safe without it. I felt bad for the guy, but carrying a weapon is against policy. We also terminated another driver last month. Three women accused him of groping them as he pretended to help them onto the bus. He claimed there was no truth behind their accusations, but when we searched his bus we also found a small video camera taped to the ceiling over the doorway. He said he didn’t put it there, but who else would put a camera on a city bus? Our guess was that he was using it to get a peek down women’s shirts. He’s been a real pain since we fired him. He’s written to the mayor, the city council, even his congressman.”

Jackson held her pen at the ready over her pad. “Their names and contact information?”

Denise provided the details. The man who’d been fired over the gun was Lewis Blakemore. The alleged groper/virtual peeping Tom was Phillip Gunderbaugh.

The detective thanked the women for the information and stood. “Soon as we figure this out, we’ll be in touch.”

We exchanged parting handshakes and walked back outside to my cruiser. I loaded Brigit back into her enclosure and climbed into my seat.

Jackson slid into the passenger seat, gestured to my laptop, and held up the list of names she’d compiled inside. “Let’s do a little triage. See which of these men look the most promising.”

I set about pulling up information on the men Denise had mentioned.

The web offered little on Harry Waltham, the one with the sick wife and the pending bankruptcy. He had no Facebook page. No Twitter account.

Jackson waved a hand. “Next.”

I ran a search on our next potential subject. Ronnie Butler, the gambler, had a Facebook page replete with posts about his gambling escapades. A post from last week stated: Lost my shirt at the blackjack table! Evidently, his luck had changed. An entry from earlier today read: Won $300 on a Double Diamond machine at the Flamingo!

I pointed at the post, which showed it had been entered only four hours ago. “Looks like he’s in Vegas.” Of course the entries could be faked, posted to throw us off his trail. For all we knew, he was right here in town.

Jackson pulled out her pen and wrote “Vegas?” next to Butler’s name on her list. “That brings us to Lewis Blakemore, the guy with the gun. See if he’s got a record.”

I ran his name through the criminal database. “Nope. He’s c-clean.”

I googled his name next. Like Waltham, he’d kept a low profile online, only a few items popping up. I clicked on the first one, which led me to an amateur website someone had put together for the Blakemore family’s 2014 reunion. Lewis Blakemore appeared in a wide-angle photo with approximately three dozen extended relatives, all of whom resembled each other to some degree. Being one of the taller people, he stood at the back, visible only from the shoulders up. He wore a wide smile and a blue-and-white striped cap. He also appeared in a second photo, a close-up shot of him holding a toddler, both of them wearing the striped hats this time, as well as sunny smiles. A third photograph featured him sitting in the shade on the bank of a river flanked by two adolescent boys. While Blakemore wore no hat in this photograph, he held a fishing rod, as did the boys on either side of him. The final photograph of Blakemore showed him shooting skeet with the same two boys he’d been fishing with.

Hmm … If a picture is worth a thousand words, some of those words would be “family man” and “doting grandpa.” He appeared to be nothing more than a normal middle-age man with a possible gun fetish. Not unusual in Texas.

Jackson glanced at the page, her gaze roaming over the photos. “Not sure I’m feeling it.”

“Should I open the other links?” I asked.

“First let’s take a look at that last guy. The groper.”

When I typed Phillip Gunderbaugh’s named into my browser and hit the enter key it was a wonder my computer didn’t explode. The search returned over a thousand results.

“Whoa.”

Gunderbaugh had posted what appeared to be hourly rants on his Facebook page, complaining about his termination on the baseless accusations of a few stupid whores! to the sons of bitches who’d refused to give him a fair hearing! He encouraged the citizens of Fort Worth to boycott the Transportation Authority via a three-stanza rhyme: They all lied! Support driver pride! Don’t take a ride!

A look at the man’s Twitter account showed he’d sent over three hundred tweets, ranging from a relatively benign Fort Worth bus system unfair to drivers! to a more insidious Fired unfairly! Ft Worth Transportation Authority fucked me over! and If FWTA thinks I’ll go down without a fight they’ve got another thing coming!

Jackson pursed her lips. “He doesn’t seem to have moved on.”

“That could explain the bus-jacking,” I noted. Stealing a bus, disrupting service, and making the department look incompetent would be a fitting revenge. “But what about the bank robbery? How would that play into his scheme? And who would be willing to go along with him?” After all, the guy seemed certifiable.

Before we could speculate further my shoulder-mounted radio went off. “We’ve got a report of a fire and robbery at a convenience store. Three male suspects. Two Caucasian, one African American.”

As the dispatcher gave the address, my eyes met the detective’s. Three men, two white, one black? Another fire and robbery? It had to be the same suspects we’d been tracking.

Jackson strapped her seatbelt into place. “Let’s go!”

Woo-woo-woo! We took off, tires churning up dirt and gravel as I punched the gas and rocketed out of the Transportation Authority’s parking lot.

Two minutes later, we careened into the lot at the convenience store. Derek was at the scene, speaking with a petite blonde woman. A witness, possibly. The fire department was already on site, too, pumping water into the store as black smoke poured out the front doors.

At the back of the fire truck, Seth held an oxygen mask to the face of an elderly Asian man sitting on the bumper. The man’s shoulders racked with deep, rib-wrenching coughs. Smoke inhalation, evidently. The man must have been the clerk on duty when the fire started. Thank God he hadn’t passed out in the burning building or he would have been burned to a crisp.

Jackson and I hopped out of the car and rushed over to him.

Seth shot me a pointed look. “We really shouldn’t have complained about our boring mornings.”

“I never will again.” We seemed to have jinxed ourselves.

He leaned in and whispered. “Let’s get margaritas when your shift is over.”

He wouldn’t have to ask me twice. It had been a hell of a day.

Jackson put her hands on her knees and bent over to look at the man behind the mask. “You up to talking, sir?”

When he nodded, Seth pulled the oxygen mask from his face.

“What happened?” the detective asked.

“Three men came into the store,” the man said, emitting a couple of short coughs. “Two were white. In their twenties maybe. The other was an older black man. Forty or so.”

When the man coughed again, Seth returned the mask to his face for a few seconds to give him a hit of concentrated oxygen. He pulled it back when the man signaled with his hand.

“All of them wore sunglasses. They got beer from the cooler and the little fat one opened his and drank it in the store. I told him he wasn’t supposed to do that and he left.” Cough-cough-cough. “The other white man paid for the beer and got a couple of hot dogs, and then he and the black man walked out.” He coughed again and took a fresh hit of oxygen from Seth before continuing. “I heard the door open again and the little fat one was back and his bottle was on fire. He threw it onto the floor and the fire spread everywhere, and while I was trying to put it out he grabbed money from the cash register.”

Derek stepped up beside us with the blonde in tow. “The guys who started the fire and robbed the place stole this woman’s car.”

“What kind of car is it?” I asked her.

“Fiat 500,” she said. “A 2013 model.”

“Notify dispatch,” Jackson told Derek. “Tell everyone to be on the lookout. And make sure they get the chopper back in the air. There’s no telling what these fools might do next.”

It was true. The clerk could have died in the fire. The men on this crime spree were out of control. I felt tension in the center of my forehead. We needed to find these guys and put an end to their reign of terror. Now.

While Derek obtained the license plate number for the woman’s Fiat and used his radio to report the stolen car, Jackson and I stepped up to the door of the store and took a look around. There wasn’t much to see except smoldering remains and a sooty, wet floor.

Jackson glanced up at the corner over the cash register. Fortunately, while most of the store was in smoldering ruins, the security camera appeared to be intact. “I hope that camera got some good footage. Somebody knows these guys. If we run a clip on the evening news, maybe someone will give them up.”

We stepped back outside.

Jackson angled her head at the fire truck. “I’m going to speak to the clerk, figure out who I need to contact for the camera footage.”

As she stepped away, I spotted a plastic lighter on the ground near the gas pumps. Could it be the one the arsonist had used to start his fires? Had he filled the bottle right here at the pumps?

I snatched a paper towel from the dispenser mounted on the support beam, wrapped my hand in it, and retrieved the lighter from the ground, holding it up to the sun. The backlight showed that only a small amount of fluid remained in the device. Hmm … Though the guy had worn mittens today and would not have left fresh prints, it was possible when he’d used the lighter previously his hands had been bare.

I checked the pumps to see whether the arsonist might have filled the bottle with gasoline here in the parking lot. Sure enough, the pump facing the street showed the last transaction totaled a mere twenty-three cents and a tenth of a gallon. Just enough to fill a twelve-ounce beer bottle. The paper receipt still hung untouched from the dispenser, displaying the last four digits of a credit or debit card number.

I ripped the receipt from the printer, hurried back over to the doors of the store, and held it out to Jackson. “It looks like they filled the beer bottle at pump three.”

She took the paper tape from me and glanced down at it. “They used a credit card. More likely than not it’s a stolen one, but it might give us a trail to follow.”

“Check this out, too.” I held the lighter up, careful to keep the paper towel between the plastic and my fingers. “I found it by the p-pumps. It could belong to the guy in the frog hat. The fluid is nearly used up so the lighter isn’t new. Think he might have touched it without gloves when he used it before?”

“Good eye, Luz,” Jackson said. “We’ll have the techs check it for prints.” She took the lighter from me. “You get back out on the streets, see if you can find these guys before your shift is over. I’m going to hang around here until the store owner comes ’round. One of the evening officers can give me a ride back to the station when I’m done. I’ll see that they get up to speed on the case.”

“All right,” I conceded. “Thanks for t-taking me with you today.”

She offered me a nod. “Always good to have a smart cookie like you along as a sounding board.”

I returned to my cruiser and pulled out of the lot. As much as I was looking forward to the margarita and some Seth-time, I had to admit I felt disappointed. It had been a crazy, chaotic day, but I’d hoped it would go out with a bang, not a whimper. I’d hoped to catch the bad guys, not merely trail along helplessly behind them. And I knew that once the day was over the case would belong fully to Detective Jackson. She could justify having me tag along with her today, but tomorrow I’d have to be back out on my beat, writing traffic tickets and responding to noise complaints rather than playing her protégé.

I turned onto Vickery and headed west, cruising along, keeping an eye out for a green Fiat, my thoughts on the bank robbers. Who are they? What’s their common thread? Are they friends of Grant Dawson? Three hardened criminals who’d met in prison? Three out-of-work men who’d met in line at the unemployment office? A barbershop quartet whose fourth member needs money for an organ transplant?

If only I could figure out what their connection was, maybe I could figure out who they were and solve the case.

I continued on, my nose detecting the scents of meat cooking at the Railhead Smokehouse a block over. The place capitalized on its proximity to the train lines, its name a nod to the nearby rail yard. Its logo featured a cowcatcher, like the one on the front of the steam engine of the Grapevine Vintage Railroad, a tourist attraction that made runs between the Fort Worth Stockyards and the neighboring city of Grapevine. I’d ridden the train a time or two with my family. You got three younger brothers, you end up on trains.

Brigit must have smelled the meat, too. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed.

“Sorry, girl,” I told her. “No time for barbecue right now. But I’ll give you big spoonful of peanut butter when we get home. How’s that sound?”

She wagged her tail, letting me know a spoonful of peanut butter sounded just great.

As I approached the rail yard that ran alongside and beneath parts of Vickery, I spotted a round yellow sign, the standard warning sign with the oversize X separating two R’s.

But wait …

If the sign were split horizontally down the middle, each side would contain a black capital R, one inside something that looked like a less-than symbol, the other inside a greater-than symbol.

Holy crap!

The R on the bank robbers’ demand note had been cut from a printed picture of a railroad sign! And that plastic tube we’d found on the bus—it could be the smoke pipe from a model steam engine!