Read Online Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone by Christopher Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Andrews
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of the code numbers printed along the left side of Cooper’s voucher; worse, the voucher was not even the proper format for this state. No record of the truck Cooper described in the impound, either.
The auction — the uniformed police officer present, the low-key auctioneer, the police Lieutenant who read off a bunch of bylaws on the liquidation of criminal material ... the whole thing had been one huge, ballsy scam .
At the Desk Sergeant’s unneeded urging, Cooper called his bank right away. Oh, yes, the money had been withdrawn from his savings account the day after the auction ... in fact, all of the money had been withdrawn from his savings account.
For the next five hours, Cooper’s time was divided between filling out police reports and talking over the phone to his bank (the Sergeant was very accommodating, letting Cooper monopolize the old, beat-up phone at the far end of the front desk). The bank employees were courteous enough, but Cooper realized too late that he had put his foot in his mouth when he admitted that he had freely given the routing information to the con artists. Cooper talked to one bank employee, then another, then had to go back to the first one. And then they told him this was the wrong department, so he had to start over. And then things got even more exacerbated when his call got cut off while on hold, but he hadn’t yet written down the newest woman’s name, so he had to start all over again. And don’t even get him started on that frustrating automated voice system of theirs!
The next day, Cooper was back at the police station at the proverbial crack of dawn. A different Desk Sergeant was on duty today, and this asshole wasn’t nearly as helpful. Then the Detective assigned to his case was late for work, not showing up until well after lunch. And when he finally did show up and summon Cooper to his desk, he spent most of the time exchanging texts with his son (supposedly at home with the flu, but as far as Cooper knew, the jerk might’ve been exchanging dirty messages with some bimbo lover) while Cooper filled out another report that he could’ve sworn he’d filled out twice already.
To make matters worse, the Detective had yet to give Cooper any useful information, when the policeman suddenly claimed he had “a very important meeting to attend,” and asked if Cooper could come back later — not after-the-meeting later, but the next day.
So Cooper trudged home — hungry, fuming, and dejected. His first impulse was to go out and get blind, stinking drunk, but if he did, he would be aware of every dollar leaving his wallet, each representing a terrifying portion of his total remaining net worth.
He needed something to occupy his mind from this nightmare (if that were even possible). Something simple, something he didn’t really have to think about, something that didn’t involve people screwing him over ...
His Ford! He could work on his Ford. Just pop the hood and tinker around, see if he could figure out what had been causing that annoying rattle, or that sluggish cough when the engine turned over. He pretended not to think about the fact that he might need to sell the damn thing in a hurry, but focused on—
Cooper stopped dead in his tracks.
He gaped at his car. Between its troubled performance and all that had been going on, it had been at least a week since he’d been back here, since he’d last laid eyes on it.
The windshield was covered in bright red graffiti. The punks had gotten the driver’s door, too; maybe more, but that’s all he could see from where he stood. He had seen these markings before, knew they were the territorial symbols of one of the local Hispanic gangs.
The spray paint wasn’t the only thing red now. So was Cooper’s face. And so was his vision.
A suspect leaped to the forefront of Cooper’s raging mind: That young Latino punk who lived two doors down and across the hall from his apartment, who wore wife-beaters and low-riding,
The auction — the uniformed police officer present, the low-key auctioneer, the police Lieutenant who read off a bunch of bylaws on the liquidation of criminal material ... the whole thing had been one huge, ballsy scam .
At the Desk Sergeant’s unneeded urging, Cooper called his bank right away. Oh, yes, the money had been withdrawn from his savings account the day after the auction ... in fact, all of the money had been withdrawn from his savings account.
For the next five hours, Cooper’s time was divided between filling out police reports and talking over the phone to his bank (the Sergeant was very accommodating, letting Cooper monopolize the old, beat-up phone at the far end of the front desk). The bank employees were courteous enough, but Cooper realized too late that he had put his foot in his mouth when he admitted that he had freely given the routing information to the con artists. Cooper talked to one bank employee, then another, then had to go back to the first one. And then they told him this was the wrong department, so he had to start over. And then things got even more exacerbated when his call got cut off while on hold, but he hadn’t yet written down the newest woman’s name, so he had to start all over again. And don’t even get him started on that frustrating automated voice system of theirs!
The next day, Cooper was back at the police station at the proverbial crack of dawn. A different Desk Sergeant was on duty today, and this asshole wasn’t nearly as helpful. Then the Detective assigned to his case was late for work, not showing up until well after lunch. And when he finally did show up and summon Cooper to his desk, he spent most of the time exchanging texts with his son (supposedly at home with the flu, but as far as Cooper knew, the jerk might’ve been exchanging dirty messages with some bimbo lover) while Cooper filled out another report that he could’ve sworn he’d filled out twice already.
To make matters worse, the Detective had yet to give Cooper any useful information, when the policeman suddenly claimed he had “a very important meeting to attend,” and asked if Cooper could come back later — not after-the-meeting later, but the next day.
So Cooper trudged home — hungry, fuming, and dejected. His first impulse was to go out and get blind, stinking drunk, but if he did, he would be aware of every dollar leaving his wallet, each representing a terrifying portion of his total remaining net worth.
He needed something to occupy his mind from this nightmare (if that were even possible). Something simple, something he didn’t really have to think about, something that didn’t involve people screwing him over ...
His Ford! He could work on his Ford. Just pop the hood and tinker around, see if he could figure out what had been causing that annoying rattle, or that sluggish cough when the engine turned over. He pretended not to think about the fact that he might need to sell the damn thing in a hurry, but focused on—
Cooper stopped dead in his tracks.
He gaped at his car. Between its troubled performance and all that had been going on, it had been at least a week since he’d been back here, since he’d last laid eyes on it.
The windshield was covered in bright red graffiti. The punks had gotten the driver’s door, too; maybe more, but that’s all he could see from where he stood. He had seen these markings before, knew they were the territorial symbols of one of the local Hispanic gangs.
The spray paint wasn’t the only thing red now. So was Cooper’s face. And so was his vision.
A suspect leaped to the forefront of Cooper’s raging mind: That young Latino punk who lived two doors down and across the hall from his apartment, who wore wife-beaters and low-riding,
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