Buried Biker by KM Rockwood

didn’t think Old Buckles, her dad, was on home detention, but sometimes the parole officer springs that on you at the last minute. Then he’d have to wear an ankle bracelet, be in his little circle around the transmitter at Kelly’s place for maybe twelve hours a day, probably like seven PM to seven AM.”
    Hank shook his shaggy head. “You think it might have been one of them did her?”
    “Might be. But I’d have thought Old Buckles would have put the fear of the Lord into them. He still thinks of Kelly as his little girl.”
    “Some of them guys, they get real high. They don’t think. And they certainly aren’t afraid of the Lord. Or anyone else.”
    I nodded. I knew some people like that.
    “Well.” Hank gathered up the papers. “Anything I can do to help the little lady, let me know.”
    Not too many people would think of Kelly as being a “little lady” any more than they would “little girl,” but I guess that next to Hank’s hulking form, she was.
    “If I hear of anything,” I said, “you’ll be the first to know. But I doubt I will. I’m kind of out of the loop.”
    Most of the shift had their lunch from exactly 4:00 to 4:18 a.m., while those working on a continuous operation, like the platers or packing line, took staggered lunches when they could be relieved. I had no desire to sit down with anyone else, so I kept working through the regular lunch and told John I’d grab mine at the picnic table back in the shipping room when I’d made sure all the work was caught up.
    About four forty-five, I picked up my lunchbox from near the time-clock and went to find Jim to tell him I was going to lunch if it was okay with him.
    He was deep in conversation with the security guard who patrolled a regular path through the plant and grounds. I eased the forklift over and waited for them to finish talking. Although we were away from the production floor and the din of machinery was muted, I couldn’t hear any of what they were saying.
    I got down to talk to Jim as the security guard started to leave.
    He did a double take as he passed the forklift. Reaching behind the seat, he lifted the purse.
    “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked.
    Jim stared at the purse and then turned to look at me.
    “Back in the warehouse,” I said. Why the hell hadn’t I turned it in when I first found it? “It was behind a pallet, by the root basket rings.”
    The security guard examined the purse but didn’t open it. “And why didn’t you give it to somebody?”
    I knew I should have. I said, “I was gonna give it to Jim at the end of the shift. Or turn it in to the lost and found in the timekeeper’s office.”
    “Sure looks like the one I was telling you to keep an eye out for,” the guard said to Jim. “Fancy it turning up just like that, after being missing for two days.”
    Jim shook his head.
    “Be interesting to see if the car keys are still in it,” the guard said. “The owner can look when she reports for work in the morning. Mind if I lock it up in an office?”
    “Sounds like a plan to me,” Jim said.
    We watched him walk away, purse dangling from his bony hand.
    Jim turned to look down at me. “Did you really find it in the warehouse?” he asked.
    This whole thing couldn’t look good. I swallowed. “Yes.”
    “Did you open it up?”
    “No. I thought about it, find out who it belonged to, but then I decided it was better to let somebody in authority look for ID or something.”
    “So you don’t know whose it is, or if it’s a wallet in it or keys or anything.”
    “No, sir.”
    Jim sighed. “It went missing a few days ago. Probably from the office. Or maybe the ladies’ room up there. And yesterday, the owner’s car was stolen from in front of her house. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, either, do you?”
    “No, sir. What kind of car was it?”
    “A fairly new BMW. Her husband just caught a glimpse of someone driving it away. A skinny white guy with brown