James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Look there,” Syd said pointing out the window, losing patience. “See all the police cars? That’s a crime scene. Do any of your security cameras point toward that parking lot?”

“No, they only point inside.”

“At you, ripping off your customers?”

“It was an honest mistake, I swear.”

“Yeah, right,” Syd said. She was tempted to arrest him for attempted robbery or fraud, or whatever the hell you call trying to fuck someone out of their Lotto winnings. But deep down she understood the clerk’s survival instinct. He was a cliché stuck in a xenophobic wasteland, a Middle Eastern man running a 7-Eleven. He’s mocked in pop culture in everything from The Simpsons to South Park. And in return for his humiliation he makes minimum wage. So he plays a few angles and, if the locals are dumb enough to fall for his act, more power to him. So Syd simply withered him with a look, holstered her weapon and left.

Syd was used to guys trying to take advantage of her. She had such a sweet, girl-next- door look that most guys thought she was naïve, or worse, nice. At her core, Syd was neither. She outgrew naïve when her stepfather raped her on her fourteenth birthday. She outgrew nice when she killed him two years later after countless molestations. Well, that’s not exactly true, it was one hundred and thirty-eight molestations. Syd kept count.

Ryan didn’t know about the rapes or the murder. No one did. In fact, no one even knew Syd’s real background. She lied to everyone.

Syd walked out of the 7-Eleven, pulled out her cell phone and called the Lotto 800 number. A woman answered on the third ring. “California Lottery.”

“Yes, hi, I hope you can help me. I’ve got a Lotto ticket and when I checked to see if it was a winner, a screen came up telling me to call this number.”

“There is a serial number on the ticket, just below the date. Do you see it?” Syd could hear a change in the woman’s voice, a thrum of excitement.

“Yes.”

“Read the number to me please.”

“193-036806682-086035.” Syd heard her type the numbers into a keyboard.

“Oh my God, congratulations, you have a winner with a capital W!” The thrum had turned into a marching band. “Where are you calling from?”

“Hollywood.”

“There’s a Lotto office in Van Nuys. Bring the ticket, answer a couple of questions and we can begin to process your check. But you better hurry. The jackpot must be picked up within one hundred and eighty days of the drawing date; you’ve only got two days left. The ticket expires on the twenty-sixth, that’s Thursday, the day after tomorrow.”

Thank God I found it when I did, thought Syd. “Actually, I’m calling for a friend, it’s his ticket,” she said.

“Well, you got a very lucky friend.”

“How lucky, how much has he won?”

The woman laughed. “Oh, of course, sorry; the jackpot is forty seven million dollars.”

Syd walked in Havoc with a big smile on her face. Ryan was at a corner table conducting an interview with the bartender.

Syd loved Ryan’s looks. He was tall, six-two to be exact, with jet-black hair, straight nose and strong chin. But what sent her heart a thumping were his dimples, one in each cheek, and his boyish, self-deprecating style. Like he had no idea how cute he was.

And Ryan loved his work. He practically oozed enthusiasm. His hazel eyes looked almost incandescent as he asked questions, made notes. He was one of the few truly happy people she’d ever met.

“Okay,” Ryan said joining Syd in the doorway of Havoc. “The victim met a beautiful blonde somewhere around one-thirty. The bartender knew Colin Wood, knew his face at least, not so much his name. He’d come in every so often looking for a hook-up. He’d never seen the woman before. He’d remember, he said.”

“Did the blonde and the victim know each other?” Syd asked.

“The bartender wasn’t sure. When she came in, everyone noticed her. Even the ladies; she was that hot. The bartender saw her look around for a beat then head in Mr. Wood’s direction. But she was alone and he was the only guy without a girl at that point.”

“So she might have been looking for any single guy or him specifically.”

“Exactly,” Ryan said.

“Did she have a drink, any chance for a fingerprint?”

Ryan shook his head. “She didn’t order anything. How about you, any luck at the 7-Eleven?”

A mischievous smile tugged her lips. “No security camera aimed in this direction. But as for luck…” Syd handed him the piece of paper. “Call this number.”

“Forty-seven million dollars!” Ryan said into the cell phone after reciting the serial number on the Lotto ticket.

“That’s right, sir,” the Lotto operator told him. “But you chose cash value, so after taxes you’ll only net about thirty-four million.”

“Only…” Ryan laughed. A few cops still working the crime scene began to gather as word spread. “So how do I get the money?”

“Just come down to the office, answer a few questions to verify it’s your ticket, and we’ll issue a check.”

Warning bells went off in Ryan’s head. “What do you mean verify it’s mine?”

“Just answer a couple of questions. Where you bought the ticket, was it a quick pick or did you choose the numbers? We often check the store’s video tape to see you buying it, but with a ticket this old, I doubt there would be a tape.”

“Probably not,” Ryan said, praying there wouldn’t be.

“And like I told your friend, you need to hurry. This ticket expires on Thursday. It’s only good for one hundred and eighty days after the drawing so you’ve only got two days left. After close of business Thursday, that’s 6:00 p.m., it’ll be worthless.”

“Thursday, got it,” Ryan said.

In point of fact, Ryan hadn’t bought the ticket at all. Someone else did, a guy wearing grease-stained coveralls. He was in front of Ryan at the 7-Eleven; bought a six-pack of Bud light, a beef jerky and a pack of Marlboros. When he got his change, he had a buck left so he bought a Lotto ticket. He asked for a quick pick, cash value ticket, got it and left.

Ryan remembered because he was late for a court hearing but desperately needed some Rolaids for an excruciating attack of heartburn. The counterman and the guy in the coveralls took forever, talking about the Lakers, the Dodgers and even the fucking Angels while a volcano burbled in Ryan’s stomach.

Finally, after the guy left, Ryan bought the antacids and headed out the door. He saw the guy in overalls climb into a tow truck. Ryan also noticed a Lotto ticket fluttering on the ground. He picked it up as the guy started his tow truck. Ryan thought about calling out to him, telling him he dropped his Lotto ticket, but Ryan was so annoyed that the jerk had taken so long at the counter that he just let him drive off.

Ryan had no idea who he was, didn’t bother looking at the license plate, so had no way of tracking him down. And why would he bother? What were the odds a lottery ticket was actually worth anything? A hundred million to one odds, more? Fuck it, Ryan thought as he climbed into his Mustang. He shoved the ticket in his glove box and forgot about it.

Now the goddamn thing was worth millions and Ryan wasn’t sure what he should do. File it under finders/keepers and claim the prize, or be honest and try and track down the guy in overalls. He needed time to think. “Look,” he said to the Lotto lady, “I’m a police officer in the middle of a murder investigation. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to stop by.”

“Just get here by close of business Thursday or you can kiss your millions goodbye. Oh, and have you signed the ticket?”