“It’s not civil,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended.
I took a breath and placed a manila folder on the table. I had spent the twenty minutes waiting for him gathering every scrap of documentation I had. This is the title. My name is the only one on it. This is the bill of sale. This is the loan payoff confirmation from the bank dated 14 days ago. Martinez picked up the documents, scanning them with a practiced eye. And the suspect—my father, Gary Rossi—took the spare key from my safe, or rather used a spare key I had entrusted to him for emergencies, to remove the vehicle from my property while I was at work. He then delivered it to my brother, Lucas Rossi, who is currently in possession of it. Martinez looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“You gave your father a key.”
“For emergencies,” I stressed, like a fire or if I was hospitalized, not to gift my property to someone else.
“And you’ve revoked this permission.”
“I spoke to him on the phone thirty minutes ago,” I said. “I told him to return it. He refused. He stated he gave it to my brother.”
Martinez sighed, a heavy sound that signaled the shift from misunderstanding to crime.
“Okay. And your brother? Does he have a driver’s license?”
“No,” I said, the word landing heavy between us. “It was suspended three years ago for a DUI. He has not reinstated it.”
Martinez stopped writing. He looked at me, his expression hardening.
“So we have a stolen vehicle being operated by an unlicensed driver who has a prior DUI record.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Rossi,” he said, leaning forward, his tone dropping to a serious, cautionary level, “I need you to understand what happens next. If I put this out over the radio and we find him, this isn’t a warning situation. This is a felony stop. Grand theft auto is a serious charge. Driving on a suspended license is an arrestable offense. Once this train leaves the station, you can’t just call us and say, ‘Never mind,’ because your mom calls you crying. The district attorney picks it up. Are you prepared for that?”
My stomach twisted. I thought about Sunday dinners. I thought about the baby Lucas was expecting. I thought about the look on my mother’s face when she realized what I’d done. Then I thought about my father’s laugh. You’re single. The dismissal. The absolute erasure of my personhood in favor of my brother’s comfort.
“I want my car back, and I want to file the report. They stole from me,” I said.
“Understood,” Martinez said. He stood up. “Do you have any way to track the vehicle?”
“Yes,” I said, pulling out my phone. My hands were steady now. The decision had been made. “The manufacturer has an app. It has real-time GPS.”
I opened the app. The map loaded, a blue dot pulsating on the screen. I expected to see it at Lucas’s rental house, parked and stationary as my father had claimed. But the dot wasn’t at the house. It was moving.
“He’s not at home,” I said, a fresh wave of anger heating my blood. “He’s on Route 9. He’s doing 70 mph.”
Martinez looked at the screen over my shoulder.
“That’s the highway. Where is he going?”
I zoomed out. The trajectory was clear. He wasn’t going to the pharmacy for the pregnant girlfriend. He wasn’t going to the grocery store. He was heading toward the casino district, forty minutes south.
“He’s joyriding,” I whispered, the realization making me feel sick and vindicated all at once. “My father said he needed it for the baby. He’s going to the casino.”
“Can you track him continuously?” Martinez asked, already reaching for his radio.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Grab your coat, Miss Rossi. We usually don’t do this, but if you can update us on his location in real time, it’s safer than a high-speed pursuit. I’m going to have you follow in your own vehicle.”
“Oh, wait. I don’t have a vehicle,” I reminded him. “He has it. Right.”
Martinez nodded once, already adjusting course.
“Okay, you ride with me. We need to ID the vehicle positively before we initiate a stop.”
The back of a police cruiser is hard plastic and smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat. I sat in the front passenger seat, a concession Martinez made since I wasn’t a suspect. But the cage separating us from the back was a stark reminder of where my brother was likely heading.
“He’s exiting the highway,” I said, my eyes glued to the phone screen. “Turning onto River Road. There’s a gas station and a liquor store there.”
“I know the spot,” Martinez said.
He didn’t turn on the sirens. We were running silent, a predator stalking prey through the suburban gloom.
“He stopped,” I said. “He’s at the liquor store.”
Of course he was. The irony was so thick I could taste it. My father had preached about the family needs, about the dignity of a man with a child on the way. And that man was currently using my $60,000 SUV to make a beer run before hitting the slots.
“Okay,” Martinez said, pulling the cruiser into the entrance of the strip mall. “Stay in the car, Elina. Do not get out until I tell you.”
We rounded the corner and there it was—my car. It was parked crookedly across two spaces, the pearl-white paint gleaming under the harsh sodium vapor lights of the parking lot. It looked alien in the setting, a diamond in a gutter. And there was Lucas. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, laughing. He was wearing a faded hoodie and jeans, a cigarette dangling from his lips, ash falling onto the pristine paint of my door. He was talking to a guy I didn’t recognize, pointing at the rims, gesturing grandly as if he were the king of the world. My father wasn’t there. Lucas was alone with his friend.
Martinez hit the lights. The sudden burst of red and blue shattered the casual atmosphere of the parking lot. Lucas flinched, dropping his cigarette. He squinted at the cruiser, looking more annoyed than afraid. He clearly thought it was a misunderstanding. Or maybe he thought he could charm his way out of it like he did with everything else.
Martinez stepped out, hand resting near his holster, his voice booming.
“Step away from the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Whoa. Whoa.” Lucas raised his hands, a smirk still playing on his lips. “What’s the problem, officer? Just grabbing some supplies.”
“I said, step away from the vehicle,” Martinez commanded, closing the distance. “Turn around and place your hands on the hood.”
“This is my car,” Lucas protested, though he complied, his body language oozing arrogant defiance. “My dad gave it to me. You can call him.”
I couldn’t stay in the car. I knew Martinez told me to, but the sight of the cigarette ash on my door triggered something primal in me. I opened the door and stepped out into the night air.
Lucas turned his head as he heard the second door close. When he saw me, his eyes went wide.
“Elina,” he sputtered.
Then his confusion morphed instantly into rage.
“You called the cops. Are you crazy?”
“You stole my car, Lucas,” I said, my voice trembling not with fear but with adrenaline. “And you don’t have a license.”
“Dad gave it to me!” he screamed, struggling as Martinez grabbed his wrist to cuff him. “It’s a family car, you selfish be asterisk tch. Dad said it was mine!”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Martinez intoned, snapping the cuffs shut.
The metallic click echoed across the parking lot, a sound of finality that Lucas had clearly never expected to hear.
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