Stolen Power

no connections to the ‘Top-Notch Service Garage.’
The van was empty. And white. The correct color, but then the color white on a van was as common as the color blonde on a dolly bird at the Playboy Mansion.
I opened my phone and looked at the picture of Millie again—pigtails in her hair, broad smile on her face. So sweet, so innocent, and so free. The thought that Millie was in the back of the car that raced past us meant that I couldn’t sleep. Who would even think of doing that to a little girl? What heartless soul would do that?
How could anyone ever harm an innocent child?
It took me back to thoughts about Alannah, my niece. Just after Alannah was born, Claire dragged me all the way down to the lawyer’s office to make me sign a will. When Claire drafted hers, two years before she died, she made sure that there was money left behind for her niece, so that she was looked after and could benefit should anything happen to us, her extended family. The fact that Ben took that money, took Claire’s legacy and generous gift, and gambled it on a risky investment made me angry. Real angry.
My hand gripped the edge of the seat tighter, thinking about how Alannah would never know or benefit from what Claire had selflessly done for her, or even know about it. She’d know about her deceased aunty but not that her aunty went the extra mile for her and had her back.
Ben was an idiot, and his sister knew that he would mess things up along the way. Sure enough, he had, and he was now talking about bankruptcy, which also meant that he could lose his job as a police officer.
“You look like you’re thinking. That must hurt.”
It was Derrick Booth; a retired cop, but not a retired smartass, and owner of Barclay, a fellow golden retriever.
“I was thinking about my wife’s favorite joke. Wanna hear it?”
“May she rest in peace.” Despite being in his seventies, Derrick always had a thing for my wife. He flirted with her at the dog park whenever she took Winston for a run. There was an awkward silence for a moment, before Derrick went on. “Well, come on then, out with it.”
“My favorite pen writes underwater.” I paused for a few moments. “It writes lots of other words as well, but underwater is a nice word to write.”
Derrick laughed. “She was a school teacher, wasn’t she?”
“She was.”
“Well, my friend took a Viagra yesterday, but it got stuck in his throat. Poor guy had a stiff neck all day.”
We laughed together.
Derrick Booth basically owned the bench at the east end of the dog park. For the last ten years, he’d sat on the bench more than he had his own couch. When his wife passed away, this became his social outlet, hour after hour sitting on the bench. His wife had spent much of her forty-five years organizing his social life, and when she passed, he felt lost, alone, and empty. The park gave him an outlet, a chance to make friends out of strangers. Booth was the hub of the park, the person anyone could talk to, the social connection that a lot of people yearned for. As for me, I could take him in small doses, I wasn’t after a social connection when I came here, just fresh air and time spent with Winston. But today was different. Today I was actively searching him out.
A little overweight, he was in his late seventies, and his tanned face would’ve been handsome once, perhaps half a century ago. Now it was sort of interesting, a bit like a beat-up old sports car that would have once been cutting edge but now was just kind of novel.
He sat next to me on the bench, watching as his dog chased after mine. The park was almost empty with only one other dog running around, along the grass that was patchy at best, the result of too much digging from our canine friends. The chain fence that surrounded the park wouldn’t hold many dogs back, if they really wanted to run through it, and the trees looked tired, as if they were ready to give up any moment. Still, the air was fresh and we were outdoors so it was good enough for me.
“Did you hear about Hugh Guthrie’s case?” Booth questioned. “Been all over the news this morning. They threw it out.”
“I heard.”
“It was a technicality. Something wrong with the way that Guthrie was arrested. I don’t know the full details. All I know is that a killer gets to walk free because someone somewhere didn’t do something by the book.” Booth sighed. “And a killer walks back onto the street.”
My fists clenched tight, my jaw ground together, and my vision focused on a faraway point. I was trying hard to calm the rage. Hugh Guthrie had walked free.
The justice that Claire deserved, the justice I needed, was taken away from me.
I didn’t respond to Booth. Instead, I stood and paced the dog park, mumbling to myself. I punched a fence along the way, letting out steam.
Guthrie had walked free. I couldn’t believe it. The system had failed me. The system had failed the memory of my Claire.
After five minutes of pacing the yard, I came back to the bench to sit next to Booth. I couldn’t get distracted. Not now. Guthrie would have to wait.
“Sorry I bought the case up,” Booth stated. “So what were you thinking about that’s causing you to look like you’re constipated?”
“A case.”
“Sometimes it helps to think out loud. Give me the low down on it, Valentine. Share the burden and halve it with me.”
I could sense the excitement in his voice, as much as he tried to hide it