Who Done It? No One, He Did it Himself?

Someone was pounding on the front door with each rap sounding like a small grenade going off in his head!!

"OK, OK," he mumbled, as he stumbled over half-eaten takeout, "I'll be right there, just stop the pounding!!"

With that the banging stopped and Frank Phillips looked out the peephole to see a sea of blue and bright badges that actually hurt in the cool morning sun.

Looking around as he unlocked the door, he thought to himself that must have been some night last night as a thongs and a bra lay on the floor and a body shifted position in bed. He'd have to find out who she was before he sent her packing.

With the door unlocked, in flowed two city detectives, an investigator from the DA and enough blue uniforms to make it look like a small police convention.

"What do you want Evans?" Phillips muttered irritated as he tried to shake the cobwebs from his befogged brain! "We've got one for you over a Big Motors!" Evans said with a laugh, as he picked up on the unusual clothing strewn about the place. Actually, he wouldn't really have noticed because Phillips lived in a constant state of rumpled, but when the bra caught his eye, he knew Phillips has actually scored. Good for him, Evans thought, now maybe he'll be human again.

After Aggie left, Det. First Grade Frank Phillips, he'd just about fallen apart and now maybe life was coming back together. At least he got some last night anyway, so today might be a little more bearable.

That hope was dashed almost as soon as he thought it as Phillips lit up the stub of a Marlboro, hacked, and said, "What the hell is the matter with you? I've had two hours sleep. Isn't there anyone else around?"

It turned out that one F. Phillips was the city's lead detective in a high-end auto theft ring so it was only natural they brought him into it. "I should have known," Phillips grumbled to himself as he picked up his "date's" clothes and said, "That's it honey, get your butt out of here! Had a great time, didn't we?"

"Ugh," was about the most he could understand as he brushed his teeth and tried to put his brain into gear. "Lock up on your way out."

And he left with Evans and the crew, sirens blaring all the way and Phillips wishing he had a set of wire cutters or at least wanting to use his 9mm on the lamebrain who was playing cop with his siren blasting. All it took was about 20 aspirin and a visit to the restroom where he hurled and he was feeling better.

Arriving at High-Line Motors, the team immediately noticed the lot's chain had been cut and he saw the owner walking around talking to himself "and the Ferrari 250 GTB, the Shelby, even the 67 4-4-2." Obviously shaken by he theft, Paul Mall, High-Line's owner, was approached by Phillips, who started asking some questions. The usual stuff - when did you close, who was with you, who locked up, was there anything out of the ordinary?

Mall did say he noticed a customer come just before closing and he started asking about his Ferrari (actually his Dad's) but he didn't think anything of it. After all, this is the car business and that's what people ask about!" He also volunteered that he hadn't seen his sales manager, Vier O.F. Control and he was worried because Vier was never late.

That seemed to make sense to Phillips! Control was probably the inside guy on this $2 million car heist and was probably on a plane to one of the small Caribbean Islands where they don't have extradition treaties with the U.S.

"Okay Petie," Evans' first name was Peter and he hated the name Petie, "looks like we have our first break. Put out an all points..." Phillips ordered as he watched the crime scene crews work the grounds.

About 20 minutes later, an excited Patrolman S.O. Yeroldmun, came running up to Phillips, who was working on his third cup of coffee and beginning to feel live, and hollered "Frank you better have a look at this!" and he trotted after the officer feeling his feet slap the ground like two board banging his head. "Slow down, damn it," we're not in a race, he bellowed as he turned the corner and saw a something he'd never seen before:

There, right in front of him was a brown wingtip sticking out from under a 2007 Mercedes C230 at a weird angle, the trouser leg caught on the lift control. "Hand me your flashlight," Phillips ordered Yeroldmun and the officer quickly complied. Bending over - and wishing he hadn't because his doughnut and coffee were waging their own internal war -- Phillips saw why Control hadn't reported to work. He never left at all because right underneath the 230 was the pancaked body of the sales manager, very, very dead. "Well there goes that lead," Phillips muttered to himself as his internal war settled down, "Now I guess I'll have to go to work..."