One hour to throw on the short skirt, long jacket, and drive over. Her Yaris waited downstairs. She’d picked a popular colour in Australia—silver—so it wouldn’t roast her in summer. A humble car, but loved the road.

Not today. Now, it sat on bricks. All four wheels gone. Who the hell steals Yaris wheels? They were cheap—a wheel probably cost the same as a gourmet burger. Bloody kids. Or choppers. Or…

Ruby pulled out her phone and called her insurance company. The tow truck came with a rumpled, sixty-year-old guy.

‘G’day.’ He studied the car. ‘Twelve bricks. They came prepared. You park in the same place every night?’

‘Well, I could park five kilometres away and walk home, but if you take a good look at me, I don’t need the fucking exercise.’
Yeah, she was being snippy. She didn’t need an amateur detective.

The guy laughed anyway and stuck out his hand. ‘Bluey Baranski. I reckon you must be Ruby Moskewitz.’

‘Correct.’

Bluey jacked up one side, removed the bricks, slipped trolleys under the brake assemblies, and lowered the car onto them. He repeated the process on the other side, strapped it all down, fixed the tow cable, and winched the car onto his truck bed. Fascinating. In a boring kind of way.

‘You heading past Eaton Mall?’ she asked.

‘Can do.’

‘Mind giving me a lift?’

‘Hop in.’ He paused at a red light and flicked a glance at her legs. Her best feature. ‘You know anyone who might prank you like this?”

‘No. And I don’t think it was a prank.’ It was those bastards who took the Professor. If they wanted to slow her down, one missing wheel would’ve done it. But four? That was a message. Bluey said nothing more—probably figured the less he knew, the better. At Atherton Road, he pulled over.

‘Two blocks away. Close enough?’

‘Thanks.’ She climbed out, noting: Don’t ride in trucks on a short-skirt day.

‘Good luck with the rest of your afternoon,’ Bluey said. ‘You got a nice face. The rest’s a bit rugged for me, though.’

‘I wasn’t offering it,’ she snapped, and slammed the door. Hard.