7 When we saw a particularly promising spot, we would slow down and I’d hold my key fob in the chilly wind, pressing the alarm button, my fingers looking redder and chubbier every time. (A week later, a corporate representative for Fred Meyer told me only law enforcement was allowed to review footage.)įor the next four hours, we drove at a snail’s pace around the area, scouring dead-end streets, residential neighborhoods, and apartment parking lots. My sister asked Fred Meyer security to check their security camera footage. I called the cop who had taken my police report to tell him. We headed there, unsure of what we’d do if we found my car. On the way to the 7-Eleven, I got cellphone alerts that my debit card had bounced two charges, each over $200, at the Gateway Fred Meyer. They shrugged.Īs we left, the man with the knife said to look in the alley behind the 7-Eleven.
I said hello and that we were looking for my Subaru. Two men leaning on a white truck watched us as we came down the path. There were about eight vehicles in various stages of disassembly. My dad trailed behind me, in socks and slides, ankle-deep in mud. We trudged down the foot-deep trench of mud, crisscrossing the mire in search of drier spots. I said hi and explained why we were there. A man at the entrance of the camp was sharpening a large knife. The camp, set up along an 800-foot stretch of muddy ground, was tucked behind a warehouse. My dad and I set off to an Argay neighborhood chop shop where cops had recovered 11 vehicles a month prior.
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