“Yes. Is Mark with you?”
“Right here” came the voice of Lieutenant Mark O’Bannon, who supervised detectives and traffic in the small department.
Ethan gestured them into seats. His office provided enough space for a few visitors as well as a bookcase, file cabinet and computer station. As for the decor, his mother, Annette, a part-time interior designer and part-time baby-sitter, had picked out the cream paint and subtle green-and-cream print curtains. He’d retained the former chief’s oversize desk, with its accumulated scars, as a tribute to departmental tradition.
“This latest report—that makes three cases,” Ethan noted. “I’d say it rules out family and friends of the victims, which means we could be dealing with a serial criminal. The fact that no one’s been hurt and property loss is minimal doesn’t change the reality that these crimes are invasive and threatening by their very nature. What do you think?”
Mark, the twenty-eight-year-old son of council member Rosie O’Bannon, deferred instinctively to Captain Fellows. Ethan was also eager to hear Ben’s insight, since the man served as pastor at the Community Church and knew the citizenry better than anyone.
“Frankly, it’s a new one on me.” Ben scratched his head. “Someone slipping into houses and stealing family portraits off the wall is weird. And I agree, somewhat scary because it seems like a hostile thing to do. The guy might have the potential for violence, especially if someone stumbles across him.”
“At first, I figured it was a prank,” Mark noted. “I assumed the photos would turn up soon.”
“We can rule that out at this point,” Ethan said. “The stories in the paper have made it clear how distressed the victims are.”
The first case had been reported a month ago. A woman returning from a shopping trip had noticed a family photo missing from her living room wall but assumed her husband had taken it down. Only when she’d asked him about it that night and learned otherwise had she remembered leaving a side door unlocked. When she’d called the cops, they’d found a couple of leaves tracked inside but no real evidence.
In the second theft, two weeks later, a retired couple had been puzzled by the absence of their favorite photo and distressed a few days later when they realized it hadn’t simply been mislaid by the cleaning lady. The group portrait, which was irreplaceable, included a son who’d been killed in military action.
The latest case involved Pepe Otero, who owned Pepe’s Italian Diner, although his family had immigrated from Argentina. Since he lived over the restaurant, he frequently left his apartment unlocked. The previous night, he’d lost a picture of himself and his three kids in their younger years, a scene from which he’d had the image of his ex-wife digitally removed.
“Maybe Connie took it,” he’d told Ethan that morning when he filed the report. “She’s still mad at me, even though it was her who got tired of living in a small town. Maybe she sneaked in and swiped it.”
“Why would she?” Ethan asked. “She’s been gone for years.”
“Who else would take it?” Pepe had replied, and had been surprised to learn his was the third such theft. He admitted he rarely had time to read the weekly Downhome Gazette.
“We’re already pursuing the investigation,” Mark said. “What else should we do?”
“I’ll ask the paper to issue a warning,” Ethan answered. “I don’t want to make people panic, but they need to take this seriously and keep their doors and windows locked.”
“You want me to call Barry?” Ben was referring to the editor of the Gazette, Karen Lowell’s brother.
“I’ll handle it,” Ethan said. “However, I want to get your feedback first. You’ve both lived here longer than I have. Does anyone come to mind as a possible suspect? I’d like your gut feelings.”
Mark cleared his throat. “This probably isn’t relevant.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The young lieutenant folded his arms. “I stopped by the beauty shop to see Mom maybe six weeks ago and this guy named Arturo dropped by. He’s dating Helen, the manicurist.”
“Arturo Mendez?” Ben asked. “We’ve had some trouble with him. Minor stuff—mutual combat with other kids, graffiti, that kind of thing. He’s about nineteen.” Without being asked, he filled in. “Barely made it through high school, although he’s a talented artist. Does odd jobs around town and tries to sell his paintings where he can.”
“He seemed ticked off about this picture my mom has on the wall of her, me and Dad.” Mark’s father had died when he was young. “He made a crack about smug people who think they’re better than everybody else. Mom started clicking her scissors like she wanted to give him a haircut he’d never forget. Helen shooed him out of there in a hurry.”
“Does Arturo have a history of breaking and entering?” Ethan inquired.
Ben shook his head. “No, but he can be destructive. We made him repaint the back of the feed store after he covered it with graffiti. Archie said he liked the bright colors. Still, he couldn’t leave those four-letter words out there.”
“What about a search warrant,” Mark suggested. “We might find those photos at his apartment.”
“All we have are suspicions, not evidence,” Ethan said. “You can’t get a search warrant with that.”
“And if he’s not our culprit, seeing his house turned upside-down might push a mildly antisocial young man over the edge,” Ben pointed out.
“Agreed.” Ethan considered the matter. “Let’s do a little low-key sniffing around. Mark, drop into the beauty shop and encourage Helen to talk about her boyfriend. Ben, if Arturo tries any other funny stuff, that might give us a reason to check his place.”
Heads nodded. Ethan made a mental note to take stock of Arturo as soon as he found an unobtrusive way to do so. He wanted to assess the fellow for himself.
The two men left. Ethan would have preferred to spend the rest of this sunny June morning cruising the area to identify potential problems and become better acquainted with the citizenry. However, paperwork kept him behind his desk.
Half an hour later, he was contemplating fixing a third cup of coffee, when Amy Arroyo, who doubled as his secretary and as records clerk, wandered in wearing a puzzled expression. “Chief, Dr. Vine is here to see you. She’s in the lobby.”
Although he knew the doctor was scheduled to arrive today, Ethan hadn’t expected a visit. “This is a surprise.”
“Shall I show her in?”
“I’ll do it, thanks.” He got to his feet.
“I thought they were going to hire that doctor with the three kids,” the secretary said as she ambled into the hall. Although much of the town buzzed over every morsel of gossip, Amy lived in a world of her own.
“You didn’t read the article last week?” Barry Lowell had described Jenni in glowing terms, omitting any mention of her questionable past. Having once been convicted of a crime he swore he hadn’t committed, Barry—no doubt with Karen’s encouragement—obviously intended to give the newcomer plenty of leeway.
“My copy of Scientific American arrived last week. I didn’t have time to read anything else,” Amy admitted as she wandered off.
Ethan passed Ben’s office and the detective bureau, then opened the lobby door and saw Jenni. Against the tinted windows, she resembled a ray of sunshine with her short blond hair.
“Dr. Vine.” He thrust out his hand as he strode forward. “Welcome to Downhome.”
“Thank you.” She shook firmly.
She’d seemed giddier the