Besides, he’d have to switch on the overhead to see the big one. An island of light shed by the desk lamp was cozy…and less conspicuous to fat, unemployed freaks cruising Danbury Street.
Dotting the miniaturized map were color-coded flags snipped from sticky notes. Each bore the date of the previous year’s and current burglaries. A pattern should have emerged. Burglars, particularly pros, as the success rate confirmed, didn’t act on impulse or at random.
Eight months of inactivity presumed advance planning for this year’s take, hence a corresponding level of preparation the year before. Inherent in both should be a sort of grid effect designed to throw off the cops: hit a couple of north-side homes, then south, then the eastern burbs, etc. The property-crimes unit would chase their tails all over town, unable to anticipate the thief’s next move.
In hindsight, that strategy should be obvious. Jack stared at the map. Uh-huh. Sure. He might as well have thrown his ticky-tacky little flags like darts. Blindfolded.
“Gerry’s wrong about every victim being out of town when the thefts occurred,” he said. “Two hits were in gated communities with manned guard posts. Was it luck, happy accident or genius to hit during a whoop-de-do celebrity golf tournament and the debutante cotillion?”
No answers, including what the debs were coming out from, and how three days of brunches, lunches, teas and dinners culminating in a formal ball enabled it.
Talking to himself didn’t always rouse any synapses from their stupor, either, but there was something about thinking aloud that worked better than brooding in silence.
His finger tapped each of three widely separated flags. The first marked the Calendar Burglar’s alleged debut. The other pair, this year’s second and fifth B & Es. “What frosts the cupcake is how he knew to rob these folks.”
The majority of the robberies occurred in affluent, newer housing developments with names like Grande Vista Estates and Devonshire Downs. These particular three occurred in less target-rich environments: modest homes in older middle-class neighborhoods. The victims’ net worth exceeded that of many of the McMansion dwellers, but apparently they subscribed to the antiquated notion that flaunting it was déclassé.
“A lot of Park City natives wouldn’t recognize these people’s names,” Jack said. “They donate a lug of money to charity, but pretty much on the q.t.”
Charity was big business—nonprofit status aside. The larger the organization, the larger the administrative staff. Volunteers donated time to causes they deemed worthy, and while that might apply to some on the payroll, logic asserted that for others, it was just a job. And not one that’d earn a down payment on a house in Grande Vista Estates.
Donor anonymity didn’t apply to recordkeeping. Federal and state forms must be filed, specifying who gave how much to what and when. A financially strapped employee might shy from out-and-out embezzlement, but initiating a personal collection drive could be irresistible.
Jack tuned out the annoying little bastards in his head questioning how said office worker would know when to strike. He flipped through the police reports for the umpteenth time, scanning one complainant’s statement after another.
The remembered reference to charity elicited a gleeful “Bingo!” It was closely followed by a glum “Excellent work, dumbass.”
There was Charity all right. Plain as day. Except it was a damn dog’s name. A poor widdle pooch whose diamond-studded, five-thousand-dollar, sterling-silver-tagged collar got ripped off.
Muttering f-worded nouns, verbs, adjectives and not a few common compounds, he threw the reports skyward. Jerked his suit coat off the back of the chair. Switched off the desk lamp. Stomped to the door. Stabbed the key in the lock…then turned, leaving the ring dangling.
Dog. Neither Charity nor charity had tripped an almost imperceptible trigger, much less Jack’s temper. And not dog, either. Dogs.
A report on one of National Federated’s insureds noted the homeowner’s opinion that not photographing what might be a partial shoe impression on the dog’s bed was shoddy police work. Lifting a print off velvet flocked with dog hair was impossible, let alone idiotic. So was arguing with a know-it-all taxpayer.
Jack flipped on the overhead lights. The suit coat was lobbed at a couch clients rarely used and wasn’t all that great for naps. Crouched on the floor, he scooped up the mess he’d made and carried it to the desk. Sorting the papers, restacking them neatly, he speed-read each one, looking for another remembered reference to a dog. Maybe a doghouse. A toy. It was there—he was certain of it—imbedded in blocks of cramped cop handwriting he was too weary to decipher.
Provided that pet ownership connected the Calendar Burglar’s targets, Jack didn’t flatter himself thinking the police missed it. Time was the mitigating factor. Some had slid by before specific thefts pegged a single perpetrator. Determining a link existed and the follow-up ate time off a clock they didn’t know was ticking. Then it stopped cold for nine months. When the Calendar Burglar resurfaced, the investigative juice wasn’t stagnant, it was freeze-dried.
“They may have already smoked the dog angle, but it’s worth a shot. If I can figure out how this scumbag operates, the who will drop in my lap.”
Every burglary victim would receive a call tomorrow to confirm a dog’s presence in the home and its whereabouts when the theft occurred. Not from Jack McPhee, of course. Identifying himself as a P.I. guaranteed the person at the other end would hang up or clam up.
Several pretexts suggested themselves on the drive home. A marketing surveyor for a pet-products retailer? Not bad. How about a radio station manager random-dialing for a dog-of-the-week contest? “Decent,” Jack allowed, “but start fishing for a specific time frame and the callee might get hinky.”
The office’s safe line ensured the calls couldn’t trace back to him, yet the perfect approach must be slick and instantly forgettable. He’d think of something. He always did. There’d still be hang-ups and nobody-homes in the mix, but pretexts were as available as the number of otherwise intelligent, cautious people willing to chat up a total stranger on the phone.
“Stranger, my ass.” Alone in his car and seemingly the world, aside from a motorcyclist in the opposite lane, Jack tipped back his head and laughed. “McPhee, you’re a genius, if you don’t say so yourself.”
He lowered his voice an octave. “Good morning, Mrs. Victim. This is, uh, John Q. Clerk with the Park City PD. Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m following up on a barking-dog complaint filed on XYZ date at your address…”
5
“Oh, this is so exciting,” chirped Ms. Pearl. The confirmed spinster—her word, not Jack’s—foisted a pink, doll-sized overnight case on him. “My little girl is going to be a spy.”
Actually her loaner Maltese was a four-legged shill. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that his across-the-breezeway neighbor heard “undercover sting operation” and thought James Bond with fur.
Four hours’ sleep had converted last night’s genius pretext into a blue-ribbon stupid idea. It would have worked, sure. Then the minute the connection was broken, pissed-off burglary victims would confront the neighbors, demanding to know which one initiated the barking-dog complaint.
And who wanted to waste a day chained to a desk making phone calls? Especially a private investigator who spends more time on the phone than a phone-sex operator.
Jack forced a smile. Not easy with a yappy eight-pound dog in the crook of his arm, two fingers hooked on the handle of its luggage and a leash dervishing at his crotch like a noose in need of exorcism.
The stuffed Maltese toy he’d given