Chapter 3
Sgt. Newkirk and Sgt. Dillon of the burglary detail took their time looking over the living room and dining room.
"What did they get?" Sgt. Newkirk asked.
"A Monet painting worth over fifty thousand dollars, our sterling silver tea service, the silverware, all my antique Irish linen," Sylvia said. "I'll have to make a complete inventory."
Hank added, "Yeah, it's kind of strange. They left everything as neat as a pin. Almost like they knew what they were looking for and where to find it."
"Yep, same M.O. as the other cat burglaries," Dillon said. "He seems to know the layout of the place before he even gets there. Mighty odd."
"Cat burglaries? We aren't the only ones?" Sylvia asked.
Sgt. Newkirk stroked his luxurious chestnut-brown moustache before he answered. "Nope. Been happening all over town. Random pattern, same M.O., houses only. We call him a cat burglar because he's silent as a cat. Nobody ever hears him or sees him. And he works only at night."
"Where were you two while the burglary was taking place?" Newkirk asked.
Sylvia blushed and dropped her eyes.
"Upstairs," Hank said. "In the bedroom."
"And you didn't hear anything?" Dillon asked.
"Uh, no, we were watching TV. We had the volume up pretty loud."
Newkirk looked at Hank and Sylvia and asked, "Had any visitors lately? Say, in the last couple weeks? Given any dinner parties, anything like that, where you used your silverware and linen and so forth?"
Sylvia replied, "No"
"Well, I had some of my buddies over here this afternoon to watch the football game," Hank said. "While you were at the health club, honey."
"Nobody else?"
Hank fidgeted. "Uh, no, nobody. Just Ed and Jeff. And they wouldn't do anything like this! They're my best friends!"
"Well, okay, we'll write up a report and see what we can do," Dillon said.
"Don't expect too much," Newkirk added. "As usual, he didn't take anything with a serial number we can trace. Even if we found something in a pawn shop that matched the description of your stuff, couldn't prove it came from here."
"I thought the police were supposed to protect us," Sylvia snapped. "Or, at least solve the crime."
"We can't help those who don't help themselves," Brown said tiredly. "You don't even have dead bolts on the doors, let alone an alarm system. The same old story, folks fill a house with valuables, and leave them totally unprotected. I assume you do have insurance."
"Yes," Sylvia said, "but insurance doesn't cover the sentimental value."
Driving back to the station, Newkirk looked at his partner and said, "You know, Ray, I got one of my hunches again. I just don't think Mr. Hank Bailey told us all there is to tell. I don't doubt he had his buddies over to watch the football game, but he's had somebody else there recently, too. Maybe he brought home a little dolly while his wife was out and she had a chance to case the place."
"Oh, Mark, you and your hunches! What if he did screw some chick while his wife was out? A girl couldn't cart away all that stuff."
"She could be a shill. Or she told somebody, who told somebody. If I wanted to burgle rich homes, I'd find me a little tart, sic her on the target, give her a few extra bucks for information."
"So, are we saying we should check every whore in town? Or try to chase down every girl who lets a guy pick her up and take her home for a quick screw while wifey is out? Hell, Mark, that would take forever, and we'd still miss some."
"You just wait," Newkirk said confidently. "We'll see if I'm not right."