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 therehe was certain of itimbedded 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
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 therehe was certain of itimbedded 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
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