The Apostrophe Thief by Barbara Paul

James Timothy Murtaugh had a lived-in face and graying temples; he sat behind his desk like Authority Incarnate, a man who’d long ago stopped being surprised by what he saw. The captain looked as if he didn’t smile often, but his manner of speaking was friendly enough. “I thought the first thing I’d say to you would be an apology for the highhanded way I preempted your services last night.” He paused. “But now that doesn’t seem like enough. Last night I didn’t know you’d taken down a perp Sunday and were on personal time. If you’re not ready to come back, say so. I’ll get somebody else to take the Broadhurst case.”
    Marian shook her head. “Not necessary, Captain. I don’t need any more time off.”
    He leaned back in his chair. “Internal Affairs says it was a clean shoot. You saved your own life and that of an FBI agent who was working with you in what was an unusually messy situation. You harboring any guilt feelings?”
    So he’d been checking up on her . “Regrets, but not guilt,” Marian said. “I wish there’d been another way of handling it, but I know there wasn’t. It was him or us. No, I don’t feel guilty.” Since I didn’t shoot anybody .
    Murtaugh nodded. “That’s good enough for me.” He sat up straight. “I’ll tell you, Sergeant, we wouldn’t bother investigating the theft of a few playscripts, but the value of the costumes puts last night’s little bit of chicanery into the category of grand larceny. Then there’s a couple of paintings taken from the dressing room walls, an antique shaving mug—”
    â€œAh, I think some of those dollar-value estimates are a mite inflated,” Marian murmured.
    â€œProbably. But we have to check them out just the same. Go see Lieutenant Overbrook—you’ll be reporting to him. And Sergeant … glad to have you with us.”
    â€œThank you, Captain.”
    After a little searching, Marian found Lieutenant Overbrook’s office. The lieutenant was almost a stereotype of the grizzled old cop—sloppy, overweight, overworked, and losing his gray hair; Marian thought he must be near retirement. DiFalco’s voice suddenly spoke in her head: Another Mick, something starting with ‘O.’ Asshole. Overbrook surprised her by shaking her hand and then waved her to a seat.
    â€œGlad you’re taking this on, Larch,” he said, picking up the lists of missing property she’d collected the night before. “We’re godawful squeezed for manpower here. Any idea what’s behind this?”
    â€œThree possibilities,” Marian said, getting down to business. “Number one, Abigail James—the playwright—thinks it’s play piracy. Steal copies of a play before it’s published and skip paying the royalties.”
    â€œUm. Number two?”
    â€œSouvenir-hunting, plain and simple. As for number three, the stage manager hinted this kind of petty theft was a good way to sabotage a play.”
    â€œDid it?”
    â€œNo, they went on last night with hastily rented costumes and improvised props. It could be nuisance sabotage, somebody with a grudge against the play who just wants to make a little trouble.”
    â€œWhat’s your choice?”
    â€œWe can rule out number one,” Marian said. “I can see a thief coming in to steal the scripts and then picking up a souvenir or two as an afterthought. But all the doors had been pried open with a crowbar and the dressing rooms systematically looted. Whoever did it—and there had to be more than one of them—came prepared to carry away a lot of stuff.”
    Overbrook nodded. “Sounds right. That leaves possibilities two and three.” He leaned forward over the desk, his weight on his forearms. “What does it smell like?”
    Marian grinned. “It smells like