simple latch.
In the two-car garage, with the door closed behind them, Linda switched on the flashlight again. No vehicles were present.
“Masonry’s not your only skill,” she whispered.
“Everybody knows how to do that door thing.”
“I don’t.”
Most likely the front and back entrances featured deadbolts, but the door between the garage and the house had only a cheap lockset. Many people think the
appearance
of having defenses is good enough.
“What kind of prison time do you get for burglary?” she asked.
“This is housebreaking, not burglary. Maybe ten years?”
The lock disengaged, and she said, “Let’s be quick.”
“First, let’s be sure there’s not a pit bull.”
Taking the flashlight from her, he eased the door open. He played the beam through the narrow gap, but saw no animal eyeshine.
The kitchen was not what he expected. The flashlight found chintz curtains. A canister set painted like teddy bears. The wall clock, in the form of a cat, featured a swinging tail for a pendulum.
In the dining room, the linen tablecloth was trimmed with lace. A bowl of ceramic fruit stood in the center of the table.
Colorful afghans protected the living-room sofa. A pair of well-used recliners faced a big-screen TV. The art was reproductions of paintings of big-eyed children popular about the year Tim was born.
Turning to follow the sweep and probe of the light, Linda said, “Would a hit man live at home with his mom and dad?”
The larger bedroom offered a rose-patterned comforter, silk flowers, and a vanity with mother-of-pearl combs and brushes. In the closet were men’s and women’s clothes.
The second bedroom served as a combination sewing room and home office. In a desk drawer, Tim found a checkbook and several bills—telephone, electrical, TV cable—awaiting payment.
Linda whispered, “Did you hear something?”
He switched off the light. They stood in darkness, listening.
The house wore silence like a coat of armor, with an occasional click or creak of gauntlet and gusset. None of the small noises seemed to be more than the settling pains of an aging structure.
When Tim had convinced himself that nothing in the silence was listening to him, he switched on the flashlight.
In the darkness, Linda had drawn the pistol from her purse.
Examining the checkbook, Tim found that the account was in the name of Doris and Leonard Halberstock. The bills awaiting payment were for the Halberstocks, as well.
“He doesn’t live here,” Tim said.
“Maybe he used to.”
“More likely, he’s never seen this place.”
“So what’re we doing here?”
“Housebreaking.”
Eleven
L inda drove while Tim sat with her open purse on his lap, the gun in the purse. He was on the phone with Pete Santo.
Having gone back into the DMV database as they spoke, Pete said, “Actually, the car that’s registered to Kravet isn’t at the Anaheim address. In that case, it’s Santa Ana.”
Tim repeated the address aloud as he wrote it on the printout of Kravet’s driver’s license. “It’s no more real than the other one.”
“You ready to tell me what this is about?” Pete asked.
“It’s not about anything that happened in your jurisdiction.”
“I think of myself as a detective to the world.”
“Nobody’s been killed,” Tim said, and mentally added
yet
.
“Remember, I’m in the
robbery
-homicide division.”
“The only thing that’s been stolen is a coffee mug with a ceramic parrot for a handle.”
Scowling, Linda declared, “I loved that mug.”
“What’d she say?” Pete asked.
“She says she loved that mug.”
Pete said, “You want me to believe this is all about a stolen coffee mug?”
“And an egg-custard pie.”
“There was only half a pie left,” she said.
On the phone, Pete said, “What’d she say?”
“She says it was only half a pie.”
“But it’s still not right,” she said.
“She says,” Tim reported, “even half a pie, it’s not
In the two-car garage, with the door closed behind them, Linda switched on the flashlight again. No vehicles were present.
“Masonry’s not your only skill,” she whispered.
“Everybody knows how to do that door thing.”
“I don’t.”
Most likely the front and back entrances featured deadbolts, but the door between the garage and the house had only a cheap lockset. Many people think the
appearance
of having defenses is good enough.
“What kind of prison time do you get for burglary?” she asked.
“This is housebreaking, not burglary. Maybe ten years?”
The lock disengaged, and she said, “Let’s be quick.”
“First, let’s be sure there’s not a pit bull.”
Taking the flashlight from her, he eased the door open. He played the beam through the narrow gap, but saw no animal eyeshine.
The kitchen was not what he expected. The flashlight found chintz curtains. A canister set painted like teddy bears. The wall clock, in the form of a cat, featured a swinging tail for a pendulum.
In the dining room, the linen tablecloth was trimmed with lace. A bowl of ceramic fruit stood in the center of the table.
Colorful afghans protected the living-room sofa. A pair of well-used recliners faced a big-screen TV. The art was reproductions of paintings of big-eyed children popular about the year Tim was born.
Turning to follow the sweep and probe of the light, Linda said, “Would a hit man live at home with his mom and dad?”
The larger bedroom offered a rose-patterned comforter, silk flowers, and a vanity with mother-of-pearl combs and brushes. In the closet were men’s and women’s clothes.
The second bedroom served as a combination sewing room and home office. In a desk drawer, Tim found a checkbook and several bills—telephone, electrical, TV cable—awaiting payment.
Linda whispered, “Did you hear something?”
He switched off the light. They stood in darkness, listening.
The house wore silence like a coat of armor, with an occasional click or creak of gauntlet and gusset. None of the small noises seemed to be more than the settling pains of an aging structure.
When Tim had convinced himself that nothing in the silence was listening to him, he switched on the flashlight.
In the darkness, Linda had drawn the pistol from her purse.
Examining the checkbook, Tim found that the account was in the name of Doris and Leonard Halberstock. The bills awaiting payment were for the Halberstocks, as well.
“He doesn’t live here,” Tim said.
“Maybe he used to.”
“More likely, he’s never seen this place.”
“So what’re we doing here?”
“Housebreaking.”
Eleven
L inda drove while Tim sat with her open purse on his lap, the gun in the purse. He was on the phone with Pete Santo.
Having gone back into the DMV database as they spoke, Pete said, “Actually, the car that’s registered to Kravet isn’t at the Anaheim address. In that case, it’s Santa Ana.”
Tim repeated the address aloud as he wrote it on the printout of Kravet’s driver’s license. “It’s no more real than the other one.”
“You ready to tell me what this is about?” Pete asked.
“It’s not about anything that happened in your jurisdiction.”
“I think of myself as a detective to the world.”
“Nobody’s been killed,” Tim said, and mentally added
yet
.
“Remember, I’m in the
robbery
-homicide division.”
“The only thing that’s been stolen is a coffee mug with a ceramic parrot for a handle.”
Scowling, Linda declared, “I loved that mug.”
“What’d she say?” Pete asked.
“She says she loved that mug.”
Pete said, “You want me to believe this is all about a stolen coffee mug?”
“And an egg-custard pie.”
“There was only half a pie left,” she said.
On the phone, Pete said, “What’d she say?”
“She says it was only half a pie.”
“But it’s still not right,” she said.
“She says,” Tim reported, “even half a pie, it’s not
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