headed up a side street with the firm, unhurried steps of a man who knew where he was headed. But as he walked, his eyes darted from side to side, watchful, wary.
It was a small town, and on a cold, blustery night most of its citizens were home enjoying the evening meal. DiCarlo passed no one as he walked toward the rear entrance of Ashworth’s shop.
Nor did he spot any evidence of a security system. Moving quickly, he used the screwdriver to jimmy the door. The sound of splintering wood made him smile. He’d nearly forgotten the simple pleasure of breaking and entering during his years of corporate thievery. DiCarlo slipped inside, shut the door behind him. He flicked on his flashlight, shielding the beam with his hand as he swung it right and left. He’d entered through what appeared to be a small, cramped office. Because he would need to cover his tracks, DiCarlo had decided to make the break-in appear to be a random burglary. Impatient with the time he needed to waste, he pulled open drawers, upended contents.
He chuckled to himself as he spotted a plastic bank envelope. It looked as though his luck had changed. A quick flip through the small bills inside and he estimated the take to be about $500. Satisfied, he stuffed the money into his pocket and used the light to guide him into the main shop.
It seemed to DiCarlo that a little vandalism was just the touch he needed. He smashed a milk-glass lamp and a Capo di Monte vase at random. Then, because it felt so good, he kicked over a table that held a collection of demitasses. On impulse, and because it had been years since he’d had the thrill of stealing, he dropped a few cloisonné boxes into his pockets.
He was grinning when he snatched up the figurine. “Gotcha, baby,” he murmured, then froze as light flooded into the shop from a stairway to his right. Swearing under his breath, DiCarlo squeezed himself between a rosewood armoire and a brass pole lamp.
“I’ve called the police.” An elderly man wearing a gray flannel robe and carrying a nine-iron inched down the steps. “They’re on their way, so you’d best stay right where you are.”
DiCarlo could hear the age in the voice, and the fear. For a moment he was baffled as he smelled roasted chicken. The old man had an apartment upstairs, DiCarlo realized,and cursed himself for crashing through the shop like an amateur.
But there wasn’t time for regrets. Tucking the figurine under his arm like a football, he hurtled toward Ashworth, as he had once hurtled down midtown Fifth Avenue with elderly matrons’ Gucci bags stuffed in his jacket.
The old man grunted on impact, teetered on the steps, his worn bathrobe flapping over fish-white legs as thin and sharp as pencils. Breath wheezing, Ashworth swung awkwardly with the golf club as he fought to save his balance. More in reaction than intent, DiCarlo grabbed at the club as it whooshed by his ear. Ashworth pitched forward. His head hit a cast-iron coal shuttle with an ominous crack.
“Ah, Christ.” Disgusted, DiCarlo shoved Ashworth over with the toe of his shoe. In the spill of the upstairs light, he could see the flow of blood, the open staring eyes. Fury had him kicking the body twice before he pulled himself back.
He was out the rear door and half a block away when he heard the sound of sirens.
Finley was switching channels on several of his television screens when the call came through.
“DiCarlo on line two, Mr. Finley.”
“Put him through.” After he’d switched the phone to speaker, Finley said, “You have news for me?”
“Yes. Yes, sir. I have the porcelain figurine with me, Mr. Finley, as well as a list locating all the other merchandise.” DiCarlo spoke from his car phone, and kept his speed to a law-abiding fifty-five on his way back to Dulles International.
Finley waited a beat. “Explain.”
DiCarlo began with Porter, pausing every few sentences to be certain Finley wanted him to continue. “I’d be happy to fax
It was a small town, and on a cold, blustery night most of its citizens were home enjoying the evening meal. DiCarlo passed no one as he walked toward the rear entrance of Ashworth’s shop.
Nor did he spot any evidence of a security system. Moving quickly, he used the screwdriver to jimmy the door. The sound of splintering wood made him smile. He’d nearly forgotten the simple pleasure of breaking and entering during his years of corporate thievery. DiCarlo slipped inside, shut the door behind him. He flicked on his flashlight, shielding the beam with his hand as he swung it right and left. He’d entered through what appeared to be a small, cramped office. Because he would need to cover his tracks, DiCarlo had decided to make the break-in appear to be a random burglary. Impatient with the time he needed to waste, he pulled open drawers, upended contents.
He chuckled to himself as he spotted a plastic bank envelope. It looked as though his luck had changed. A quick flip through the small bills inside and he estimated the take to be about $500. Satisfied, he stuffed the money into his pocket and used the light to guide him into the main shop.
It seemed to DiCarlo that a little vandalism was just the touch he needed. He smashed a milk-glass lamp and a Capo di Monte vase at random. Then, because it felt so good, he kicked over a table that held a collection of demitasses. On impulse, and because it had been years since he’d had the thrill of stealing, he dropped a few cloisonné boxes into his pockets.
He was grinning when he snatched up the figurine. “Gotcha, baby,” he murmured, then froze as light flooded into the shop from a stairway to his right. Swearing under his breath, DiCarlo squeezed himself between a rosewood armoire and a brass pole lamp.
“I’ve called the police.” An elderly man wearing a gray flannel robe and carrying a nine-iron inched down the steps. “They’re on their way, so you’d best stay right where you are.”
DiCarlo could hear the age in the voice, and the fear. For a moment he was baffled as he smelled roasted chicken. The old man had an apartment upstairs, DiCarlo realized,and cursed himself for crashing through the shop like an amateur.
But there wasn’t time for regrets. Tucking the figurine under his arm like a football, he hurtled toward Ashworth, as he had once hurtled down midtown Fifth Avenue with elderly matrons’ Gucci bags stuffed in his jacket.
The old man grunted on impact, teetered on the steps, his worn bathrobe flapping over fish-white legs as thin and sharp as pencils. Breath wheezing, Ashworth swung awkwardly with the golf club as he fought to save his balance. More in reaction than intent, DiCarlo grabbed at the club as it whooshed by his ear. Ashworth pitched forward. His head hit a cast-iron coal shuttle with an ominous crack.
“Ah, Christ.” Disgusted, DiCarlo shoved Ashworth over with the toe of his shoe. In the spill of the upstairs light, he could see the flow of blood, the open staring eyes. Fury had him kicking the body twice before he pulled himself back.
He was out the rear door and half a block away when he heard the sound of sirens.
Finley was switching channels on several of his television screens when the call came through.
“DiCarlo on line two, Mr. Finley.”
“Put him through.” After he’d switched the phone to speaker, Finley said, “You have news for me?”
“Yes. Yes, sir. I have the porcelain figurine with me, Mr. Finley, as well as a list locating all the other merchandise.” DiCarlo spoke from his car phone, and kept his speed to a law-abiding fifty-five on his way back to Dulles International.
Finley waited a beat. “Explain.”
DiCarlo began with Porter, pausing every few sentences to be certain Finley wanted him to continue. “I’d be happy to fax
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