Chapter 10
Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.
—VOLTAIRE
Olivia’s laptop was open on one of the small café tables at Bagels ’n’ Beans. Aside from her coffee mug, every inch of the table’s worn, wooden surface was covered with her copies of Laurel’s notes from the interview with Christina Quimby and Millay’s from their meeting with Sue Ridgemont earlier that day. Olivia piled newspaper clippings on area robberies on the spare chair under which Haviland dozed.
The laptop was less than a month old and Olivia wasn’t familiar with the nuances of the new program bundle. She’d bought the lightweight machine online and had had no problem figuring out how to write and save documents, send and receive e-mails, or print, but she didn’t know how to create a chart showing comparisons between the robberies. If she weren’t so impatient, she would have invested time in reading the program’s Help section. Instead, she called Harris.
“Where are you, my resident IT genius?” she asked.
Harris shouted over the loud hip-hop music playing in the background. “In the car! I just got off work! I’m rolling with the windows down and, uh, hold on a sec . . .” Abruptly, the music ceased. “Sorry, I can hear you now.”
“Can you change into your superhero costume, come down to Bagels ’n’ Beans, and rescue me? I need to make a spreadsheet on my computer.”
Clearing his throat, Harris responded in a lower octave. “I won’t let you down, ma’am. Let me pick up my cape and Lycra tights and I’ll be right there. But I will exact a price for my services. The Firewall Avenger only operates after an eight-hour day when fueled by an Asiago bagel with cream cheese and a large mocha latte.”
“A small sacrifice in exchange for wearing tights. Your request shall be granted.”
Once Harris had polished off his snack and was busy creating Olivia’s chart, she pivoted in her seat and sent several withering looks in the direction of a group of high school girls at the other end of the narrow room. Within seconds of Harris’s arrival, they’d been attempting to gain his attention by giggling, shrieking, and taking photos of him with their cell phones.
“Harris. Would it bother you if I scattered that collective of hormone-crazed Hannah Montanas over there? I’m sure it’s nice to have a throng of pretty admirers, but I cannot concentrate in the face of all that hair flipping and squealing. It would be quieter in a slaughterhouse.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Harris met the laughing gazes of four pairs of eyes and immediately turned back to Olivia. “They’re probably just making jokes about my skin. I’m used to it. I ignored girls like them all through high school. It really doesn’t bother me anymore.”
Touching his hand, Olivia forced him to look up from the screen. “Harris, your rosacea has gotten remarkably less noticeable. A few more treatments and you’ll be as unblemished as a Hollywood starlet. Those girls are staring at you because they think you’re cute. Fine. Hot. I’m not familiar with teenage lingo. Most of them speak Text Message—all abbreviations and code. LOL, BFF, WTF.”
Smiling, Harris ventured another glance at the girls, causing them to redouble their giggling. “How are you going to get rid of them?”
“I’ll pretend we’re an item,” Olivia said with a wry grin. “Just act like you’re attracted to older women.”
Harris produced a feline growl, causing Haviland to jerk his head off the floor. “Oh, I do like the cougars.” He put a placating hand on the poodle’s neck. “I am totally kidding, my friend. Please don’t bite any digits off. I need every one of my lightning-fast keyboard fingers.”
Once Olivia had shooed away the gaggle of girls, the two friends concentrated on their task. Harris created a spreadsheet that included the thieves’ method of entry, the items taken from each house, the day of the week in which the robbery occurred, and a complete list of services each family used.
“The houses were entered through the garage or the back door,” Olivia noted when he was done. “And in each case, the thieves were neat and particular about what they wanted.”
“They prefer jewelry and electronics,” Harris agreed. “But I’d imagine bling and hi-tech toys are easiest to unload to a pawn broker or some other shady third party.” He pointed at the screen. “I’d try to track the art. Those paintings are unique, and if these guys are looking for quick, fast cash, then they’re not traveling too far to sell the pilfered stuff.”
Olivia was impressed. “That’ll be the first point I raise to the chief, if he hasn’t thought of it already.” She searched the chart eagerly for connections. “I really thought we’d plug in all the data and voila! There’d be a cleaning service or a housepainter or a pet walker they all had in common. Instead, the only dots connecting these families is that they have kids and those kids play sports, taking the families away from home for a large chunk of time during the weekend.”
“And then there’s the whole weird butter-dish thing.” He eyed Olivia’s purse. “Do you have the cards with you?”
Nodding, she produced the deck in its protective plastic bag.
Sue Ridgemont had removed the tissue encasing the deck after dropping it into the bag. Harris peered through the plastic and then, without asking permission, used his long, agile fingers to push the rubber band off the deck without opening the bag.
“Whoa,” Harris murmured in admiration over the illustrations of scantily clad warrior women. “These are all Boris Vallejo images. His fantasy art is amazing. I’ve got one of his Conan the Barbarian prints. When you look at it, you feel like you could bounce a quarter off the guy’s pecs.” He fanned the cards out as much as he could without removing them from the bag. “Cool. The centaurs are the jacks and these mermaids are the queens. Man, they are smoking hot.” Blushing, he continued to inch the cards apart. “Ah, here’s a quartet of barbarian kings.” He frowned. “Wait a sec. Did I miss one?”
Olivia, who wasn’t as fascinated by the artistry of the cards as Harris, picked up their cups, walked to the counter, and handed them to Wheeler. “Two refills please.” She paid for the espresso drinks and then returned to the table, eager to study their chart in search of inspiration before heading to The Boot Top to meet Chief Rawlings.
“There’s a queen missing,” Harris pointed out as she sat down. “Not that I’d blame one of the robbers for taking one of these gorgeous matriarchs, but now the Ridgemont boys have no hopes of ever playing with a full deck.”
He handed the cards to Olivia, but she didn’t move a muscle. “Not playing with a full deck.” Her blood quickened. Words clicked into place in her mind and she tapped excitedly on the computer screen. “Like a knife through butter!”
Harris followed her train of thought. “Clichés? The thieves are leaving behind clichés?”
“Two might not be enough to prove a theory, but if the third robbery—the one that turned violent—had some bizarre tableau in the kitchen, then these guys have a signature.”
Harris dropped the cards on the table. “Even if they do, would that help the cops catch them?”
Olivia shrugged. “I think Rawlings apprehends guilty parties by getting to know them, by discovering their story, so to speak. This modus operandi of the robbers is a message. It’s part of their story.”
“Whatever you say.” Harris looked doubtful. “I just hope theirs has an unhappy ending.”
Rawlings was comfortably established at The Boot Top’s bar by the time Olivia arrived. He and Gabe chatted amicably despite the din created by a party of four devouring a bowl of snack mix at one of the nearby tables. Olivia led Haviland into her office, said hello to the kitchen staff, and hurried to the restroom before Rawlings could spot her.