Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Tony nodded, though she couldn’t see him, and let himself out into the cool spring night. The turf was spongy beneath his feet. He crossed the yard toward his Bureau car. His partner waited in the passenger seat of the nondescript sedan. Not the kind of guy you took with you when sharing delicate news.

  Steve Crane’s heart was one big callus. Nobody wanted to work with him.

  What did his squad supervisor, Rachel Balzac, have against him that she’d paired them up when Crane transferred into their squad six months ago? It was like she’d singled him out, stuck him with Stevo, then handed them rinky-dink cases that only took the two of them, not the usual teamwork. This art theft case was the biggest thing they’d handled, and it was going nowhere fast.

  Until now.

  Tony reached the Bucar. He glanced back at the house. Stars sparkled in the mellow sky, framing the pitched roof. The upper middle-class neighborhood lay quiet, except for the purr of the sedan’s engine. Not even a dog barked. An atmosphere too peaceful for the bomb that had just been dropped on one of the residents.

  The fallout would hit come morning. Tony climbed into the driver’s seat, one hand massaging his chest. For a little thing, she packed a decent punch.

  Crane grunted. “That went well, I take it.”

  “Like a root canal without Novocain.” Tony put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway. “She says she’s going to call friends to come be with her.”

  Crane snapped the wad of gum in his jaw. “People going into the house are fine. It’s stolen items coming out while we’re not watching that makes me nervous.”

  Tony glanced at his partner. The man’s blunt features were softened by the gloom, but Tony could imagine the steely glint in Crane’s pale blue eyes.

  “Relax, Stevo. Stakeouts in residential neighborhoods may be the pits to arrange, the way people notice strangers and unfamiliar vehicles, but we cut a break today. The owners of the vacant house next door agreed to rent. The Jacobs home will be under surveillance all night long.”

  “Yes!” The gum popping picked up tempo. “When the judge comes through with those search warrants in the morning, things ought to get real entertaining. I’m going to enjoy every minute. This is our golden opportunity, while she’s shook up.”

  Tony swallowed a sharp reply. Crane’s attitude sickened him, but so did so-called believers who lived double lives. Tony had arrested too many “fine, upstanding churchgoers” to harbor any illusions that Christians were exempt from giving in to temptation. How did they excuse their actions—to themselves, to God? Didn’t they consider the cost? Ms. Jacobs had to be doing exactly that right now. She’d lost her father and, if she was in on the theft ring, would soon lose her freedom.

  “Drop me off at Sporty’s.” Crane’s voice came out with brittle cheer. “I need a couple of beers to help me sleep.”

  “Sure, like you need a good case of the flu.”

  “Don’t ride me, pard. I’m no wino. I don’t invite you to the bar; you don’t nag me about attending church. That’s our agreement.” Crane laid his head back against the seat and chomped his gum, a not-so-subtle reminder that Stevo had also agreed not to smoke in the Bucar.

  Tony drove in silence.

  Should he file his concerns about Crane’s drinking with the ASAC? He had little solid evidence of drunkenness on the job to give the Assistant Special Agent in Charge. A few late days, a surly attitude, bloodshot eyes, and bad breath didn’t add up to much.

  Crane had a top-notch arrest record—he delivered results. Which no doubt was why the Bureau continued to put up with him despite his reputation as an irritant and potential embarrassment. Besides, Tony didn’t know if he could forgive himself if Crane was put on a forced leave of absence for the remaining months until his retirement. To a guy like his partner, that would be like shooting him in the stomach and not letting him die.

  But could he take the chance? What if Crane’s drinking affected his work? When an agent couldn’t think straight, someone could get hurt—most often himself or his partner. And that’d be me.

  Tight-jawed, Tony pulled over to the curb near a flashing red marquee that advertised a popular bar.

  Crane climbed out. “See you in the morning.” He slammed the door and walked away.

  Tony sat still, taking in slow, deep breaths. If his partner showed up for work hungover again, he’d have no choice.

  He’d have to write that report.

  Desi took the key to her father’s half of the house out of her jeans pocket. She opened the door and turned on the light. A hint of Dad’s woodsy cologne hung in the air. A book of acrostic puzzles lay on the end table. Too normal!

  Why did her heart beat, her lungs breathe? Why did the clock tick on? Time that had no right to march forward without her father.

  Desi’s eyes stung.

  She gazed at the familiar furnishings. Oriental carpets scattered on a polished oak floor. Genuine textured plaster walls painted soft gray. Rich blue drapes at the picture window. Cozy fireplace. Leather sofa and easy chair, the latter well worn. How often had she found Daddy there with his feet up, enjoying his puzzles or a weekend baseball game?

  She turned away and slumped against the doorjamb.

  “Dad, you can’t be gone. Not like this.”

  Murdered! Not possible! But that’s what Tony had said.

  Tony?

  Desi frowned. She’d never thought of the agent by his first name before. Heat rushed through her. What had she been thinking to collapse against him? She hadn’t been thinking, that’s what. And his arms were strong. She’d felt safe, comforted. For all of two seconds. She’d bet her last nickel that his ridiculous allegations of theft had contributed to her father’s death. She should have slugged him again.

  Desi drew herself up. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now. She’d been too furious with Lucano—and too embarrassed by her own weakness—to tolerate his presence long enough to ask more questions. It might be the wee hours of the morning in Rome, but police stations were always open, right? Desi looked at the number on the card clutched in her hand, then strode for the phone in the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, she banged the receiver into its cradle. Deciphering the night attendant’s butchered English had been hard enough without running into a brick wall.

  “No, Detective Gaetano not here … Yes, I tell him you call … No, cannot give officer’s home number.”

  She pressed the sides of her head and rubbed her scalp. What should she do next? Call Max. Her friend would offer true comfort, not some Judas hug.

  Desi dialed Chi-Chi’s, but the Webbs had left. She tried their home number. On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. Max’s cheerful voice started her spiel. Desi hung up. Let Max and her husband have an evening of peace before the nightmare began in the morning for the staff at HJ Securities—all the family left to Desi now.

  She got up, shut off the kitchen light, and wandered back into the living room. She fingered her father’s precious Chinese jade figures displayed on the fireplace mantel. Five in all. Large, heavy, needing two hands to lift. Dad had been so proud of his collection, adding to it a piece at a time over the past several months.

  A sob bubbled from her chest. She whirled and headed for the exit, snapping off the light switch as she went by. At the door, her feet refused to budge another inch. She had intended to flee to her own apartment but couldn’t go. Couldn’t leave the place that held so much of her father.

  All right. She’d stay a little longer.

  With a ragged sigh, she turned back. Moon shadows dappled the room from a sliver of light that crept between the drapes.

  A suede throw pillow on the sofa caught her eye. She picked it up and clutched the softness to her chest. Her father’s scent caught in her nostrils. Tears spilled down Desi’s cheeks as she sank onto smooth leather and let the river flow.

  God, how could You let this happen?

  An odd noise jerked Desi awake. She lay on the sof
a, curled on her side in an awkward ball around her father’s pillow. Deep darkness shrouded the room.

  Desi took shallow breaths, ears perked to hear a repetition of the thump that had pulled her out of uneasy slumber. From the kitchen area the floor creaked. Once. Again. Like stealthy footfalls.

  Someone was in the house! A cold burn prickled across her skin. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Then she remembered. She hadn’t set it like she always did when she went to bed. Terrific! A burglar had picked the one night she slipped up to break in.

  Silence. More silence.

  Desi relaxed the fingers that had clawed into the pillow. Her keyed up emotions had made her imagine things. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out. The small sound had an echo. Not imaginary. Real.

  And close.

  A beam of light flickered over the room. Whoever held the flashlight stood behind her, near the kitchen doorway. The back of the sofa shielded her from the intruder’s view. But for how long?

  Dear Jesus, help me!

  The beam of light and the sound of agitated breathing moved closer.

  Boulders weighted Desi’s arms and legs. Blood rushed like the surf in her ears. She couldn’t lie here and wait to be discovered. She should do something. But what? Start a pillow fight?

  “Where did you put them, Hiram?” The whispered voice was masculine, accented. “I warned you not to hide things from me, but you did not listen.”

  Desi’s scalp tingled. This was no random burglary. What if this was her father’s killer?

  White-hot lava erupted in her brain. Desi shrieked and sprang from the sofa. She hurled the pillow in the direction of the voice.

  A masculine yelp answered her, and the flashlight clattered to the floor and rolled. Crazy patterns of light and shadow spiraled across the walls as a dark hulk lurched toward Desi.

  Still screeching, she snatched up the table lamp and swung it like a bat. The blow caught the intruder on the shoulder. Glass tinkled. The man staggered away, sputtering in a foreign language.

  Desi dropped the stump of the lamp and raced toward the fireplace. Arms stretched, she groped for the tools. There! The rack tipped. Fireplace tools thumped to the hearth rug, and Desi lunged for the poker.

  A heavy body slammed into her from behind, driving her to the floor. She landed on her stomach, the intruder on top of her. The breath wheezed from her lungs, cutting off her cries. Pain stabbed through her chest and legs where she’d fallen on the metal implements.

  Hot breath, stinking of wine and garlic, panted in her ear. “The daughter, yes?”

  Desi wriggled beneath her captor, then gasped as iron jabbed into her flesh. She’d have a lovely set of bruises in the morning. If morning came for her.

  “Be still!” The voice hissed in her ear. “I’d hate to hurt you. You could prove useful.”

  The weight lifted; then strong hands grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet. The intruder shoved her on the sofa, towering over her. The man leaned forward and traced something cold and metallic against her cheek. Desi smelled gun oil.

  “Don’t move. Or I will kill you.”

  Tremors began in her middle and radiated outward. “Wh-what do you want?” She wasn’t sure her choked voice would carry to his ears.

  His chuckle said he’d heard all right. “I will ask questions. You will answer. We will get along. Perhaps very well, eh?”

  The suggestion in his tone turned her stomach. He stepped toward his fallen flashlight, and Desi tensed. Could she make it to the door while he was distracted? The man bent and reached, his hawkish profile haloed in the flashlight’s aura.

  “Freeze! FBI!”

  Both Desi and her captor jumped at the voice erupting from the blackness of the kitchen. A splintering crunch sounded from the front door; then the foyer door burst open and hit the wall with the crackle of chipping plaster. Light spurted as a gun blasted to Desi’s right. Her assailant. Shots answered from the kitchen and the foyer.

  She dove for the floor just as a crash sounded near the picture window. Glass shattered. Fabric ripped, followed by a muffled thud. Feet pounded past Desi’s prone body. Another crash. Bits of debris rained down on her back. Cool air rushed in.

  Shouts and curses rang outside, not all in English. The sound of running feet faded into the distance. Then …

  Blessed quiet—except for the rasp of heavy breathing. Her own? Not entirely.

  The overhead light flicked on.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  At the sound of the deep voice, Desi looked around her. Glass and wood slivers littered the floor. The heavy curtains from the picture window dangled by one twisted fixture. Most of the fabric lay in a mound on the floor. The window itself was a gaping hole into the night.

  Desi rolled over and sat up. Her heart did a giant ka-bump.

  Two men in Kevlar vests stood over her, cradling automatic weapons. With their night-vision goggles flipped onto their foreheads, they looked like four-eyed space aliens.

  She stifled a burst of laughter. Now was not the time to turn into gibbering mush. Too late! Her sangfroid was wheezing on its deathbed, but no one else needed to know that.

  She wasn’t a Jacobs for nothing.

  Tony stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and watched Desiree. She sat hunched on a stool by the kitchen island, clutching a blanket around her shoulders. What could he say to make this situation easier?

  Wrong question, Lucano.

  An agent could get into big-time trouble for sympathizing with suspects. How well he knew! When people broke the law, bad things happened to them, plain and simple. Regret tumbled through him. Yeah, if only it were that simple. Sometimes the innocent got hurt along with the guilty. Which one was Ms. Jacobs?

  Tony let out a long sigh.

  Around him, the evidence collection progressed. An investigator on his knees checked the rear door for prints where the lock had been picked. Other agents moved around in the living room behind him. More scoured the lawn outside and fended off nosy neighbors in the pale dawn.

  Tony stepped toward Desiree. She was staring at the counter as if nothing in her world would ever be right again. Maybe it wouldn’t.

  “Ms. Jacobs?” He touched her arm.

  She jerked and shuddered. When he arrived about a half hour ago, she’d been shaking so badly he brought her the blanket. Outer warmth didn’t seem to be helping much. She turned dull eyes on him.

  “Is your friend coming to be with you?”

  She nodded without a word.

  “I need to take your statement now.”

  Her lips quivered. “The guy got away.”

  “Not for long. He won’t get out of the country You can help us track him down.”

  Desiree frowned. “How? I couldn’t even identify him in a lineup. You seem to know more about him than I do. Who is he anyway?” A flush rose on her face.

  Good. She needed the strength anger would give her.

  “Leone Bocca.” Tony sat on the stool next to her. “He’ll smuggle anything for a profit. Art. Arms. Drugs. People. He’s an anomaly in the antiquities theft world.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Most criminals trafficking in art and antiquities shy away from violence. Bocca will kill in a heartbeat.”

  Fear flashed through her eyes, replaced at once by a stony expression. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t shoot your father.”

  Desiree gaped at him.

  Too bad he couldn’t tell her who had done it. This case had more twists than a Gordian knot, and tonight’s events added one more loop.

  “Bocca was in the States when Hiram Jacobs was murdered. We know that much. This particular theft ring is run by someone with more smarts and a lower profile than Bocca. We thought it was your father, but now—”

  “You don’t.” Desiree straightened her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you so.”

  “If he wasn’t part of the ring, why was he
killed?”

  Heat flared in her eyes. “Maybe because you made some baddie think he knew something he shouldn’t.”

  Tony’s jaw clenched. This woman really believed he didn’t know his job, that he was pulling suspects like her father out of thin air. Either that or she was continuing her snow job on him.

  “Follow the logic on that, Ms. Jacobs. It doesn’t go anywhere. If he was uninvolved, Hiram was worth more to the theft ring as a live red herring than as a dead end.”

  She paled and looked away.

  Tony clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Referring to the deceased as a “dead end” to the newly bereaved’s face was hardly the soul of tact, but Desiree Jacobs pushed more buttons than he knew he had.

  “Let’s move on to what happened these past few hours.” He took out his notebook and pen.

  “All right.” She pursed her lips. “What do you want to know?”

  “Start from what you did after I left here.”

  She took a deep breath. Her statement came out with no stuttering or stammering and very little coaxing. Good witness for details. His pen raced.

  “Stop!” His pen halted in midair. “Say that again.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “You threw a pillow at Leone Bocca?”

  “It was all I had in my hands.” The pink in her cheeks brightened. “Listen, I wasn’t thinking about anything but that this guy maybe killed my dad. I hit him with a lamp, too.”

  Insane. But gutsy. Tony hid his smile with a frown. “Start again with the pillow incident, and go on from there.”

  “I got ’em.”

  Desiree’s head whipped around at the gruff voice from the kitchen doorway. “Bocca?”

  Tony turned toward his partner. “The search warrants?”

  Crane waved two sheets of paper in the air. “You bet. One for the house. One for the office. After tonight’s little dustup, we rousted the judge out of his beauty sleep and got the go-ahead early.”

  Crane’s clothes were rumpled, and Tony smelled cigarette smoke from half a room away, but at least the man’s eyes were clear and his speech unslurred. Small miracles were always welcome.