Sneak Thief (A Dog Park Mystery) (29 page)

“I understand from Lia Anderson that she showed you a necklace recently that belonged to Desiree Willis.”

“Was that her name? Nice girl, cared about Desi. You must mean the amethyst.”

“Was this it?” Peter pulled the photo of the spinel out of the inside pocket of his jacket and showed it to Vasari.

Vasari tapped the photo thoughtfully. “Could be. It was cut like this. Why are you interested in a cheap necklace?”

“How cheap was it, Mr. Vasari,” Brent asked.

Vasari stuck his lower lip out and shrugged. “Who knows? Fifty dollars? A hundred? Hard to tell without looking at it under a loupe. It's an old cut, and the right buyer might be interested in it as an antique. Beyond that . . . .” He made a ‘pfffft' sound.

“Did you ever see Desiree Willis wearing the necklace?” Peter asked.

Vasari shook his head. “First time I saw it, it was on your Miss Anderson.”

“We were thinking she got the necklace here,” Brent said.

“I've never sold anything like that here,” Vasari said.

“Where would you buy a necklace like this?” Peter asked.

“Estate sale, maybe? But Desi, she doesn't have fifty dollars to spend on old jewelry.”

“Now where do you suppose she got it?” Brent asked.

“Pretty girl like that,” Vasari gave the two detectives a meaningful look, “where do you think she gets her jewelry? But she wouldn't tell an old man like me about it.”

Vasari looked over Peter's shoulder and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Peter turned to see a dark, curly head ducking into the back. He looked at Brent, gave a microscopic jerk of his chin. Brent gave an equally microscopic nod. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it as if he'd received a text.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vasari, looks like I need to attend to this.”

“Who was that?” Peter asked.

“Who was who?”

“The guy in the back.”

“Oh, him. That's my son, Lonzo. He comes around sometimes to beg money. He says borrow. But borrow means he pays it back, no? Why do you want to know about Desi's pendant?”

“Someone went to a great deal of trouble to steal it recently. We're wondering why.”

Vasari's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Desi's necklace? It was pretty, but not worth much. You sure they were after it?”

“It's all they took,” Peter said.

Vasari frowned at this.

Brent returned through the back of the store, escorting the sullen young man Peter had seen. “I thought we should have a little chat with Lonzo. You don't mind, do you Mr. Vasari?”

“We help any way we can, don't we, Lonzo?” Vasari said.

Brent jerked his head, urging Peter closer. Then Brent took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. Peter got the hint. He leaned and smelled the faint aroma of pepper spray mixed with the sweat on Lonzo's skin.

“Lonzo, where were you, night before last?” Peter asked.

“Playing Assassin's Creed with my cousin, Fredo. Why do you want to know?”

“Will he back that up?” Peter asked.

“Sure, why not? You want his number?”

“Do you know where we can find him now?” Brent asked.

“Sure, he's at work.”

Brent took this information down, then stepped aside to make a private call. When he was done, he nodded to Peter.

“Gentlemen, I think it would be beneficial to continue our conversation with young Mr. Vasari at the station.”

Lonzo's eyes widened in horror before he could school his face. Then his expression toughened, his eyes shuttered. His father frowned and nodded to him.

“You go. I'll send Vincent.”

“Who is Vincent?” Brent asked.

“My brother, the attorney.”

P
eter stood
next to Brent in the little room behind the one way mirror in the interrogation room while the punk who kidnapped Lia consulted with Vincent Vasari, the family lawyer. Vincent Vasari was a criminal attorney with an oily manner that had always gotten under Peter's skin.

Peter clenched his fists, then forced himself to relax. Right now he was allowed to attend the interview due to the connection with the necklace. If he misbehaved, Roller would sideline him.

Despite Peter's outward calm, Brent knew he was steaming. He knew it before they'd even got Lonzo to Brent's car for the drive to the station, so he'd opted to sit in the back with Lonzo and tossed Peter the keys to his beloved Audi, keeping Peter busy and as far away from the aromatic punk as he could get in the little car. Brent mourned his car and the possibility that the smell of pepper spray would emerge from the leather when he finally enticed Cynth into the back seat. He'd have to make sure the kid paid for ruining his favorite fantasy.

“We need grounds to pull the old man in,” Peter said. “If this loser grabbed Lia, Alfonso was involved somehow. Damn Roller for putting Heckle and Jeckle on him. They're probably reading
Hustler
in the parking lot while Alfonso destroys evidence.”

“They do not inspire confidence, do they?”

Peter snorted like an angry bull. “We may have Fredo on ice, but keeping them separated is pointless since they're using the same lawyer. You know Uncle Vincent will tell Fredo everything Lonzo says before we can even walk in the room.”

“Nothing we can do about it, brother.”

Vincent Vasari rose from his chair and opened the door, signaling his readiness for the interview to begin.

Once everyone was seated, Vincent Vasari spread his hands wide, palms up, affecting confusion. “Gentlemen, why are we here? Lonzo states he has been told nothing since Detective Davis took him into custody.”

Sure spent a hell of a long time conferring for an innocent man.
“Lonzo, we're concerned about your body odor,” Peter said.

“Huh?” Lonzo shoved himself out of his chair, half-stood. Vincent put a hand on his shoulder and urged him back in his seat.

Peter walked around the table, behind Lonzo. He leaned over and gave an audible sniff. “You've got pepper spray coming out of your pores. You've been maced recently.”

“That's a lie!” Lonzo said.

Vincent leaned over and the pair whispered.

The lawyer folded his hands. “Me, I smell nothing. But my client admits he and his cousin, Fredo, have been on a nacho kick lately, and have been extreme in their pepper usage. Perhaps that is the source of this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“You won't mind if we verify that, will you? We'd like to have a lab tech test his skin for the residue,” Brent said. “That will clear up this misunderstanding, then.”

“We most certainly do mind. What, exactly, do you believe my client has done, Detective?”

“Two nights ago, two men in a dark blue van abducted Lia Anderson in front of her home,” Peter said. “Ms. Anderson discharged her pepper spray at that time.”

“Then she incapacitated her abductors, did she not?” Vincent asked, guilelessly.

“The man who took the brunt of the spray was conveniently wearing a motorcycle helmet with a visor.”

“Ah, I see. And do you have this helmet? Or have you taken my client into custody due to his fondness for nachos? I assure you my client does not own a van, dark blue or otherwise.”

“A few minutes after they abducted Ms. Anderson, these same men shot and wounded a police officer,” Brent stated.

“And do you have this gun?”

“Where were you two nights ago, punk?” Peter gritted out.

“I told you! At Fredo's!”

Vincent held a hand up and Lonzo quit speaking. “My client was visiting his cousin Fredo Vasari, at which time he played the game, Assassin's Creed for more than three hours and ate several platters of nachos, washed down with beer. Since he had been drinking, he camped out on Fredo's couch. He was there from eight in the evening till the following morning. All of which, Fredo will be happy to verify.”

“That's quite handy, counselor, since that means they alibi each other,” Brent said. “Is there someone who isn't family, to vouch for his whereabouts?”

The pair put their heads together and conversed. “Quite possibly one or more of the neighbors saw them. He isn't sure.”

“You may volunteer the sample, or we will get a warrant,” Brent said. “One way or another, we will have it.”

“On what grounds will you get a warrant?”

It took until nine that evening to interview Fredo and put together the line up. Lia stood in the little room, facing away from the window as each man in the line up repeated the sentences, “The windows are down. Fumes are coming off your helmet.” and “I gotta hold her, don't I?”

Lia listened intently. Some of the men stumbled over the lines and were told to repeat them with an angry inflection. Two of the responses sent chills through her.

“Three and seven,” she said.

“Are you certain?” Brent asked.

“Three was the driver. Ask him to say, ‘We've got company.'”

When he did, Lia nodded. “It's him. I'm certain.”

“Seven was the one who grabbed you?” Peter asked, eyeing Fredo and wishing him dead.

I
t was enough
for the skin swabs and search warrants. It was not enough by itself to charge them, the DA being unwilling to prosecute on such flimsy evidence.

“Get me something, for God's sake,” Roller roared. “I've got a man down because of these creeps. The helmet, the necklace, the gun, fingerprints! You've got less than 24 hours before I have to cut them loose. Start fresh tomorrow morning. Do your jobs!”

C
ynth conducted
the tech end of the search and noted several hours of Assassin's Creed on Fredo's game console, exceeding the critical window of opportunity.

“Easy enough to get your cousins to cover for you,” Cynth said. “The Vasaris took God seriously when he said ‘Go forth and multiply.' They have cousins to spare and they all look alike.”

Fredo's neighbor in the next apartment reported banging on the wall due to all the racket they made two nights earlier.

Fingerprint techs could not match Fredo or Lonzo with the van. The only fingerprints on the duct tape were Peter's.

Patrol cops searched dumpsters and trashcans along likely escape routes.

They found nothing.

The lab reported that pepper oil, processed for weapons use and in the same concentration as Lia's pepper spray, was indeed on the swabs taken from the two men.

It would not be enough to hold them.

Peter and Brent drove by the Clifton home of Alfonso Vasari. Heckle and Jeckle were nowhere in sight. Peter suspected they were keeping an eye on the store, sitting at a side walk table in front of the cafe two doors down while hiding the latest issue of
Penthouse
inside a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
.

Peter watched a gardener edge the walkway to the flagstone Tudor house. “Vasari's covering for them, I know it,” he said.

“You know it and I know it,” Brent said, “and we can't put a foot on the man's property. I bet that necklace is less than 50 feet away from us as we speak.”

Another gardener rounded the corner of the house, riding a mower. Peter eyed the tall, thin man. Something about his perfect posture was familiar. The man wiped sweat off his forehead, shoving the ball cap just enough to reveal a sliver of red hair.

“Do you see what I see?” Peter asked Brent.

“I see a pair of gardeners in front of a house. What of it?”

“Check out the one on the mower.”

Brent watched as the mower advanced across the lawn and down the driveway, up a set of portable ramps into the back of the truck. Peter knew the minute Brent caught on.

“Sweet bleeding Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“Is she doing what I think she's doing?”

“You mean snooping? Why else would she be there?”

“This is highly irregular.”

“Damn straight. We've got less than two hours to find something on the Vasari punks, and I don't dare leave, in case Bailey runs into trouble. Lia would never forgive me if I let anything happen to her.”

“Can we pretend we didn't see her?”

“Did you have anywhere specific you needed to be?”

“No, dammit. I'm out of ideas.”

“So we sit.”

L
ia used
her fan brush to feather pink into peach on a luminous cloud.

“You're awfully chipper for looking like someone ran over you with a wheat thresher.”

Lia smiled down at Alma from her perch on the ladder. “It's your casserole. Fixed me right up.”

“Oh, my casserole is good, but I don't think it's
that
good. Peter hasn't been home much lately. You patch things up with him?”

“Not officially, but I think it's only a matter of time.”

“I'm so glad those awful men are in jail. My heart was in my throat when I saw on the news that you'd been kidnapped. That nice young reporter was standing in front of that van, talking about it. I don't know how they got there so quick. How is the investigation going?”

“I haven't talked to Peter or Brent today. I'm doing my best not to think about it.” She climbed down from the ladder, set the jar of paint aside and stood back. “What do you think?”

“It's wonderful! It's all pink and gold and pearly in the clouds, and there's violet, too. I feel like I'm sitting outside, looking at the sky and God is behind those clouds, smiling down on me.”

“That's lovely, Alma, Thank you.”

Lia's phone beeped. She checked the screen, disconnected yet another of Eric's calls and returned her attention to Alma.

“What's left after this?” Alma asked.

“Not much. I may just let it all sit for a few days, and see what I think about it when I come back. I'd like to look at it with fresh eyes.”

E
ric disconnected
his phone when it went to voicemail. He'd already left Lia three messages. He had to talk to her, had to know what she was thinking, had to convince her not to report him, no matter what it took.

There was only one way. If she wouldn't take his calls, he'd have to confront her, somewhere they'd be alone. He knew just the place.

B
ailey finished loading
the mower into the back of Jake's truck. Yesterday she'd called Mrs. Vasari, pretending she was looking for new customers. When the woman said Jake the Rake already had a contract for her yard work, Bailey offered to make an estimate to see if the woman would switch services. Of course, she never planned to show for the appointment.

She knew Jake slightly, and had offered him free labor for the day if he would take care of Vasari's lawn earlier than scheduled and take her along.

Her main goal had been to check Vasari's garbage. It had been a long shot and it hadn't paid off. There had to be something else she could do to help Lia. Bailey grabbed a bag of mulch and headed for the beds by the stoop, trying to be philosophical about losing a day's income and getting behind on her own clients.

As she spread mulch around the bushes, she noted a series of cast iron turtles. Too cute for her taste, and a bit surprising considering the sophisticated jewelry the man sold. Still, they were better than garden gnomes or even worse, porch geese wearing Bengals shirts, though those had finally gone out of style, thank God. Nowadays, people went in for resin statues of squirrels, which were slightly better.

She paused on her knees to grab an elusive thought. Something about the squirrel. One of her clients had one, and it had a compartment for an extra house key, in case you locked yourself out. She took another look at the trio of turtles and dragged her bag of mulch over by the decorations.

Bailey glanced over her shoulder. Jake was now edging the other side of the walk, facing away from her.

She picked up the smallest of the turtles, eyed it for a seam that would indicate a lid. No dice. Same for the second. The third turtle gave a slight clink as two parts shifted against each other. The top did not lift off. She tried twisting the pieces and the iron doo-dad came apart in her hands. Sunlight hit the oval spinel inside, sparking off the gem's facets and making Bailey blink.

P
eter checked his watch
. It was after five. They had less than an hour before Lonzo and Fredo would be cut loose. He and Brent had been chewing the case apart while they kept an eye on Vasari's house. The bottom line was, they had nothing beyond Lia's ID of her attackers' voices and the chemical match of the pepper spray. Peter was certain the pair would come up with a fairy-tale to explain the pepper spray away. They'd probably say they'd had a misunderstanding with a young lady whom they either couldn't identify or didn't want to embarrass.

He tapped a rhythm on the dashboard of Brent's Audi, venting his nervous energy.

“Would you quit that?” Brent said. “You're giving me an ear worm. That's the worst version of the
William Tell
Overture I've ever heard.”

“Sorry. I suppose our only option is to stick to these guys like glue once they get out.”

“We'll be walking a fine line, brother. With a lawyer in the family, I imagine they'll scream harassment at the first opportunity. But I'm with you.”

Johnny Cash sang “Ring of Fire” from Peter's pocket. He glanced at the readout on his phone, but didn't recognize the number.

“Dourson.”

“Peter, it's Bailey. I'm at Vasari's house.”

“What the hell do you think you're doing lurking there? Brent and I have been watching you for the last forty-five minutes while you skulk around, pretending to do yard work. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you could get into?”

“Peter, I found it.”

“How do you think Lia—”

“I said, I found it. The necklace. Do you want it or don't you?”

“Whoa . . . where? You didn't touch it did you?”

“No, I didn't touch it. I assume you need a search warrant. It's hidden inside a lawn ornament. Do you want me to send you a picture of it? Will that be enough? What do you want me to do?”

“Send me the picture. How much longer will you be there?”

“Jake's going to be done any minute now.”

“Can you get him to stall while we get the paperwork? If you're working in the yard, no one is likely to try to retrieve it before we can serve the warrant.”

“Jake drives a hard bargain. You're going to owe me, copper.”

Peter sweated bullets, waiting for the warrant to show up in Brent's email. Bailey went back to work on the already mulched beds while Jake sat on the tailgate of his truck and took a break.

All he needed was ten minutes, no, seven minutes, to print the warrant on Brent's portable thermal printer, knock on the door, serve the paper and grab the necklace. Then he could call it in and have the Vasari cousins charged.

The entire system, from District Four to the DA to the Hamilton County Jail and finally to a sympathetic judge waiting at home on a Saturday to sign the warrant, was on alert, waiting for the call. Everyone wanted to keep Brainard's shooter in custody.

While they were waiting, a trio of officers met down the block to assist in searching the premises for the gun and motorcycle helmet.

The warrant came through fifteen minutes before the Vasari cousins were to be released. Brent served the warrant to an appalled Mrs. Vasari and led the team into the house, followed by the distressed matron. Peter lingered outside on the pretext of shooing Bailey and Jake off the property.