Chapter 7

 

Penelope assured Sandy Werner she would stay in touch, ended the call and dialed the number for Detective William Caplin, the head of the Major Crimes unit, the man who had led the initial investigation of the museum robbery and the one who’d given her the name of retired detective Richard Stone who was now a private investigator.

“Of course, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I remember you. I’m afraid we have nothing new on the museum case. As I told you back in February, we followed all the leads we had. Nothing’s changed.”

“I take it you haven’t talked with your friend, Mr. Stone.” She could hear the chill in her own voice.

“Well, not since our First Fridays gathering a couple weeks ago. Bunch of us meet up for lunch at a pub we like, once a month.”

“Did he say anything about my missing necklace?”

“Why would he? I’d asked him awhile back if he’d taken your case and he said he never heard from you. I assumed you’d given up on recovering the piece and just decided to file with your insurance company.”

“That’s not at all true,” she said, sitting straighter in her seat in hopes it gave her voice more authority. “Your so-called friend has lied to you. I’ve been in contact with him regularly and he came to my home this morning. He brought the recovered necklace—except that it’s a fake. I want the man arrested.”

She could hear papers rustling at his end of the call.

“Describe him to me,” Caplin said in a terse voice.

“You know him!”

“I know the Richard Stone I recommended, retired police officer, one of the most honest men on the planet.”

“He’s in his late forties, I suppose … slender, average height, dark hair with a little gray at the temples. I didn’t notice his eye color.”

“Rich Stone is sixty-two with a gut like a basketball. Pretty much bald on top, and his remaining hair is completely gray. How did you first meet the man you hired?”

“Called him, of course. At your reference.” Of course, now that she thought about it, she’d left a message on a machine and waited for the investigator to return her call.

“Somehow, someone intercepted you.” Caplin gave a large sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve been taken in by a con man.”

“Can’t you put out a warrant, catch him and arrest him? I’ll be happy to pick him from a lineup or whatever it is you do in these cases.”

“You said he came to your home. What was he driving? Did you get a license plate number?”

“It was an average sedan—I don’t know what make. And no, I didn’t memorize the license. Why would I have thought to do that?”

“Ma’am, with the description you just gave me I’d have to bring in at least forty-thousand men in this city alone.” He let a moment go by. “Did he touch anything at your house, surfaces we might take prints from?”

She thought about it. Stone had worn white gloves when he handed over the necklace. At the time she thought keeping the stones clean showed professionalism on his part. Now it looked as if he was a pro of a different sort.

“Our bunco division has mug shot books of known con artists in the area. You’re certainly welcome to come downtown and go through them. Maybe you’ll spot him. It would at least give us a starting place.”

Her hopes rose a bit. Surely she would know Dick Stone’s face if she saw the right photo.

“I’ll warn you though, it’s very likely this is a guy from somewhere else. Chances are, he left your house this morning, abandoned that plain vanilla car and picked up his real one. He could be halfway to California, Utah or New Mexico by now.”

“But—”

“The story of the museum robbery made national headlines six months ago. That’s ages in the life of a master criminal—plenty of time for him to commission a copy of your necklace and show up, promising he could find it with his superior detecting skills. It might have been pure luck that he chose the name of the same retired detective I recommended, but more likely he found some way to listen around, put out feelers and figure out that I would give you Rich Stone’s name. These con guys have uncanny good instincts.”

“So, there’s nothing we can do?”

“I’ll review the case file, put the word out and see if I get any hits. It’s possible the museum people may have some ideas, although we pretty well beat that horse to death months ago. I’d suggest you file an insurance claim on the necklace and get on with your life. The odds you’ll ever see your real one again are slim to none. Lower than that—minuscule to non-existent.”