Chapter 33

 

Bill Caplin sat in his generic government car a half-block down the street from the house where a robbery suspect lived with his mother. The stupid kid (had they always been this immature at twenty-five?) shot at a convenience store clerk, hit a can of oil on the shelf instead, grabbed the cash from the till but tracked the damn oil out the front door and down the alley. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out the prints would lead to the home of this punk who’d been caught on camera robbing the same place two weeks ago. The house was less than a block from the store.

Caplin’s purpose in sitting here now, rather than hauling the kid out by the scruff of his neck, was to make sure the perp didn’t leave the house before the crime scene folks arrived to bag his shoes. Procedure! It became more ridiculous with each passing year.

Bending over backward to follow cumbersome rules and treat suspects with more respect than the victims got, those were only a couple of the reasons Caplin was more than ready to retire. But every time he thought of retirement, it reopened the festering anger at the fake Dick Stone, anger that always seethed just below the surface.

Sure, he still had his city pension coming but that fifty grand would have bought him the boat he planned on taking down to Mexico, living on it while his skin turned dark brown and he ate shrimp every day. A guy could live like a king on a couple grand a month down there. Without that boat, he’d be paying for housing and it kind of burst the whole bubble of his vision. Now, he’d have to take a second job for a few years and save every scrap before he could do the dream. Dammit, he didn’t want to wait for it. His old man and brother had died in their early sixties when the old ticker gave out. Bill had been ‘this close’ to realizing his vision.

Meanwhile, every passing day made it harder to admit what had happened. Reporting the theft of such a chunk of his retirement money was simply too humiliating. Yeah, yeah, he knew that’s what most victims of con men felt and that’s why so few of those guys were ever caught or prosecuted. But geez, he was a cop. He should have seen through the guy and arrested him on the spot. His fist tightened around the steering wheel until he heard something crackle. He released it and shook out the tension.

He’d pretty much decided he would keep quiet and just pursue it on his own. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a copy of the mug shot Penelope Fitzpatrick had tentatively chosen, a small-time grifter named Frank Woods. So far, Caplin had only had time in his off hours to learn that Woods was just one of many aliases this guy used. He wished he knew more about computers—some shortcuts would sure help at this point.

His cell phone rang and he took the call without looking at the readout.

“Hey, detective, it’s me. Todd Wainwright.”

Shit. This guy was becoming a pain in the neck.

“Have you caught up with that Dick Stone guy yet?”

Why did people think police work went the way it did on TV—every crime solved and all the loose ends wrapped up in an hour?

“No, Todd. I’ve got a lead on his identity but nothing on his whereabouts yet.”

He could hear the museum guy grousing at the other end. Too bad.

“Todd, I’ll let you know when I have anything. You know, you’re free to search for him too.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have any idea how.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have the complete resources of the department here,” Caplin said. “Not unless you want your name brought into it and the whole thing a matter of record.”

“No, no. That’s okay. I’m sure you’re doing all you can.” Todd thanked him and ended the call.

“Damn straight,” Caplin muttered to the empty car.