Chapter 44

 

Detective Caplin woke with a sense of unease, the vague restlessness of having no plan for the day. Then he remembered—he didn’t have to go to work. He’d taken vacation days to devote time to finding Richard Stone and getting his cut of the money, to get his retirement fund back. He rolled out of bed and stared at his unshaven face in the bathroom mirror. What if he simply stayed this way? Never went back, gave up the dream of the boat and Mexico?

He could live off his city pension, even these few years short of full retirement he was vested enough in the plan to get most of his monthly amount. Another year and he could claim at least a portion of his Social Security. But then what? He’d sit here in his average little house in his average little suburb, watching sports on TV all day while he drank beer and got fatter and fatter in his recliner chair. He slapped his cheeks to work up the blood, to snap himself into a frame of urgency.

He had two weeks to catch up with Stone—except he had to start thinking of him as Frank Morrell now—to find him and somehow drag the money out of him. Who knew? The weasel could have spent it all by now and Caplin didn’t want to take some luxury car or condo in Miami in trade. He wanted his cash. Making himself angry all over again gave him a shot of energy.

He got dressed—no suit today, just jeans and a decent brown button-down shirt. His instinct was to walk out the door but he reminded himself he would get more accomplished with a little groundwork. He set a pot of coffee to brew and sat down at the small desk in the corner of his living room where he’d assembled his information. Cold case files could leave the station so he’d brought this one home, along with the printout from yesterday where he’d identified many of Morrell’s aliases.

Problem with a guy like Morrell was they changed names like they changed their socks, sometimes even more often. And Caplin didn’t have use of the department’s resources for this one. Although he owned a laptop, he had little knowledge of all this new social media stuff. He used his to send emails to his kids and to browse pictures of boats for sale. He shoved the image of his dream retirement boat aside now and picked up the phone. Old fashioned police work—that’s what he’d told himself.

He started with what he knew. The last time anyone had direct contact with Frank Morrell was when he’d delivered the fake necklace to Penelope Fitzpatrick. According to her, the investigator ‘Richard Stone’ had driven away in a plain white sedan. Only about a million of those in this city, Caplin thought.

His own knowledge of Stone/Morrell was practically nil. They’d met when Todd Wainwright at the museum dropped a bombshell during questioning over the robbery. The two, Wainwright and himself, had been alone in the museum director’s office where Caplin had called each employee aside.

“I know who did this,” Todd had whispered, a knowing look on his face, a certain squint to his eyes. The look of the rat who’s about to give up a cohort.

“Tell me.”

Wainwright shook his head. “I can do better. I can get you a cut. Especially if this investigation kind of stalls out.”

Just that morning, the wife had given her ultimatum. You brood all the time, your misery is infecting the whole family and I’m sick of it. Drop this dumb idea of a boat and Mexico or I’m out of here. She’d left for work and he had the feeling she might not come home that night.

“I’m listening,” he’d told Wainwright.

“Later. I’ll be having a beer tonight after work at The Pelican.”

And that’s when the whole scam came out, how this thief knew a guy … He would switch the real necklace for a fake, the owner would get back what she thought was her real jewelry, this guy could fence the real one for a whole lot of money and he was willing to do a split. An insider at the museum and a cop who wouldn’t pry too hard—each could earn a share.

Caplin was no rookie and he’d seen plenty of stings before. Wainwright didn’t look like the type, but you never knew. He’d insisted on meeting Richard Stone face to face and seeing the real necklace. Their one and only encounter had taken place in the men’s room at a pancake house, midday, only the two of them, Stone body-blocking the door while Caplin took a close look at the necklace. It was the real deal, he felt sure.

Stone would need a couple months to have the piece copied and he wanted the investigation to fade away during that time. Wainwright would do his part, now Caplin had to do his. The necklace, Caplin knew, was worth over a million dollars. A third of that—yeah, it would set him for retirement nicely. Even more so without the drag of a wife who didn’t share his dream. They set up a simple set of coded messages they could use to stay in touch, shook on it, and Stone had pocketed the necklace and walked out.

Caplin’s coffee sent out an enticing aroma and he went to the kitchen for a cup. Everything had gone perfectly, including his divorce four months ago, until Stone didn’t show last week. An hour sitting under that freeway overpass, watching Todd Wainwright’s agitation. Caplin knew they’d both been had within the first fifteen minutes.

He carried his mug to the desk, opened the file and took up where he’d left off with phone calls to the rental car agencies and airlines. It was tedious, hearing ‘no’ all the time, but he’d done this his entire career. He knew eventually there would come a ‘yes.’