(A felony is merited)
Sergeant-Detective Yves Giroux caught on immediately. Hungover, his new partner dialed in soon enough. No doubt about it, the robbery victim was flirting with him.
Detective Cinq-Mars had yet to make it through the door.
The woman’s hair was black, straight, long in the sixties style with bangs that touched her eyebrows. Dark eyeliner and heavy mascara. A housedress fell to the tops of her knees which she repeatedly adjusted, wrapping and unwrapping it, cinching the belt, each time exposing a skimpy halter top and modest Bermuda shorts. Perspiration on her brow indicated that she’d been working out. Ignoring Giroux, she had eyes only for the man of her generation who also shared her height equivalency. She was about six-one and looked right over Giroux who pulled in at five-nine and was a few inches lower on the stoop. She took in the rangy Cinq-Mars. Jutted her hip against the front-door jamb and used her right hand to pull down her hair, from ear to breast. She lowered her gaze to the feet of the tall young cop, then slowly brought her eyes up. Thighs, hips, chest, neck, face. And nose. She gave his nose a more prolonged stare than most people were willing to risk. All the while repeating the stroking motion through her hair.
Giroux smirked. ‘Mind if we come inside, ma’am?’
‘Be quiet, though. My husband’s sleeping.’
‘For sure,’ Giroux remarked. ‘We don’t want to wake him right now.’
He worked the graveyard shift at the Royal Victoria Hospital. She explained that he had not been home when the thief broke in. ‘I feel violated.’ She glanced at Cinq-Mars again.
In the living room, the men settled into plush purple chairs. Cinq-Mars could easily fall asleep in his.
‘What’s missing?’ Giroux asked.
‘So far? Cash. Three of my husband’s watches. They were keepsakes. A pen. And rings. The man of the house likes rings.’
‘How many rings?’
‘Four.’
‘Diamond rings?’
‘Diamond sand on one. Topaz on a couple. One’s a ruby. One’s steel.’
‘Your TV?’ Giroux inquired.
‘We have several. The thief left them. Too much to carry, I guess.’
‘Several, huh? How many exactly?’
‘Four. Why? They’re still here.’
‘So many TVs.’
‘He came for cash and jewelry, Detective. Thank God he didn’t go upstairs. I keep my valuables there. But he went through my husband’s office.’
Giroux conveyed a writing motion, prompting Émile Cinq-Mars to take out a notepad. The woman was fitting the older cop’s expectations to a tee. ‘Your name, please?’
‘Savina.’ She looked over at Cinq-Mars. ‘Savina Vaccaro.’
‘Mrs Savina Vaccaro,’ Giroux repeated, to remind her of a critical detail. He waited for Cinq-Mars to finish writing. ‘Your husband? His name?’
‘Dr Howard Shapiro.’
‘Jewish,’ Giroux tacked on. ‘You’re what? Italian? That’s different.’
‘Variety is the spice of life, Detective.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Giroux uttered a self-conscious cough. ‘How much cash do you estimate?’ His eyes slid across to Cinq-Mars, anticipating a healthy tally.
‘Small bills. Seventy dollars? Maybe eighty.’
Head down, Cinq-Mars transcribed the amount. Unable to help himself, he asked, ‘You didn’t have cash in the house to pay a contractor?’
The query confused her. ‘Contractor?’
‘What value on the watches?’ Giroux butted in again.
‘The value doesn’t concern me. It’s the idea of an intruder in my house! I’m alone at night.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Giroux reassured her. ‘It’s a traumatic experience to be robbed. Truth is, a thief rarely returns. He got what he came for. Also, he’ll expect you to take precautions.’
She was looking at Cinq-Mars, waiting for him to show concern, too. The length of her gaze forced a reply. ‘You’ve seen the last of him, Mrs Shapiro.’
‘I go by my maiden name. More modern, don’t you think?’
Cinq-Mars had no opinion on the subject.
‘I take it you never saw the burglar,’ Giroux poked in.
‘Thank God, no. I thought I heard something. I went downstairs. Maybe he was hiding at the time. He might’ve jumped out at me.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ Giroux reminded her, ‘we don’t need to be concerned about what didn’t happen. Now. About the watches. How many and what’s the total value?’
‘Oh. Three. Howard said they’d run about twelve hundred dollars.’ Giroux’s gaze remained fixed on her to avoid his partner’s amusement. ‘I don’t know if that’s the value when new or now.’
Again, Cinq-Mars could not resist. ‘Twelve hundred dollars. Not twelve thousand?’
‘Hundred. It’s not the value. What’s your name again? Cinq-Mars. That’s a new one on me. What ever happened on the fifth of March?’
She was translating his name. He wasn’t willing to get into it. He did not have a definitive answer, regardless.
‘The rings,’ Giroux stipulated. ‘Their value?’
‘Three hundred, approx. In a garage sale, I doubt I’d get fifty.’
‘Fifty dollars,’ Cinq-Mars announced, triumphant.
‘It’s the principle! Robbed! While I’m sleeping!’
‘Are you insured, ma’am?’ Giroux inquired.
‘I checked. A thousand-dollar deductible. Not worth the trouble.’
‘You could increase the cash amount of what’s missing. The value of the jewels,’ Giroux suggested. He spoke as a waiter offering ice cream with the pie.
She stared at him, a prolonged silence that caused both officers to check on her.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ she stated, her tone flat, brittle.
‘A little trick to see how the victim responds,’ Giroux explained. ‘Now I know. You’re on the up and up.’
‘I’m on the up and up? Good to hear. I am not a thief. A thief, however, came into my house. That’s why I called you, Detective, in case you’re interested.’
‘Ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘Does this mean you won’t investigate? Too little value to waste your time? We want the watches returned. The rings, who cares? The watches we’d like to have back. They are my husband’s keepsakes.’
The husband, having heard voices, appeared at that moment in the wide doorway. Jeans and sweatshirt. He had greying temples. He looked to be a dozen years older than his wife, and about three inches shorter. In presenting himself, he displayed an athlete’s easy physical confidence. He extrapolated on her point of view. ‘They mean a lot to me. Luckily, the most valuable one was on my wrist.’
‘What value do you place on the others?’ Giroux put to him. Time to test his theories on the husband. He subtly raised an eyebrow to warn Cinq-Mars that the worm may yet turn.
‘Three-fifty for one. One seventy-five for another. The best one, my dad paid about six hundred. A present for graduating med school. What’s that? Eleven hundred?’
‘Sorry. I said twelve,’ Savina Vaccaro apologized. ‘Will you arrest me?’
‘Savina,’ her husband said curtly, silencing her. He added, ‘Those are prices when new. They’re worth less now. It’s not the money. It’s the idea that some bastard breaks into my house while my wife is home alone. That can’t be tolerated.’
‘Could you show us how the thief broke in?’ Cinq-Mars requested. He’d won the round and was trying not to gloat.
The husband had returned earlier than usual and gone straight to bed. Hours later, his wife took her morning coffee onto the back porch. She was strolling around the property, enjoying the gardens, when she discovered a curious rash of footprints. Then found a bug screen on the ground. She rushed back inside and noticed dirt on the floor under the window by the stairway landing. Woke her husband. They canvassed the house together to find what might be missing.
‘The seventy or eighty bucks,’ Giroux said.
‘I thought it was more,’ the husband replied. ‘Whatever.’
Outside, Giroux and Cinq-Mars studied the footprints, each arriving at the same conclusion. Two sets. One foot slightly larger than the other. One man perhaps had elevated a smaller one high enough to make it through the open window. They agreed that the heels of a ladder would have left marks in the soft earth. There were none.
‘Kids,’ Giroux surmised. On their own, they switched back to speaking French.
Cinq-Mars didn’t like to automatically blame youth. ‘Why kids?’
‘Bigger kid. Smaller kid.’
They were distracted by sirens. ‘That’s some speeder,’ Giroux remarked.
The two detectives returned to visualizing how the entry was accomplished. Fingerprints could very well go up the outside wall. ‘Call for a dusting,’ Giroux directed.
Cinq-Mars went back inside to use the phone. While there, Dr Shapiro came out of his office and spoke to Giroux. He seemed exercised. Cinq-Mars couldn’t make out his complaint but noticed the light in his new partner’s eye. Off the phone, Cinq-Mars went over.
‘Dr Shapiro owned a special baseball,’ Giroux explained.
‘Signed by Jackie Robinson,’ the physician made known.
‘Signed by Jackie Robinson and appraised for how much again?’
‘It was an heirloom of my father’s.’
‘You know who Jackie Robinson is, Detective?’ Giroux asked Cinq-Mars.
Robinson’s career in the majors, breaking the color barrier, was legendary. Montrealers had a special place in their hearts for him due to his time on their Triple-A club, the Royals. Baseball fan or not, everyone in the city knew about Jackie Robinson.
‘How much again?’ Giroux, unable to conceal a smug attitude, inquired.
‘We had it appraised at twelve grand. Time’s gone by. It’s probably worth seventeen, eighteen grand now. Hard to say.’
‘But not twenty. Not a round number like that.’
The doctor seemed taken aback. ‘I’m calculating ten percent a year over four or five years. So, seventeen, eighteen grand.’
‘Good deduction. The value’s important. Sir, the crime now merits being called a felony, rather than a misdemeanor. That’s important. This way, we might be allocated more time to investigate.’ Giroux raised an eyebrow in his partner’s direction, convinced that they were now included in a scam. He didn’t believe anything about the ball. If it ever existed, the doctor probably had it tucked away in a drawer. An insurance claim would now be submitted for the loss of the ball and the nuisance of being burglarized.
‘Finally, we’re getting somewhere,’ Savina Vaccaro said.
Before heading out, the detectives advised the couple to wait for the crime-scene unit to take fingerprints before cleaning up. The instruction pleased them. Satisfied, the doctor headed back to bed while his wife showed the policemen to the door. Her ardor for the handsome, tall Cinq-Mars had apparently chilled.
Giroux expressed an opinion on that. ‘Your nose. For a while there, she was intrigued. Then she decided she doesn’t like it. She thinks it’ll get in the way. For kissing, and like that.’
‘Folks can be shallow,’ Cinq-Mars concurred. He could not show vulnerability when moving to a different department on the force.
‘Let’s check out the fuss down the block,’ Giroux suggested.
An initiative Cinq-Mars welcomed.