THE MID-MORNING TRAFFIC made Sherri difficult to hear.
“The original buyer was a Richard Slauson. He bought the watch sixteen years ago, here in L.A. Slauson notified the company thirty-two days ago. His watch was stolen, so he asked them to put it on the list. You want his info?”
“It was stolen thirty-two days ago?”
“He reported it thirty-two days ago. Do you want the man’s contact info or not?”
Sherri was angry.
I said, “Please.”
She spelled Slauson’s name, and read off a phone number and an address in Beverly Hills.
I said, “You sound mad. What’s wrong?”
“I’m annoyed. I told you what would happen if this thing was on the list. He knew the watch as soon as I mentioned the model. He was all over me.”
Her friend.
“All over you, wanting to know why you were asking?”
“All over me, as in demanding and threatening. You don’t have to worry. I didn’t mention your name.”
“I’m not worried. I’m wondering why the big deal.”
“The police. The police showed up a few days after Slauson put his watch on the list. My friend has been in the business for years, and this was the first time the police have been to his office. They were all over this watch. They told him to call, twenty-four/seven, if the numbers turned up.”
I didn’t get it.
“For a watch?”
“He’s never seen the police this hot to recover a timepiece. Ever.”
“Is Slauson someone important?”
“I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. He wasn’t anxious to share.”
I thought about what she had told me, and understood why she was angry.
“Is your friend going to tell the police you asked?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Put it on me, Sherri. If the police call, tell them the truth. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Her voice softened, and lost the annoyance.
“You’ve been warned. Worry about yourself.”
Sherri hung up.
Nothing about Slauson’s name was familiar, so I searched his name and address on the Internet. Pictures and information were easy to find.
Richard, seventy-two, and Margaret, seventy-one, were retired dermatologists. Dr. and Dr. Slauson had two daughters and five grandchildren. They were active in charities, volunteered at a downtown mission, and appeared to be wonderful people. A voice mail answered my call, but I hung up before the beep. A personal visit would be more appropriate, especially since I wanted Tyson to personally return Dr. Slauson’s watch.
The Doctors Slauson lived in a hillside Beverly Hills neighborhood called Trousdale Estates. Their home was set behind a wrought-iron gate and bird-of-paradise plants, with a motor court stretching from the gate to an older, well-kept Spanish Revival the color of peaches. I liked the color. Peaches were friendly.
A call box with a camera dome as black as a shark’s eye topped a post at the gate. I parked across the street, and walked to the call box. The shark’s eye watched me approach. I pressed the call button, and heard a buzz inside the house. The ringer buzzed for almost a minute, and finally quit. The Slausons weren’t home.
I took out a card, and wrote a note asking the Slausons to call. I was about to put the card into their mailbox when a balding man in bad shorts and a T-shirt called from behind me.
“Are you one of the real estate people?”
His voice was deep, and didn’t go with the rest of him.
“No, sir. Elvis Cole. I’m looking for Richard Slauson.”
“George Wilcox. I live across the street.”
I gave him the card, and watched him frown.
“Detective. You here about the burglary?”
Burglary.
“I’m looking into it. Do you know when the Slausons will be home?”
He flexed the card.
“They moved. Margie doesn’t feel safe anymore, so they moved to the Palm Springs house.”
“Because of the burglary?”
“She couldn’t sleep. Had nightmares about people standing over the bed. Still has them, from what Rich tells me. Been over a month.”
I glanced at the house. If Tyson could help the police identify the thief, even better.
“Were they home when it happened?”
“Uh-uh. Palm Springs. Came home, and found the house looted. You should’ve seen the police. We had police everywhere, asking if we saw anything.”
We stepped aside to make way for a pickup truck. Construction workers, on their way to a job site. Wilcox scowled as they passed.
“You watch. It’ll turn out to be one of these guys. All this construction, hundreds of workmen, half of them casing our homes.”
I said, “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“See anything.”
He shook his head and waved at the call box.
“Not me, but the cameras got’m. Big, nasty mothers in masks. I told Rich, good thing you and Margie weren’t home. They would’ve raped her.”
Rich and Margie probably moved to get away from him.
A small sign stood in the ivy at the edge of the drive. FIRST TIER SECURITY. First Tier was a full-service, twenty-four-hour security company. Most of the homes in Beverly Hills had similar signs from other companies, but First Tier signs were common. I had helped one of the First Tier founders with a personal matter, and worked with them several times.
“Did you hear the alarm?”
Wilcox sneered.
“What alarm? These guys were hard-core professionals. They’ve robbed houses from Beverly Hills to Encino.”
I nodded at the sign.
“Must be good if they beat the alarm. First Tier is as good as it gets.”
Wilcox sneered again.
“Money wasted, for all the good. Now my wife wants a German shepherd. A man-eater the size of a horse.”
He wasn’t thrilled about picking up horse-sized dog poop.
“Rich loves this house, but Margie can’t sleep. He says they’ll probably sell, so now we’re crawling with real estate people. One damned thing after another.”
Wilcox was complaining about the real estate people when a brown sedan cruised past. The driver was a burly man in his forties with a broad face and cheap sunglasses. His female passenger had hard eyes, and raven hair pinned in a bun. They slowed as they passed, and gave Wilcox another reason to scowl.
“Look at these two. Lookie-loos.”
I gestured at my card.
“When you speak to Dr. Slauson, would you please ask him to call? It’s important.”
He trudged up his drive without answering.
I said, “Thank you.”
I took out a new card, and wrote the same note. The sedan reappeared as I dropped the card into the mailbox. The couple inside saw me, and saw me see them. The woman spoke to the man, and the man looked at my car.
I waited until they were gone, fished my card from the mailbox, and returned to my car. I called First Tier, and asked for Dave Deitman. Dave was one of the founders.
Dave said, “Hey, brudda man, long time. What’s doing?”
“A house in Trousdale. The Slausons.”
I started to give the address, but he didn’t need to hear it.
“Yeah, sure, I know it. You in on the action?”
“What action?”
“You kidding me? All these high-end burglaries? Insurance investigators are having a feeding frenzy.”
“I’m on something that might be connected. Has LAPD made an arrest?”
“Not yet, but it’s coming. We pulled a good face off Slauson, and these kids leave prints and DNA everywhere.”
The world slowed when I heard him.
I said, “Kids.”
“They’re kids. Three morons.”
I said it again, just to be sure.
“Kids.”
“Teenagers, young adults, whatever. A female and two males. I’m not saying they’re little children.”
I stared out the window. Wilcox described big nasty mothers and multiple burglaries.
“How many burglaries are we talking about?”
“Seventeen, eighteen, something like that. The number’s in play. The task force is playing connect-the-dots with fingerprints.”
“A task force has the case?”
“This is big, brudda man. You mess with rich people, you get the full-court press.”
“They have prints and DNA, but no IDs.”
“It happens. Never been busted, so they aren’t in the system. They hood up, they’re good about ducking the cameras, but the one kid, he finally screwed up. Unknown Male Numero Uno. We got him. First Tier got his face.”
Dave was so proud of himself he laughed.
“Can I see his picture?”
“Sure. On the way.”
My phone chimed when the picture arrived.
I knew who I’d see even before I opened Dave’s email. The image was pixelated, and green with infrared glare. A ball cap and hoodie stole part of the subject’s face, but his remaining features were clear.
I noted the time, and did the math. Three hours and seven minutes had passed since I left Devon Connor, and now her case was solved. Impressive. This was probably a record for high-speed detection, but being the World’s Fastest Detective didn’t make me feel better.
I looked at the picture, and Tyson looked back.
Dave was speaking, but his voice was lost.
I thought about Devon. She would have questions I couldn’t answer. She would need help I wasn’t sure I could give.