Chapter 20

“To do this, we must try the simplest means first...”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

I scrambled to my feet. The flashlight reflected off polished brass.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“Freeze! Police!” yelled a uniformed Chicago cop. He turned his much bigger flashlight at my face.

“Stay where you are,” a second somebody coming through the window ordered. It was a female cop, and suddenly two big guns were aimed at my guts. They teach cops to shoot at the 3rd button on the bad guy’s shirt. I was the bad guy. I held my breath and hoped they weren’t gonna pull the trigger.

“Put that bag down on the floor and keep your hands where I can see them,” shouted the male officer.

Instantly I dropped the Borghese tool kit. “I don’t have any weapons,” I yelled. I knew I must look guilty. Worse, I was guilty. Worse yet, I realized I was going to have to prove I was innocent, and I didn’t know how.

“Keep your hands out, away from your body. I want to see all ten fingers,” the male cop barked. “Fingers pull triggers. If I can see your fingers, I know you can’t shoot me.”

I extended both arms and wiggled my fingers, complying to the fullest.

“Now turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he ordered.

I did, and handcuffs were clamped on faster than a star winks. Then I was patted down for weapons.

One of them turned on the lights. I blinked a few times before I could focus.

The female cop was about five feet nine with dark eyes and a lined face. I couldn’t tell if she was in her thirties or forties. She smirked as she tipped back my hood. My heart sank as I realized how guilty I looked - and felt.

“Back-up’s here,” the male cop shouted. “Cook, go tell them to search the rest of the grounds. You round up anyone who’s in the house and stash ‘em in another room.”

Officer Cook nodded and hurried out.

“Goin’ to a party with that black outfit and hood?” the male cop asked. “You know, the charges on you could go either way, criminal trespass or burglary, depending on what treasures you picked up in your bag there.”

I knew it was best to stay quiet, so I stared at him while he talked on his radio and kept his gun pointed at me. He was about 6 feet tall, Afro-American, graying hair, big hands and heavily built. Maybe slightly overweight. He had two pair of cuffs hanging on his tool belt. He was totally in control of the situation. I had no desire to tangle with him.

I felt sick. I could have kicked myself. I must have missed a trip wire connected to the safe that set off a silent alarm. With the Borghese tool kit holding the lock shooter and the magnetometer, how was I ever going to get out of this?