okay?” I asked Maria.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing her eyeliner, then nodded and took another drag. I didn’t have the heart to remind her about the state law that banned smoking in restaurants.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” I left the room and followed Adler down a hallway that branched to the kitchen on the right, restrooms on the left. He shone his Maglite at the ceiling. Where the grate for the air-conditioning duct should have been was a gaping hole.
I groaned. “We’ve got ourselves a rooftop burglar.”
I continued down the hall, pushed the panic bar on the rear exit and stepped outside. A gust of wind blew a tattered newspaper across the rear parking lot, empty except for a car I later learned was Ridoletti’s. A dog barked in the distance. In the harsh glow of security lights, I scanned the back of the building. A Dumpster stood along the rear wall with a wooden pallet leaning against it. Another pallet atop the Dumpster rested against the wall like a ladder.
“There’s your access,” I said. “Make sure the techs process this area.”
Fresh skid marks from a single narrow tire indicated the perp might have made his getaway by bike. Or it could have been a track left earlier in the day by a kid just passing through.
I nodded to the row of mobile homes in the trailer park that backed up to the strip mall. “We’ll start a canvass. Maybe the neighbors saw something.”
“Now?” Adler lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “It’s almost 2:00 a.m.”
“Most of those folks are in their late seventies and eighties,” I reminded him. “They won’t remember squat by daybreak.”
“That’s cold, Maggie.”
“We’re in a cold business, Adler.”
Eight hours and an equal number of cups of coffee later, I sat at my desk in CID and typed my report. None of the neighbors behind Mama Mia’s had seen or heard anything. Unlike the popular television crime dramas that have the culprit in custody within an hour—including commercial breaks—our crime lab techs had found zip, but not for lack of trying. To make matters worse, Maria Ridoletti was already proclaiming to all who would listen that if the sheriff’s department had been handling the case, she’d probably have her money back by now.
I finished the report and tried to ignore the foreboding in my gut. Examining the strip mall, I’d noted that Bloomberg’s Jewelers was next door to Mama Mia’s. Maria had stated that the robber had been startled to encounter her. Apparently not expecting to confront anyone, however, he’d worn a mask, even though business hours were long over. That fact suggested he’d prepared for surveillance cameras, which were prevalent in Bloomberg’s. My guess was that the thief had intended to hit the jewelry store but had become disoriented on the roof and picked the wrong air duct for entry.
If there was anything worse than a burglar, it was a stupid burglar. Maria Ridoletti was lucky he hadn’t panicked and shot her. I figured the only reason he hadn’t was that he hadn’t actually had a gun.
This time.
“Skerritt! Get in here!” Chief Shelton’s voice reverberated through the building from his office at the other end of the hall. Whenever his temper escalated, he abandoned the intercom for a more direct and intimidating form of communication.
Hoping to respond before his infamous temper boiled over, I hurried to his office. Kyle Dayton flashed me a sympathetic glance as I passed his post at the dispatch desk.
“Close the door,” Shelton snapped when I entered his pine-paneled inner sanctum.
I shut the door behind me and waited for the chief to speak. For several weeks after the city council had first broached disbanding the police department, Shelton had discarded his fireball personality and slunk around the P.D. like a whipped dog. But somehow he’d regained his pugnacious attitude, the fiery spirit that had seen him through the Vietnam War and his early KKK days in the Georgia foothills and had ultimately made him a contender in the political arena. Politics was the only reason he held his $180,000 a year position, because Shelton had the policing and personnel skills of a gnat.
“You got a lead on this rooftop burglar?” Midmorning sunlight glinted off his bald head and his pale blue eyes squinted in the glare from the window that overlooked the city park.
“Not yet. No physical evidence was recovered at the scene, and the perp was masked.”
“Dammit, Skerritt, first a serial murderer and now this. How the hell do you expect us to keep our department—”
“Crime happens, Chief. That’s why we’re here.”
Shelton’s face reddened and a vein bulged at his temple. “We’re here to keep crime from happening, and if we don’t, we sure as hell won’t be here much longer. There’ll be sheriff’s cruisers patrolling these streets instead of our green-and-whites!”
“You want me to consult a psychic?” I already knew the answer, but Shelton’s dumbfounded expression was worth asking the question.
“Hell, no. Just solve the damn case.”
“With no suspects, no leads, no hard evidence, that’s a problem. I could put the word out to our usual informants, offer to pay for info in case the perp blabs to his cronies or flashes his take around town.”
Shelton shook his head with a guttural growl. “Whatever you do, keep expenses down. Money’s the whole issue behind the council’s push to can us.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I turned to leave.
“And, Skerritt,” he added.
“Yes?”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
I knew he’d say that. Luck, after all, was free.
After fruitless hours of scanning mug shots and vital statistics in search of a runt who could fit through air ducts, I shut down my ancient computer and called it a day at 7:00 p.m.
Bill Malcolm met me at the Dock of the Bay, a restaurant and bar that overlooked the marina where Bill’s thirty-eight-foot cabin cruiser, the Ten-Ninety-Eight was moored. Bill, who had lived on board since his retirement from the Tampa P.D. two years ago, had offered to cook supper for me in his galley kitchen, but I’d turned him down. Our relationship had taken an unexpected turn during my vacation. For years he had been joking about my marrying him, but now I wasn’t so sure he was joking any longer, and I was uncertain how I felt about that change. I loved him, without question. One other fact of which I was completely certain, however, was that I wasn’t a good candidate for marriage. In reality, no cop was, hence the skyrocketing divorce rate for police officers.
Years ago Bill’s wife, spooked by fear of his dying in the line of duty, had divorced him and moved to Seattle with their only daughter, Melanie. Bill had been heartbroken. I’d stepped in to help with his daughter on her infrequent visits, and my relationship with Bill had deepened, then stalled in limbo when I’d put on the brakes. I still wasn’t sure what had stopped me, fear of commitment
