Beguiled (6 page)

“You’re saying this guy breaks into a mansion downtown, takes a clock off the mantel, and donates it to charity?”

“Yep,” the detective said.

“You’re saying he robs the rich and gives to the poor?”

“I guess so.”

And the Robin Hood burglar was born. His story was followed up with one about the clock itself, another about the nonprofit, and yet another about the history of the house it had been taken from.

Yesterday Robin had made off with an antique jewelry casket.

Logan had tried to interview the victim of the theft, an attorney at one of the high-priced downtown firms, but so far Karl Sebastian hadn’t returned any of his calls.

Reshuffling his notes, Logan tried to connect the burglaries.

He’d been to all three sites the night before and had Wash photograph them, then they’d walked a path from one to the next. The distance was just a couple of blocks.

All that was left was to call Nate Campbell. He dreaded the conversation. Nate wasn’t the sort of buddy to let you forget he’d just rescued you from a barking dog.

The detective picked up on the second ring.

“It’s Logan. I never did get a police report for the Sebastian break-in.”

“Hey, I was just thinking about you.”

“Spare me the details.”

“Remember your little friend from last night?”

“The dog?”

“Not the dog,” Nate said. “The girl. Miss Monroe.”

Riley
Monroe
—that was her name. “What about her?”

“You’re gonna want to talk to her, assuming you can work up the nerve. The missing jockey, from the first break-in? It just turned up on the steps of her church. When the priest or minister or whatever he’s called discovered the statue, she turned up and identified it. It belongs to one of her clients.”

“Maybe they should have left their dog at home to guard the place.”

“Anyway, looks like your Robin Hood angle is right on target. This one had a note: ‘Sell and give proceeds to the poor.’ Thought you’d want to know.”

He felt a surge of energy. This burglar, whoever he was, clearly intended to redistribute the wealth. “Can you give me her contact info?”

“The girl? Sure.”

Nate rattled off the number. “And the name is spelled funny,” he added, listing the letters one at a time.

“Rylee?” Logan smirked. “Seriously, she’s got to hate her parents.”

“She’s certainly a piece a work. Got a real mouth on her.”

“Oh, I don’t know. As scared as she was, I thought she handled herself pretty well.”

“You got to be kidding. We can’t have every person who sees a couple of guys in the park at night calling 9-1-1. We’d be out there 24/7. I tried to tell her that, and she got right in my face.”

Logan frowned. “She may have overreacted, Nate, but she was afraid.”

He scoffed. “You should have seen her this morning with that statue. Defensive as all get out. Something doesn’t smell right.”

Logan hung up the phone but didn’t dial Rylee Monroe’s number right away.

If he put himself in her shoes—or rollerblades, in this case—it was hard not to sympathize. She’d been frightened enough to call the police. Even if she read the situation wrong, the fear was real. And instead of reassurance when Nate showed up, she’d gotten the brush-off.

Now he was acting like she might be a suspect. Logan didn’t have a sister, but if he did, and the cops had treated her that way, he’d have a problem with the officer in charge.

Fact of the matter was, the girl deserved an apology. And it was pretty safe to say she wouldn’t be getting one from Nate. But that didn’t mean Logan couldn’t offer one on his behalf.

Picking up the phone, he punched in her number.

“Hello?” Her voice was tentative.

“Miss Monroe, hi. It’s Logan Woods. From last night?”

A pause.

Wash sauntered into his cubicle and tossed an 8x10 glossy of Rylee on his desk.

Logan picked it up. “Are you there, ma’am?”

“What’s this about?”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about what happened this morning at your church. My paper is covering the story, and since you were an eyewitness to the discovery—”

“I don’t think so. I—”

“Hold on.” He gripped the phone more tightly. “Before you say no, let me assure you, this won’t take up a lot of your time, and you’d be doing a public service by sharing your perspective.”

Public service?
Wash mouthed. He sat on the edge of Logan’s desk, making no effort to mask his interest.

Logan cleared his throat. “Listen, about last night. Detective Campbell was a little out of line.”

“You think?” A bite in her voice.

“Could I make it up to you? Maybe over a cup of coffee?”

Wash lifted his brows.

“I’d rather not.”

Logan swiveled his chair so his back was to Wash, but he still held the photo pinched between his fingers. “Just a quote, a sound bite, would be all I’d need.”

“I thought you wanted to make it up to me.”

“I do.”

“But you also want a sound bite.”

“If you don’t mind.”

On her end of the phone, a trolley car bell drowned out her next few words. “ . . . just answer your questions over the phone?”

He ran his thumb up and down the edge of the photo. “We could do a sound bite over the phone, but I’ve always thought apologies should be done in person.”

A hum of silence.

He sensed her wavering. “There’s a Starbucks on—”

“What about City Lights?” she said, her voice resigned. “You know that one?”

“City Lights?” He glanced at Wash, raising an eyebrow in question.

“It’s on Market between Meeting and King,” she said.

“Right.” Logan checked his watch. “What time?”

“Can you do it right now? Otherwise, it’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon.”

“Now is fine. I’m on my way.”

“Looks like she’s gonna make you grovel.” Wash snapped a picture, then indicated the tables outside City Lights.

Rylee pulled out a chair and sat at one of them, glancing through the big bay window.

“Oldest female trick in the book—make ’em come to you.” Wash focused his zoom. “ ’Course with a girl like that, groveling would be a pleasure.”

Logan quickly scanned the menu chalked on the blackboard. “Let me have two coffees of the day, please.” He placed some bills on the counter. “You stay here, Wash.”

“What? Is me being out there gonna cramp your style?”

“I was thinking about her.”

Wash grinned. “You sure you don’t need a witness? In case she calls the police on you again?”

Logan narrowed his eyes.

“All right. All right.”

Logan dropped his change in the tip jar, picked up the mugs and a couple of creamers, and then pushed out the door.

She waited at the table, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. A dark-wash denim mini-skirt sheathed her thighs, and her frilly top left her shoulders and arms bare.

He started to smile, then stalled midway. At her feet, a tiny white and gold dog stared up at him, the leash hanging limp in Rylee’s slender hand.

“I can’t bring him inside. Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite.” She leaned over to scrub the thing’s head with her nails. “Do you, boy?

Do you?”

“I didn’t realize you were working.”

She straightened. “I’m always working. Will Tippy bother you?

You’re not allergic, are you?”

He shook his head, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. “I got you a cup of basic black and some creamers. If you’d rather have something else . . . ?”

“No. I love black.” She ventured a sip, then nodded. “Thanks.”

He settled into the wrought-iron chair next to hers but opposite the dog, then leaned onto the table, close enough to inhale her scent, close enough almost for their arms to touch. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way things went down last night. I usually see Nate either in his office or on the baseball field. If I’d known how . . . excited he was going to get, I never would have enlisted his help.”

She crossed her legs, swinging her foot back and forth. Her flats were fire-engine red. “What made you think you needed help? I told you I had Toro. I told you I wouldn’t let him get you.”

He could have launched into an account of his sad history with canines and even shown her some traumatic childhood scars, but he bit his tongue instead. Apologies were best unqualified. “It was wrong of me. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for the way Nate acted.”

Her foot stopped. He wished he could see her eyes.

“He’s a real jerk, your friend.”

“We all have our moments.”

“Are you making excuses for him?”

“No. He was totally out of line, and I’m both sorry and embarrassed.” She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. The sunlight shrank her pupils, leaving brown irises the color of toffee. The camera hadn’t done them justice.

Her voice was so soft, he almost didn’t catch her words over the sound of traffic. “I really was scared. This Robin Hood thing is freaking me out. Stuff like that isn’t supposed to happen south of Broad.” She searched his eyes. “You have no idea how frightening it was to have you and your photographer pop out at me like that.”

He curled his hand around his mug. “I know. And I’m sorry for that, too. We were going for a kind of dramatic angle for our photos. That’s why you didn’t see us right away.”

As apologies went, it definitely ranked up there. And he seemed sincere. But his motive was still suspect. Was he genuinely sorry, or had he apologized simply because he wanted his sound bite? Or worse, what if his detective buddy put him up to it in order to fish for information?

Tippy wandered toward a communal canine water bowl under the front window, the leash lengthening as it went. The dog lapped up the liquid, then made his way toward Logan.

He looked different without his baseball cap. A thick mop of brown hair streaked by the sun lay in artful disarray, the ends curling slightly in the humidity. His chocolate-colored eyes were surrounded by eyelashes longer than hers, yet there was nothing feminine about him.

His eyebrows looked as if an artist had made a quick slash with his brush to frame each eye. A defined nose and jaw drew her eyes to his mouth. Subtle grooves on each side hinted at a lifetime of smiles.

He eyed Tippy as the dog scratched its ear, paw thumping Logan’s shoe after each scratch.

She snapped her fingers. “Come ’ere, Tippy.”

Logan’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit. He flipped his notebook open, setting it on the table in front of him. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Are we good?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not the detective sent you here to question me.”

“Nate?” He reared back. “Why would he do that? Nate conducts his own interviews. I have nothing to do with his work and he has nothing to do with mine.”

She bit her lip, still unsure.

He held out his hand. “Let’s start over, okay? I’m Logan.”

The appeal in his eyes was impossible to resist. After a slight hesitation, she reached out. His hand was warm to the touch. “I’m Rylee.”

“You had quite a morning, I hear.”

She took another sip, then placed her mug down gently. “Yes, I did.”

“You know the Bosticks, then. The people whose jockey got stolen?”

She nodded. “It was kinda surreal, seeing it there at the church.

I was, like,
Wait a minute—I recognize that thing.
Then, like an idiot, I offered to take it back to them. There could be fingerprints, and I put my hands on it.”

He pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and set it on the table. “Do you mind?”

“No, I guess not.”

He pressed the record button. “This statue, it was the first of the thefts. Did you talk to the Bosticks about it?”

She gazed up at the striped umbrella they sat beneath, tapping into her memory. “I remember Mr. Bostick saying they were going to change the door locks, which was funny because the guy had jimmied the window overlooking the garden. When I asked him what was wrong, he showed me the mention in the paper.” She turned to him. “I guess you wrote that?”

“I did.”

“You know how you said which night the break-in occurred?”

He nodded.

“Well, that was actually the night they discovered the statue was missing.”

“It wasn’t stolen on—” he flipped through his notebook “—August ninth?”

She shook her head. “They don’t know exactly when it went missing.”

“How could that be?”

“You could only tell from the outside that there was damage to the window. When the thief shut it again, it was unnoticeable from inside.”

“And the perp came in from the garden?”

She blew on the warm liquid in her mug, sending waves across its black surface. “The Bosticks travel a lot. They have a beautiful garden, but I think the gardener and I are pretty much the only ones who ever go out there.”

“You’d think they would notice the statue was gone, though.

It’s two feet tall, right?”

“Yes, but I can see why they didn’t miss it right away. Their place is like a museum. A lot of those historic houses are, but that one in particular.” She flicked the hair from her eyes and smiled. “You know how they realized it had been stolen?”

“I don’t, actually. I based my article on the police report and a couple of phone conversations with Doug Bostick, who made it sound like the crime was reported as soon as it happened.” His eyes had widened slightly, calling attention to caramel accents radiating from their centers.

“I can see how you thought that, but the day they called the police, Mrs. Bostick was telling her husband she wanted to hire a new maid service. In the middle of this discussion, she goes over to the table where the statue was, and starts pointing out the dust on everything. And she sees this square section, perfectly dust-free.

‘What was standing right here?’ she asks, and he can’t remember.

They went all through the house and finally it came to her, the bronze jockey. Isn’t that something?”

“It is.” He made a note, his arms and shoulders crowding the circular tabletop.

Tippy circled the gap between their chairs. Rylee moved her Vera Bradley bag, grazing Logan’s arm by accident.