Authors: Deeanne Gist
He tapped his pencil against his knee. “I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t remember George Reid giving away the things he stole. Can you actually link him to any of the Robin Hood break-ins?”
Nate rolled his eyes. “The guy has access to every crime scene. He comes and goes through the neighborhood without anyone paying attention. He’s in a perfect position to case the houses.” He shook his head. “The only other person who has that kind of means and opportunity is Miss Dogwalker Extraordinaire. And the only reason I haven’t arrested her already is because she’s got no criminal record. Not so much as a traffic ticket.”
Logan stilled.
Nate leaned forward. “But I can tell you this. Lack of criminal record notwithstanding, one more client of hers gets hit and I’m bringing her in. And not to my office, either.”
Forcing himself to stay calm, Logan tucked his pencil and notebook into his pocket. “That’s ridiculous.”
Nate gave him a knowing look. “You ever wonder if maybe you’re being played, Logan? Maybe this girl’s not what she seems?”
Logan shook his head. “She’d have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Besides, why break in when she already has the keys?”
Nate held up his hand, ticking off each point one finger at a time. “The Bosticks were out of town when their statue was stolen. Monroe had the house all to herself and could have busted that window any time she wanted.” Tick one. “She was the sole witness to the Sebastian theft. She could have heisted the jewelry casket, ripped down the curtain rod, and acted like she’d caught the burglar in the act.” Tick two. “The Petries were in London when their place was hit. Monroe, again, had the place to herself and all the time in the world to trash it.” Tick three. “She used to work for the Ormsbys. She knows the layout of that house the way she knows the palm of her hand. She knows where the violins are. She also would’ve known which way to go when Ormsby came up the front stairs.” Tick four. “One more, Logan, and she’s mine.” Tick five.
Wanna bet?
“It’s nothing but circumstantial.”
“Over ninety percent of our cases are circumstantial. You know that.”
“So she had the means and opportunity. But what about motive?”
“Her father, Jonathan Monroe, used to own one of those big mansions on East Battery—did she tell you that?”
No. She hadn’t.
“Those people she walks dogs for? She used to be one of them.
The Monroes were Charleston royalty. What about that? Did she happen to mention that little piece of trivia?”
I barely know her. There hasn’t been time
.
“And get this. The dad cleaned out their bank account and disappeared. The mom ate a bottle of sleeping pills. End of fairy tale, my friend.”
Sleeping pills?
Logan pinched his nose between his fingers. “Even if this is true, it’s ancient history. She was just a kid. What does it have to do with the burglaries?”
“You asked for a motive, Logan, so I’m giving it to you. That girl has a temper and a lot of anger bottled up inside. I’ve been given a front row seat on more than one occasion. Now, who do you think all that resentment is directed at, other than the police?
Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“The people who have what she doesn’t. What she should’ve had, in her own mind. She lives in a dump, barely making enough money to pay the bills. I know. I’ve been checking her bank statements. But she spends every waking moment with the
crème de le crème
of Charleston society, going through their houses, plotting some sick and twisted revenge. Open your eyes, Logan. You’re flirting with the scoop of a lifetime. You’d see it yourself if you’d let your brain lead.”
Logan slowly rose, furious with his friend. Make that ex-friend. He knew how these things went. Desperate to pin these burglaries on somebody, the police might stoop to some low-level harassment. Cold-calling Rylee’s clients, pulling any outstanding traffic tickets, alerting patrol to keep an eye out for Daisy, pulling her over without cause. From his departmental contacts, he knew how easy that kind of thing was, and how common.
But Nate was trying to put her in the frame as an accomplice to the Robin Hood burglaries, if not casting her as the burglar herself.
“She’s not the Robin Hood burglar, Nate. Let it go.”
Nate snorted. “No offense, buddy, but I’m not taking orders from you.”
Logan closed and opened his fists. “Just remember, I report it like I see it. You arrest her and it’ll be no holds barred.”
Nate narrowed his eyes. “You threatening a police officer, Woods?”
“Just putting you on notice.” Turning, he strode out of the cubicle.
Wash’s car sat idling at curbside, the photographer behind the wheel. Earlier, he’d followed Logan to the repair shop, where they’d dropped off Daisy for a new window.
“How’d it go in there?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Logan said. “First, I’ve got to call George Reid. Now move over. I’m not getting in a car with you unless I’m behind the wheel.”
He left a couple of messages for the gardener, but the man probably had better things to do after being bailed out of jail. So he called Marcel instead. Got a recording there, too.
“What do you want from Reid?” Wash asked.
“For starters, I want to know why he refused representation from Karl Sebastian. I need to check my notes, but if I’m not mistaken, Sebastian’s firm represented George back when he had that first conviction.”
Wash shrugged. “And look how that turned out. Maybe he doesn’t want a repeat.”
“When a firm like Sebastian, Lynch & Orton knocks at your door, you don’t turn them away. Something’s not right there. Anyway, if George had been willing to talk back then, they’d have gotten him a deal, I’m sure.”
“I thought you said Karl was all smoke and no fire?”
“Even so.”
“And Gibbon? What do you want with the Cherub?”
“I want to know why he’s running interference for George.
That’s not his style, coming out of the shadows like that. It’s got to be more than just doing a favor for a stand-up guy. Gibbon must have some exposure here, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what.”
That wasn’t all. The things Nate had told him about Rylee’s parents still rang in his ears. The father taking off with a fortune, the mother overdosing. If Jonathan Monroe was involved in some kind of monumental swindle, then Gibbon would be a good person to ask about that, too. He knew the city’s secrets like no other.
They swung by George’s residence, knocked on the door, and tucked a business card under the screen.
“Maybe he’s already back at work?” Wash suggested.
Logan called Rylee, thinking she might know the man’s schedule. “You haven’t spoken to George by any chance, have you?”
She sounded surprised. “Is he out?”
“When I was at the station this morning, Nate said he’d made bail.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him.”
“If you do, let me know.” He lowered his voice. “How you feeling after last night?”
A pause. “All right, I guess.”
“You working?”
“Of course.”
“Just be careful.”
“Why? Do you think I’m in danger?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I just wish you weren’t alone down there.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “It’s broad daylight. And besides, I’m not alone. Say hi to Sahsha.” On cue, a dog barked in his ear.
“Okay, then,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
When he got off the phone, Wash wasted no time. “What’s tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was nothing.”
“Really? Sounded like a date to me.”
“I’m just bringing her car back.” Logan checked his side mirror, then switched lanes.
“That’s another thing that needs explaining. How come you’re the one getting her window fixed? Is that a service you’re offering on all your stories now?” Wash settled back against the passenger door. “So, are you taking her out tonight or not?”
He sighed. “I am. So what?”
Wash let out a low whistle. “Let me congratulate you, my man, on your fine taste. She’s one hot-looking woman—that’s for sure.”
Logan kept his eyes on the road.
Wash laid an arm along the closed window and drummed his fingers. “I thought you weren’t interested in any female entanglements.” “That’s not what this is.”
Wash laughed. “Really? Well, we’re having that crab boil tonight at the beach, if you feel like bringing her by.”
“We’ve got plans.”
They pulled into the
Post & Courier
parking lot, flashed their ids at the door, then parted ways in the newsroom. Logan found his old file on Reid and read through it as a refresher, stalling on one of the pages. When Grant Sebastian had first taken George’s case, Sebastian, Lynch & Orton had been Sebastian, Lynch &Monroe.
Logan fell back against his chair. It couldn’t be.
He woke up his computer and went to work. Jonathan Monroe had been a prominent defense attorney for the firm until December of 1989 when he suddenly disappeared. Two days later, his wife, Stella, died of an overdose of sleeping pills. Accident or suicide was undetermined.
They were survived by a daughter, Rylee Rachelle Monroe, and Jonathan’s mother, Flora Mae Monroe.
Logan stared at the screen. If she’d graduated from jihs in ’02, she’d have been five in ’89 when her dad took off and her mother died.
He dragged a hand down his face, recalling the photo of her parents he’d seen at her apartment. “
They’re gone now. My dad left when I was a girl. My mom . . . well, she was very down after that and . . . died shortly after.”
He thought about all his uncles and aunts. His grandparents and cousins. Though he was an only child, his dad had six brothers and a sister. Logan was hardly lacking in the family department.
But no one was mentioned in the Monroe obituary other than Rylee and her grandmother. The grandmother who lived in a retirement home. The grandmother she was taking him to see tonight.
Did Rylee know her dad had been a partner in the Sebastian firm? He shook his head. She had to. But she’d never mentioned it. And why would she?
It certainly explained her defense of Karl, though, when Logan had warned her away from him. She’d probably known the guy forever.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to George’s file. Not long after the disappearance of Jonathan Monroe and Stella’s subsequent death, George Reid refused to testify during his court proceedings, ending up in jail.
Truth was, Nate was right. Rylee probably did have a motive. But he knew she wasn’t Robin Hood. Nobody could fake her lack of pretense. Her innocence. Her naïveté. Nate may think she was harboring suppressed anger, but Logan knew better. Still, he had a lot of questions.
He started typing up his notes, planning to shape them into a follow-up piece about the arrest of George. Ordinarily, he’d lose himself in the words. This time, though, he found his fingers falling still on the keyboard. His mind trying to wrap itself around the tragedy that engulfed a young Rylee, and all the little ways her life intertwined with the case.
He finally forced some focus, finished his piece, and gave his copy a final read-through before sending it up the editorial ladder. Just as he sat back, the phone rang.
“You called me?”
It was Marcel Gibbon.
Logan tossed down his pencil and braced his arms on his desk. “Yeah. Did you break into Rylee’s car last night?”
“Don’t insult me. All I did was introduce myself.”
“So I heard.” He wanted to put Gibbon on notice, too, just as he had Nate. The dogwalker was off limits, so leave her out of it. But he needed information. “Listen, I need a face-to-face.”
“This is getting a little tedious, Woods.”
“I’m happy to discuss it over the phone.”
Gibbon sighed. “As it turns out, my evening is open.”
“I can’t tonight.” Logan picked up his pencil and drummed it against a stack of folders. “I have plans.”
“Change them.”
“I can’t. It’s a . . . date.”
“A date? Let me guess. With the luscious Miss Monroe?”
Logan didn’t answer.
“By all means, bring her along. If I made a bad impression, this will give me a chance to make it up to the girl.”
Logan raked a hand through his hair. “I promised I’d go meet her grandma.”
A pregnant pause. “My, Logan. What big eyes you have.” His cackle turned into a wheeze, then a lungful of coughing. “I’m a night owl, son. Granny will be tucked in long before our rendezvous.
And it’s either tonight, or not at all. I have better things to do than cater to your every whim.”
Logan rubbed his eyes. “I’ll call you.”
As first dates went, this one was already teetering on the brink of catastrophe. He was either going to have to end it prematurely or invite her to an evening chat with the man who’d harassed her on the street. Not exactly a recipe for romance.
He checked his watch. Under his desk, his gym bag beckoned, ready for the quick change after work. He dialed the repair shop, then called Wash for a ride over.
Rylee exited through the sliding doors of the Piggly Wiggly, grocery bags in hand. As soon as she filled up the BMW, she could go home, make herself a salad, and enjoy her day off.
Logan was picking her up at seven thirty, so Liz had insisted on spending the afternoon giving Rylee a facial, doing her nails, and helping her pick out what to wear. She’d given Rylee plenty of warning that she must, without exception, wear perfume.
“It can be light, soft, just a whisper of a scent. I’ve got tons to choose from. But if I have to hold you down and apply it myself, you
will
wear it.”
Rylee crawled into the car, lowering the windows to let out the trapped heat. The soft leather seats enfolded her. The seatbelt hugged her close.
Running her errands in Logan’s car gave her a curious, proprietary feeling. As if she was his and he was hers. The thought made her panic a little. What had she been thinking to agree to a genuine walk-you-to-the-door-for-a-good-night-kiss date?