The Law & Daughter series

During a burglary investigation, Sheriff Lucy Valentine receives some unrequested assistance . . . from her mother.

A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

by John M. Floyd

Sheriff Lucille Valentine was scribbling notes and leaning against her cruiser in front of the Riverview Apartments when she heard someone call her name. She looked up to see her mother, Frances, marching down the hill from the street, her chin up and her purse tucked under her arm like a football. Wearily Lucy took off her sunglasses and forced a smile.

“Domestic disturbance?” Frances asked. She looked out of breath, her face as pink as old brick. Lucy couldn't tell if it was from exertion or excitement. Probably both.

Frances Valentine—Fran to her friends—loved anything involving police work.

“Let me guess,” Lucy said. “You've been watching Adam-12 reruns again.”

This drew a smile. “ Hill Street Blues ,” Fran said, puffing.

Lucy looked past Fran's shoulder and saw her old clunker double-parked at the top of the hill. “I thought this was your sewing-circle day.”

“I was on my way when I spotted you.” Fran switched her purse to the other arm, leaned forward, and said, “Fill me in.”

Sheriff Valentine shook her head and went back to writing in her notepad. “A burglary, last night. Ms. Rooney, in 205.”

“B & E?” Fran was now staring up at Alice Rooney's apartment window.

Lucy sighed. “Yes, Mother, they broke and entered. There was nothing outside to burglarize.”

“Don't be a smartypants, young lady. You need all the help you can get, here.”

“What do you mean?”

Fran waved her free hand. “This place is Crime Central, lately. Margaret Beemon told me yesterday somebody's been spying on her, through her window.”

“How? Margaret's on the third floor.”

Fran turned and pointed east, at the rugged, wooded hillside across the road. “Somebody from up there, she said, with binoculars.”

“Binoculars?”

“She saw the sun glinting off the lenses.”

“Listen to yourself, Mother—a peeping Tom? Margaret Beemon's ninety years old.”

“So?”

The sheriff pushed her hat back, massaged her forehead. “Look, Mother, no offense, but I'm pretty busy here—”

“How'd the burglar gain access to the premises?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Access to the premises?”

“I also watch Matlock .”

Another sigh. “Ms. Rooney wasn't home. Her apartment door was jimmied, the chain cut.” Lucy nodded toward the building's front entrance. “The main door is secure—a coded keypad. Don't know how he got past that.”

“Think somebody buzzed him in?”

“Possibly.”

Fran was quiet a moment. “What exactly was stolen?”

“Some loose cash. And her husband's wallet, off his desk.” Mr. Rooney, they both knew, had died two weeks ago.

“Nothing else missing? Jewelry? Silverware?”

“Nope. Even her purse was untouched. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“How much cash was taken?” Fran asked.

Lucy started to object again, then changed her mind. What could it hurt? At least this was better than her mother's next most favorite topic, which was Lucy's single status and her ticking biological clock. “Maybe fifty dollars,” Lucy said. “In a money clip.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“Some, from the desk. We're running them.”

“What was in his wallet?”

“Odds and ends. Tickets, receipts . . . Ms. Rooney said she'd already removed the money and credit cards.”

Fran seemed to ponder that. “Maybe the wallet was what the burglar really wanted. Maybe the cash was to throw us off.”

Sheriff Valentine almost said something about the “us” reference, but didn't. She'd actually been thinking the same thing, about the cash.

Finally her mother said, “Wasn't Rooney a poker player?”

“Yes. His wife mentioned that.”

“Who'd he play with?”

Lucy checked her notes. “Jim Reed and Charlie Farrow, old football buddies. Also those two builders, Meade and Jackson—I don't really know them.”

“M & J Construction? I know 'em. I call 'em Mutt and Jeff. Jackson's the little guy.” Fran paused, her brow furrowed. “Think Rooney owed them money?”

“Other way around,” Lucy said. “One of the four owed him .”

“A lot?”

“Supposedly. Ms. Rooney said he'd told her, ‘The guy cheats, but he still loses.'”

“Which guy?”

“She didn't know.”

“Maybe that's it,” Fran said, eyes wide. “Maybe the wallet contained I.O.U.'s. Undiscovered I.O.U.'s.”

“A possibility.”

She gave Lucy a long, thoughtful look, then turned. “I better be going.”

Lucy knew that look. “Stay out of this, Mother. Okay?”

“Ten-four,” Fran said, over her shoulder.

“Ten-four?”

“Dragnet ,” she said. “Channel 16.”

***

Three hours later Sheriff Valentine's office phone rang. She was not at all surprised to hear her mother's voice on the line.

“It's me. Remember that peeping Tom I told you about?”

“I remember,” Lucy said.

“And that Margaret said she saw the sun in his binoculars?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I've been thinking,” Fran said. “When would the sun reflect off something from that hillside, aimed west at the building?”

Lucy frowned, swiveled her desk chair to gaze out the window. “I don't know . . . late in the day, I guess.”

“Right. Around sundown. Quitting time.”

“Quitting time?”

“When folks are coming home from work, to their apartments.”

“Is there a point here somewhere, Mother?”

“What if,” Fran said, “our Tom wasn't peeping at all? What if he was watching residents key the secret entry code into the keypad at the front door?”

The sheriff blinked. “Go on.”

“I think I know who our burglar is,” Fran said. “And where he'll be tonight.”

***

Lucy Valentine was having doubts. For two hours she'd been sitting in the dark on the hillside across from the Riverview Apartments. Her legs were stiff, her uniform was sweaty, and mosquitoes were having a banquet on the exposed skin above her shirt collar.

And then she heard something. Something moving through the underbrush. Craning her neck, Lucy saw a flashlight beam sweep the rough ground twenty feet away. Her tiredness vanished. She drew her revolver and crept toward the sounds.

Five minutes later she had a man in custody, handcuffed and moaning in the dirt. She summoned her two deputies via cell phone and sat on the suspect's back until they arrived. When the man had been hauled away to jail, a very pleased Sheriff Valentine phoned her mother.

“You were right,” Lucy said.

“I usually am.”

“You never told me,” Lucy said, clawing at her mosquito bites, “how you knew it was him.”

“Jackson, you mean? I didn't,” Fran said. “But he was the likeliest suspect. Construction folks know all about doorlocks and chains. And he's the only cardplayer who wasn't big as a barn—the other three'd never have made it up that hill. I'm surprised you did.”

Lucy let that pass. She wasn't a large lady, but her weight was another thing her mother was always harping at her about. “But why'd you think he'd be here tonight?” Lucy asked. “He'd already found out—and used—the entry code.”

“He was there for damage control,” Fran said. “Without naming names, you see, I told the girls at the hair salon my burglar/peeping-Tom theory. But I also said you had experts coming tomorrow to comb the hillside for footprints.”

“Footprints? It's too rocky up here for footprints.”

“Nobody said burglars are smart, Lucy.”

That explained the whisk-broom they'd found in Jackson's pocket, Lucy thought. What an idiot. “So somebody there tipped him off?”

“Dixie Myers, probably. I figured she would.”

“But Jackson's married,” Lucy said. “Why would she—”

“Let's just say, cards wasn't the only thing Jackson cheated at.”

Lucy couldn't help smiling. “Mother, you amaze me, sometimes.”

“The BP Network,” Fran said. “Always reliable.”

“British Petroleum?”

“Beauty Parlor.”

Lucy chuckled. “Maybe I should deputize them.”

“They wouldn't like the hats.” Suddenly Fran's voice turned serious. “You sure he'll get jail time? The contents of the wallet are probably gone by now.”

“His prints'll match. We'll still get him for the fifty bucks.”

“And for the B & E. Right?”

Lucy grinned. “Ten-four,” she said.