THE CASE OF HORUS, THE GOLDEN FALCON

by Courts Mroch

After confirming their credentials, the guard waved Joi Sinclair and her partner, Beau “Buck” Buchanan, through the gates.

“Whoa! Swanky stuff. You ever been in here, Sinclair?”

Driving past the million dollar homes nestled within the exclusive confines of the Beauclerc Country Club, Joi might have felt out of place in her ten-year-old Taurus, considering the BCC set favored cars like BMW, Mercedes, and Lexus. But she didn't care about those sorts of things; she only cared about doing her job.

“Nope. My clientele usually isn't this exclusive.”

“If you nail this case I guarantee you'll see an upswing from the higher tax brackets. Their referrals are priceless.”

Joi took Buchanan's word on it. In his first life, as he liked to call it, he'd been a cop down in Miami nearly thirty years. He'd retired, then worked investigation for a private firm for about eight years, until Megan, his daughter and Joi's best friend, had her first baby. Wanting to be closer to them, he'd moved up to Jacksonville . When he learned Joi was leaving the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office to start up her own private investigation company, he asked for job. She couldn't pay him much, but he didn't want the money. His pension was sufficient; working kept him from staring at four walls all day.

She turned right at the first intersection and followed a stretch of golf course to the next street, Spreading Oaks Court, a cul-de-sac, where she turned right again. Even before she parked she started taking mental notes about the area: Five houses, two on each side, a lone dog at the top of the cul-de-sac, which was also their destination. All the houses were two-story, sitting on half-acre, manicured lots, with glass double front doors, and three-car, side-entry garages. Two were stucco, the rest brick. 4130, the scene of the crime, was one of the stucco's –gray with black shutters and white trim. Its garage faced 4132, which could have passed as its twin, as it was also stucco, except beige with tan shutters and matching trim. Also, a seven-foot tall, wooden pink stork, a baby bundled in a sheet (or was it a diaper?) pinched between its beak announced a recent addition to 4132's family.

They got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. A petite woman in her mid thirties with short, flaming red hair and black cat's eye glasses greeted them when they rang the bell.

“I'm Edna Malone,” she said, extending her hand. “Please come in. I hope you can find Horus. The cops were useless.”

She led them through the massive house to a back hallway that gave way to an enormous eat-in kitchen with three rooms jutting off of it. One was the living room, another a library, and the third was used to display an array of artwork.

“Here's where Horus used to sit,” Edna said, placing her hand on a three-foot high black marble column situated in the middle of the room. “And here's a picture of what he looked like.”

Joi and Buchanan studied the photo Edna handed them, then Joi contemplated the pedestal where the golden falcon, an expensive 24-karat Egyptian replica, had once perched.

“Run me through the events of that day one more time, so my partner can hear too,” Joi said.

“My husband, Francisco, left a little ahead of me that morning. He had a breakfast meeting. I left at my normal time, eight, and came home that night at my normal time, six. Francisco came in shortly after I did. We didn't notice Horus missing until we started making dinner, which was about a half an hour after we came home.”

“And if I'm remembering correctly from our earlier conversation, you said the police determined the back door had been picked.”

“That's right. The house was just as I left it, except for some papers on the desk by that door. They were on the floor. It's not uncommon for papers to blow off the desk when we go to the patio. I told the police about it and that's when they checked the lock and did whatever they do to determine the lock had been picked.”

“Do you have an alarm system, Ms. Malone?” Buchanan cut in. He usually left questioning up to Joi, but she didn't mind the interjection.

“We do, but I never turn it on during the day. Only when we go out of town. I figure it's sort of pointless since we live in a gated, guarded community. Now I guess I know better.”

“Can you show me where you think the intruders gained access?” Joi asked.

“Sure.” Edna guided them to a door on the other side of the kitchen, a desk built into the wall sat across from it. When Joi opened the door to the patio, the papers on the desk –the day's mail, the morning paper still in its plastic sleeve, and an assortment of bills—fluttered in the wind. She peered around the corner of the house and saw a gate leading to the driveway.

Stepping back inside, she asked, “Does anyone else have access to your house? A maid perhaps?”

“We have a maid, but Rita comes on Wednesdays and Horus was taken on a Tuesday.”

“I'll need to get her name and contact information anyway.” Edna Malone gave Joi the maid's information, which she jotted down in a little notebook she always carried with her, and then asked. “What about workers of any sort? Gardeners? Painters?”

Edna shook her head.

“We have a lawn service, but they come on Fridays. Plus, they don't have a key to the house. Nor have we had any work done inside recently. Besides, whenever we do, I make sure to stay home, just so something like this won't happen.”

“Tell me who else knew about the falcon.”

Edna pulled a cigarette from a packet on the counter and held it in the air. “Either of you mind if I smoke in my own house?”

Both Joi and Buchanan shook their heads.

After lighting up and exhaling a prolonged stream of smoke, Edna said, “Just about anybody who's anyone. It was a real coup when Francisco and I outbid everyone else at that auction last year.”

“Auction?” Joi inquired.

Edna nodded, exhaling smoke again.

“It was a benefit for the art museum. It was in the society section of all the papers. We also got this print.” Edna sashayed back into the art room and pointed at a picture with bold, black, zig zaggy lines on a harsh orange background. To Joi it looked like something a four year old might make. “It didn't cost us anywhere near as much as Horus did.”

“You wouldn't happen to know who the other interested buyers were that night, would you?”

“It was a silent auction, so, no, I don't know who else bid on it.”

Joi made a note to contact the museum.

“What about your neighbors? Anybody I should check with first?”

“Do you mean anyone I think is suspicious?”

“No,” Joi said, shaking her head. “I mean, how well do you know them? Are any of them home during the day? Maybe they noticed something?”

“I don't really know any of them that well. The people next door, the ones who just had the baby, moved in maybe a month ago. Hell, I didn't even know the woman was pregnant. Haven't seen her. Only him once or twice, getting the mail, the paper, that sort of thing. Never said hi. Doesn't strike me as too friendly. He's not chatty. At least, he's never made any attempt to speak to me. Old Widow Bayley's the only one on this street who's home all day. As far as I know she didn't see anything suspicious. She keeps an eye on things, and she would have let me know.”

“Where does Ms. Bayley live?”

“The first house on the corner, on the right, as you pull onto the street.”

“Okay, that's a starting point.”

“Do whatever you need. Just find Horus.”

“I'll give it my best shot.”

With that, Joi and Buchanan left and headed next door, the one with the baby. On her way up the walk, Joi noted the information on the stork. Baby Felicity had arrived at 8:53 a.m. on March 23, the same day of the golden falcon robbery. Knowing that, Joi didn't expect to get much info from these particular neighbors. They were busy having a baby that day, but she decided to check with them anyway.

It was late on a Saturday morning. She expected she had a better chance of catching people at home today than at the same time during the week. Not at this house. After ringing twice and receiving no answer, Joi gave up. But it was sort of odd that no one was home. The baby was barely four days old. Much too young to already be venturing out in the world on errands with mom and dad. Unless there'd been complications during the delivery that kept mom and baby in the hospital? Who knew? Joi made a note to try back later.

“Let's try the widow next, what do you say?”

Buchanan nodded and they headed across the street.

Old Widow Bayley must've been on the lookout for them because her door opened as they were heading up her walk.

“You two are looking into the disappearance of that art piece, aren't you?” She waved them inside. A cute old woman with generous dimples and a crown of curly white hair, she was eighty if she was a day, but she moved with the spryness of a woman twenty years younger.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm Joi Sinclair and this is my partner, Beau Buchanan, or Buck as he prefers to be called.”

“Charmed,” she said, batting her eyelashes and extending her hand to Buchanan only, smiling coyly when he took it. “Come in and sit a spell.” She led them into the formal living room and motioned for them to sit on the rose-patterned couch. “Can I get you all anything to drink? I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

Joi declined but Buchanan was grateful for the old woman's hospitality and took her up on the offer.

Ms. Bayley scooted out of the room, returning moments later with a silver tray containing two coffee cups, a carafe, sugar and creamer.

She poured Buchanan his cup and asked how he took it. Black was fine by him, not diluted with any white stuff. After pouring herself a cup and fixing it with two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream, Ms. Bayley settled on the settee across from them.

Before Joi could begin questioning her, Ms. Bayley started talking.

“I know why you're here. You want to know if I saw anything that day. Am I right?”

Joi nodded.

“Well, that Tuesday happened to be my hair day. I left by eight-thirty, and after my appointment went to do a little shopping at Steinmart. They offer a ten percent discount to seniors on Tuesdays, you know? Every little bit helps. Anyway, I met a friend there. When we finished shopping we went to lunch. I didn't get home until almost two. But the first thing I noticed was that stork. I didn't even know she was pregnant! Although, I've never even seen the woman since they moved in. I couldn't tell you her hair color, much less if she had a bun in the oven.

“Then again, her husband's not the most forthcoming cuss. Never breathed a word about his wife's condition when I took him some of my banana bread. In fact, he barely breathed a word at all. He took the bread, mumbled thank you, and that was that. Disappeared inside that house and I think I've seen him maybe once since.”

“Do you know if they're home from the hospital?” Joi asked.

“You'd think they would be by now, seeing as how it's four days later according to that stork. But I haven't seen sign one they're back. No lights on at night, no cars going anywhere. And I'm just itching to get a look at the little one. Newborns are so precious, and it's been a long while since we had a fresh face like that on this block. I even got her a gift. Felicity's her name according to that sign. A sort of unusual name if you ask me, but that's what people seem to prefer these days. Nothing conventional.”

“Did you happen to see anything out of the ordinary that day? I know you said you were out most of the morning and into the afternoon, but what about when you were home?”

“No,” Ms. Bayley said, shaking her white-haired head. “Didn't see anything out of place. No cars except for those that always go by.”

Joi jotted some notes in her book then stood to leave. Buchanan took that as his cue and stood as well.

“If you happen to remember anything you think might help us, here's my card,” Joi offered.

Ms. Bayley smiled and showed them out.

“Where're you going?” Buchanan asked as Joi prepared to open the driver's side door.

“The guard house.”

“Ah, you're disappointing me, Young Grasshopper.”

Joi cocked her head to one side.

He pointed first at the house next to Ms. Bayley's, then at the house across from it.

“But Edna Malone said they weren't home during the day,” Joi protested.

“Yes, but she also said she didn't really know her neighbors that well. What if someone was home from work sick or something like that?”

Joi sighed. Buchanan was right. Mad at herself for not thinking of that automatically, she met him back on the sidewalk and they canvassed the other two houses.

As it turned out, the other residents on Spreading Oaks Court were not home the day of the robbery either, just as Edna Malone had anticipated. Still, Joi was relieved Buchanan had her back. He was always giving her pointers that would ultimately benefit her detective style in the future.

The guard at the guardhouse was more than happy to help Joi. With blue eyes complimented by waves of black hair, her cover model flawless figure, and her warm personality, she'd never had trouble getting people to cooperate with her. The guard made copies of the log sheets for March twenty-third so she and Buchanan could study them back at the office.

En route, she used her cell phone to contact the Malone's maid to see about scheduling an interview with her. Rita Vargas was finishing up a job not far from Joi's office and made arrangements to stop by within the hour.

Back at the office, Buchanan set about making some sense of the vehicles coming in and out the day of the robbery. Meanwhile, Joi called the art museum to see about getting the names of the people who had participated in bidding on the falcon.

That's where she hit a roadblock. The museum was short on staff, long on volunteers. Everyone was friendly enough, but after being passed around three times, Joi knew she was going to have to wait until Monday to get anywhere. That's when the museum's event coordinator, who was out of town at a conference, would be back.

“You having any luck, Buck?” she asked after hanging up with the museum.

Looking perplexed, he shook his head.

“You know, I honestly believed we'd find something suspicious right off. Not that the cops wouldn't have, but given a missing persons case, two armed robberies, a double homicide, or a burglary of this nature, which do you think would take precedence?”

Joi nodded. She'd served on the force too, except in Jacksonville instead of Miami . Jacksonville 's crime rate didn't even compare, thankfully, to her southern cousin's, but it did so happen that on the same day Horus went missing, so did a mother of three. Also, a bank was held up, the third in what was shaping up to be serial robberies, as was a fast food chain, and the bodies of two people turned up in a mobile home on the Westside, no suspects. Just like with any other line of work, priorities must be made. Men were assigned to find the mother, track the bank and fast food robbers, and investigate the homicides. Didn't leave much force left to hunt for a missing falcon.

“So what do we have?” Joi asked, peering over Buchanan's shoulder at the log sheet.

“Very standard in and out stuff. Ten lawn services came throughout the day, six of which were there to cut the grass, the other four to spray and treat. None of them went to 4130's street. Next is a UPS delivery, a Fed Ex delivery, a couple of plumbers, about five pool companies, a carpet cleaning service, three maids, a pet walker who came three times, and a smattering of visitors. Again, none of these were for any Spreading Oaks Court houses. The closest one would be a visitor who, according to the log, was dropping off kids in a carpool at a house two blocks away. The only vehicle that was designated to any house on Spreading Oaks Court was the florist company who put up the stork.”

“Hmmm,” Joi said, understanding why Buchanan had looked perplexed. She studied the times noted on the log sheet. The lawn services were all in the morning, as was the carpet cleaning service, the maids, the pool companies, and the plumbers. UPS was morning, Fed Ex early afternoon. The pet sitter was at seven in the morning, noon, and seven at night. The visitors were all mid-morning and later. The florist company with the stork was at quarter of nine in the morning.

Joi eyes lingered longest on the entry for the florist, which Buchanan had highlighted, as it was the only vehicle paying a visit to Spreading Oaks Court.

The door opening diverted her attention to a stout, middle aged, Mexican woman entering their humble office.

“Rita Vargas?” Joi asked, taking a chance the woman was the Malone's maid.

“Yes.”

Joi greeted the woman with a handshake. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

The woman looked around the little office, which was simply a bullpen with two desks on either side. A long table with a fax machine and various office supplies ran along the back wall. Off to the left, behind Joi's desk, was a round table with four chairs that they used as their “conference” area. A water cooler stood nearby, along with a coffee machine on a small cart. Rita wiped her finger across Buchanan's desk, rubbed her toe in the carpet, and sniffed the air.

“Who does your cleaning?”

“We do it ourselves.”

“I can tell. A successful woman like you should have a cleaner office.” She reached into her back pocket and produced a business card. “Call me to schedule a test cleaning. The first one's free. You'll see I'm worth what I ask, but seeing as how you're in law enforcement, I'll make sure to cut you a break.”

“Thanks,” Joi said, laying the card on her desk. She felt like laughing. Was that why Rita had been so eager to meet at Joi's office? Because she was on the lookout for new clients? Joi admired the woman's strategy. Even if she wouldn't hire her permanently –mostly because her budget couldn't accommodate that right now—she wasn't about to turn down a free cleaning.

“Why don't we have a seat back here,” Joi said, leading the way to their conference table.

“Ah, no need for that. I already know you want to ask me about the falcon. I wasn't working there that day. At their house or anywhere else in the country club for that matter. Stupid people have more money than sense. Who wouldn't use an alarm system with over half a million dollars in fine art lying around?”

“No one was accusing you of taking anything.”

“Maybe not you, but tell that to the police. They wanted to know where I was, if I could verify it, and who else had access to all my keys. Remember the old joke about the butler doing it, whatever ‘it' might be? Well, nowadays, any time something goes missing in a house with a maid, guess who gets blamed?”

“You bring up a good point, though, Ms. Vargas. Who else does have access to your keys? Do you have people who help you?”

“No. I'm not going to be responsible for someone else's work. I do all jobs myself. My kids are grown and at college now. There's no one else who would have access to my keys. I keep them locked in a safe, and I turn my alarm on when I leave my house,” she said, pointing to her head in a gesture that suggested she knew how to use her noggin. “Besides, I heard the cops figured the lock was picked. Why's anyone worried about my keys?”

“Just checking bases.”

“We done with that yet?” Rita said.

Joi had to admit, brusque as she may be, she liked Rita's no nonsense style.

“Yes, we are.”

“Good. Now don't forget to call me about the free cleaning. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.”

“I will.”

When she was gone Buchanan asked, “What a piece of work she was, huh?”

Joi turned to study her partner's face, because a normal person might have said that with a hint of sarcasm after meeting whirlwind Rita. Not Buchanan. His eyes shone and his voice was full of admiration.

“You okay over there, Buck?”

“Now that's what I call a woman!”

Joi giggled. She took the card from her desk and tossed it at him. “I think you'll use this before I will.”

Buchanan tucked it in his desk's top middle drawer.

Once again picking up the log sheet, Joi's eyes focused on the entry for the florist. She decided to call and question them. See if perhaps the driver saw anything unusual.

She reached the florist's machine. The store closed at two p.m. on Saturdays, reopening at seven a.m. on Mondays. She made a note to try back.

“You ready to call it a weekend, Buck?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Let's blow this Popsicle stand then.”

With that, they closed up shop until Monday.

Joi arrived at the office by seven Monday morning. She started the coffee dripping, then called the florist, wanting to catch them first thing. That way, if the driver who worked the Tuesday of the falcon robbery was on duty, she might be able to catch him or her before he or she set out on deliveries.

The person answering the phone also turned out to be the very harried owner, who was in no mood to cooperate with Joi.

“Look, sugar,” the woman said, her voice inflected with a heavy southern drawl. “I had two drivers quit on me last week, another called in sick today. That leaves me, two arrangers, and one other driver to handle the twenty deliveries we have on the books. I'd love to help you, but it's gonna have to wait.”

Sensing the woman was inches from hanging up, Joi shouted, “Wait! Please! What I really need is to talk to the person who made the delivery to Spreading Oaks Court last Tuesday.”

“Sugar, I don't know that stuff off the top of my head. Like I said, I can help you later, but not now.” From the other end came the ringing of another line. The florist sighed and mumbled, “It's going to be one of those days. Try back after five this afternoon and I'll see about getting you whatever you want.” The line went dead.

Joi glanced at her watch. Only fifteen minutes past seven. Buchanan wouldn't be in for another hour and a half or so. Joi doubted the event coordinator she needed to talk with at the museum would be in much before eight either. Stuck again for a little while, Joi opened up the paper she brought with her and scoured the headlines.

She made it to the Metro section before an idea hit her. She should do an Internet search on Horus. See what she could uncover about its history. As she fired up her computer, the fax line rang, beeped, and a fax started coming through. Curious, as she wasn't expecting anything, she went to see who was sending what.

By the time she reached the machine, the cover page was waiting for her.

William Berger, the event coordinator at the art museum, wrote: Had a message you called. Edna and Francisco Malone are not only two of the museum's best patrons, but two of my friends. I hadn't yet “filed” (in other words, lost) this list of auction goers and bidders I prepared and gave to the police last week. If you need anything else, just call.

“Thank you, Mr. Berger,” Joi said as she picked up the first of five sheets listing all auction items, attendees, and who bid on what. When the rest of the pages came through, she began jotting down the names of all the people who had placed bids on Horus, surprised that she recognized most of them, as they were some of Jacksonville 's most prominent citizens.

She was also a little surprised to find just how much the Malone's had paid for the sculpture. A few nickels short of thirty thousand dollars. Joi had known it was costly since it was solid gold, but come on. It was less than two feet high and a replica. She wouldn't have paid thirty dollars for it, but there were five other people besides the Malone's who had met the minimum bid of ten grand. Ridiculous.

She now also understood what Edna Malone had meant when she said it was quite a coup that they had been the highest bidder. The Malone's had money, but four other names on the list made the Malone's look middle class.

Joi found that Mr. Berger had also been so kind as to include telephone numbers for all attendees, noting that one was out of area. She glanced at her watch again. It was almost eight. Since it was Monday, she decided she'd wait until a few minutes past eight to make her calls. Give people a chance to get to work first.

Until then, back to her online investigation. She was now especially curious why people would want to pay so much for the little replica. Remembering how Edna Malone had said the news about Horus was in all the papers, Joi went to the City of Jacksonville 's library site. From there she clicked the link to search magazines and newspapers and struck gold. There were a number of articles about both the auction and the history of Horus.

Horus dated back to the 1920s, when Major John Greeley, a renowned British archaeologist, found the tomb of Mukarramma, a pharaoh of the Second Intermediate Period. The major's wife accompanied him on the expedition and, being an avid bird lover, was absolutely enthralled with a golden falcon they found. Understanding the importance of preserving history, but also not wanting to deny his wife, the Major had a replica made of the falcon. He gave that to his wife; the original found its way to the British Museum .

The Greeleys owned Horus until their deaths in the 1950s. The falcon was bequeathed to their oldest daughter, Nora Stone, who shared her mother's infatuation for both birds and the golden statuette. In the mid-1990s, a scandal ensued at the British Museum when it was discovered that several artifacts thought to be genuine articles might instead be replicas.

Apparently the Major sort of started a trend in having replicas made, and other archaeologists had followed suit. Nora was contacted and agreed to turn over the falcon for inspection. It was determined hers truly was a replica after all and the falcon made its way back to her.

Except, a few years later Nora's husband died of cancer, leaving the family in debt with medical bills. Nora was forced to sell the falcon to avoid bankruptcy. That's when a private collector from Jacksonville acquired the piece. When he heard about the art museum's auction, he decided to donate the piece, knowing because of its history it was sure to draw a lot of attention.

It did. Tickets for the gala benefit sold out, and the falcon brought in the single highest bid in the auction's history. It was a huge event, and a very good night for the museum. After learning this, Joi next ran searches on the other five bidders that night. Since four were among the most wealthy and influential of Jacksonville 's elite, finding information on them was easy. She didn't uncover much she didn't already know.

The fifth bidder on her list, Trent Boynton, was not someone with whom she was familiar. He'd had the second highest bid, at $29,900. The Malone's had outbid him by a mere $50. Her searches of papers didn't turn up anything about him. She switched search engines, opting this time for Google. She placed quotes around his name, added a plus sign and the word Jacksonville behind it, knowing many times this produced an address, a telephone number, or both.

Nothing turned up for Trent Boynton. She decided to make the search more general, changing the “ Jacksonville ” to “ Florida .” This time she was rewarded with an address in Tampa along with a phone number. It matched the one on the list from Mr. Berger. She decided to make Trent Boynton her first call.

“Boynton and Brayden,” a woman with a nasally voice answered on the second ring.

“Trent Boynton, please.”

“May I tell him who's calling?”

“Joi Sinclair. I'm a private investigator up in Jacksonville .”

“One moment please.”

A few seconds was all she had to wait before a man with a very pleasing English accent graced the other end of the line.

“This is Trent Boynton. How may I help you, Ms. Sinclair?”

“I've been hired to investigate the disappearance of a golden falcon. You might know of it? You placed a bid on it at an auction last year.”

“Certainly. You're referring to Horus. A simply exquisite piece with quite a fascinating history. I was very sorry when I learned I wasn't the high bidder. But when you say it ‘disappeared' what do you mean exactly? You make it sound as if somehow its golden wings were suddenly able to work and it flew the coop.”

“Actually, it flew the coop all right, but it's doubtful it was of its own accord. Someone stole it from the people who outbid you.”

“Oh dear. That's a dreadful turn of events, isn't it?”

“For them, yes.”

“Well, I'd be happy to help you in any way I can. If I can.”

“You can start by telling me where you were last Tuesday.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“No. Just a routine question. Besides, I'm a P.I. not a cop.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I was here at the office all day. My secretary and partner can both verify that. At night I met friends for drinks. I can provide names and numbers if you like?” His tone was every bit as affable as when he'd first come on the line and Joi had no reason to suspect he was lying. Still, she made a note to check out his daytime alibi.

“Thank you, Mr. Boynton. I might check back with your partner and secretary, but since the falcon was stolen during the day, there's no need to check with the friends you met that night.”

“I see. Let me ask you a question, Ms. Sinclair, if I may”

“Sure.”

“Are you aware of the falcon's history?”

“Somewhat.”

“Then you know about the mix up?”

“Mix up?”

“Yes. There've long been rumors the British Museum mixed up the replica and the original.”

“I read about that.”

“About how the museum might have given the original back to Nora Stone, instead of the replica?”

Joi admitted that was not her interpretation of what she'd read that morning.

“I thought that's why the museum wanted to inspect her piece in the first place?”

“It was. Except the buffoons would have been better off leaving well enough alone. A good friend of mine interned at another museum with a man who once worked at the British Museum . The collections manager for the department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan was the one who created the stink about checking replicas against originals to begin with. It was he who made the mistake, supposedly, of returning the original to Nora Stone instead of the replica.”

“So why didn't he just get it back from her?”

“Are you kidding? His reputation was at stake! Not being able to tell the difference between the fake and the real thing and keeping the wrong one? Especially after making such a big fuss about it to begin with? He'd have ruined his career. Of course, none of this is proven. There were no news accounts of any of it. It's really just sort of an academic urban legend.”

This was an interesting tidbit and one that gave Joi other angles to consider.

“You seem to know a lot about the falcon, Mr. Boynton. You wouldn't know anyone who might want it bad enough to steal it, would you?”

“A very apt question, my dear. I'm sure there are quite a lot of people who wouldn't mind getting their hands on that piece, but as far as specifically knowing names, no, I don't know that.”

Joi thanked Trent for his time and hung up.

She had already considered the possibility of a professional job before she spoke with Mr. Boynton, but after their conversation her gut told her she was right. There was more to the little falcon than just its fine replicated craftsmanship. It might be a true ancient relic.

The door opened and in walked Buchanan.

“About time you got your lazy ass out of bed. I've already had quite the productive morning,” Joi greeted him.

“I had a wonderful day off. Thanks for asking.”

Joi giggled as she watched her grumbling partner head straight for the coffee machine. She let him digest some java before bombarding his brain with the new details. After listening, Buchanan agreed with her theory.

“The question now becomes, how do we find out who was interested enough in the falcon to steal it?” Joi asked.

“Well,” Buchanan said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Until you can prove otherwise, I'd say the five people who bid on it make good suspects. We know they wanted it.”

“But enough to steal it?”

Buchanan shrugged.

“Boynton's got an alibi, but that doesn't mean he couldn't have hired someone to do the job. Same goes for the others.” Seeing she was about to object, he added, “You can't be prejudicial, Sinclair. Just because you know them as fine upstanding members of the community doesn't automatically mean they play by the rules. If they want something bad enough, they're just like anyone else—they'll find a way to get it.”

Joi slumped in her chair. This was the toughest case she'd taken on so far in her first year as a P.I. This was no stakeout to determine if a spouse was having an affair, no background check on a potential executive. This was a robbery where a specific item was targeted, but she didn't really have any clear suspects. Worse, she still hadn't determined how the perps got into the gated community in the first place, or back out again without being seen.

She decided to review the guardhouse's log sheet once more.

“Help me out for a minute, Buck. Let's make a timeline for March twenty-third. We'll rule out anyone coming in when the Malone's were still home. The rest we'll talk to.”

Ten minutes later they were underway.

“Can't be the pet sitter. She came at seven. The Malone's hadn't left yet. Same with these two lawn services,” Buchanan said, pointing at their names on the list.

Joi scratched those off. Next they eliminated two pool companies and one maid. Remaining were the plumbers, the other lawn and pool services, the carpet cleaner, the other maids, and the various visitors. And the florist, too.

Joi flipped through her notes again, back to the sheet when she'd gone to see Edna Malone on Saturday and had talked with Ms. Bayley. She wanted to double-check the time Ms. Bayley had left that morning. She found that information, and chuckled at herself for how thorough she had been that day –she hadn't talked to the people in 4132, the ones with the newborn, but she'd included the information from the stork.

“We can eliminate a few more, Buck. Anyone who came in before eight thirty, when Ms. Bayley left.”

They did this, but when Buchanan said, “Florist missed it by an inch. They arrived at quarter till,” Joi's heart skipped a beat, as a light bulb flicked on bright and clear in her head.

“Wait! Back up. Tell me that again.”

“The florist came at quarter till.”

Joi frantically reread her notes.

“What is it?” Buchanan asked when Joi frowned.

“I don't get it. It makes no sense.”

“What?” Buchanan prodded.

“Well, according to the information on the stork, Baby Felicity was born at 8:53 a.m. on March twenty-third.”

“Something tells me it's not a misprint.”

“Me too.”

“Did we ever find out who lives in the house at 4132 Spreading Oaks Court?” Buchanan asked.

“No.”

“We've got another lead.”

“That we do.”

Joi called the guardhouse at the Beauclerc Country Club to see about getting the name and phone number for the people living at 4132 Spreading Oaks Court. Within a matter of minutes she learned a man named Oscar Miller was renting the house. The guard gave her Miller's home and work numbers.

“And the wife's name?” Joi asked.

There was a pause and Joi heard the click of keys as the guard checked the computer.

“I don't have that information.”

Joi thanked him for his time and hung up. She passed along the information to Buchanan.

“Renting, huh? That's unusual for that neighborhood. Anyway you can find out who the owner is? While you do that, I'll give the numbers a try and see if we can reach Mr. or Mrs. Miller.”

Joi nodded and once again resorted to using her trusty computer to help her. Returning to the City of Jacksonville 's website, she clicked on the link for the property appraiser. She whistled when she saw the name of the homeowner.

“You're never going to believe this, Buck.”

“I hope your luck was better than mine,” he said, hanging up the phone. “Both those numbers were disconnected. Any chance maybe you wrote them down wrong?”

She shook her head enthusiastically, convinced they had just cracked the case.

“Not a chance. And after what I just learned, I'm willing to bet they were never good anyway.”

“Oh?” Buchanan asked, cocking his head to one side.

“Trent Boynton owns the house.”

“Interesting. Also probably not coincidental. Why don't you see what you can find out about this Miller guy using that gadget of yours,” he said, nodding at her computer. “I'll give the florist a call back. I have a hunch about those two workers who quit on her. It shouldn't take up too much of her time to give me their names.”

They set about their tasks. Fifteen minutes later Joi had all the information she needed to place a call to the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office, where she was directed to a familiar voice.

“I knew you couldn't stay away from me, Sinclair,” Jake Mann, her former partner, said.

“Behave yourself. This is not a social call.”

“Aw shucks. I guess you owe me one.” Had they not been assigned to work together, and had Jake not been married, Joi felt certain their flirtatious teasing could have easily escalated into something more. They weren't partners anymore, but Jake was still married.

“Whatever you say, Jake. Listen, Edna Malone hired me to find her missing falcon. You know what I'm talking about?”

“Sure. You found it?”

“Well, I'm pretty sure we found who took it. And I'm expecting if you find them, you'll also find Horus.”

“And that's where the JSO comes in, eh? You need us to do your dirty work.”

“Something like that.”

“Whadya got?”

She filled him in on what they'd found, including the information about the two workers at the florist shop.

“Miller's brother and a man named Clayton Davis took jobs making deliveries at Shirl's Flowers a couple of months ago. One of their stops happened to be on the same day as the robbery, on the same street. It wasn't flowers, though, but a pink stork announcing the birth of a baby girl. That's where they made their mistake. For one thing, Oscar's not married.”

“So? Lots of people have babies out of wedlock these days. I didn't know you were such an old fashioned girl, Sinclair.”

“Can it, Mann. The second point is the most important. The storks usually aren't delivered until a couple of days after the birth. This one was delivered at quarter till nine on March twenty-third. And the time and date of the baby's birth? Eight fifty-three on the same date.”

“I see where you're going with this. Crooks got a little cocky, did they?”

“Just a little. But it was a good plan. They pulled the delivery van up between their house and the Malone's. This blocked the view if any of the across the street neighbors happened to be home. Then they positioned the stork so the next-door neighbor's view would be obscured. They slipped through the Malone's back gate, jimmied open the lock, and were in and out pronto. I already ran checks on Davis and the Miller brothers. All of them have records. Burglary, theft, assault. Boynton knew what he was getting when he hired them.”

“And you think he did?”

“Of course he did. He wanted that statue. He tried to get it legally, but my guess is when that didn't happen he decided for about the same money he could hire professionals to steal it.”

“I don't know if I should praise you or curse you, Sinclair. It's good work on your part…but it creates more work on mine.”

“Wouldn't hurt for you to try and earn your paycheck every once in a while.”

“You're a real laugh-riot, Sinclair.” He hung up.

Joi looked at Buchanan, who wore a grin, something she wasn't much accustomed to seeing on his face.

“You got gas or something?” she asked.

“Nah. I'm just happy.”

“Why's that? Because we cracked the case so quickly?”

“Yep. That means the Malones will definitely refer their rich friends now.”

“I hope.”

“Me too. If you get more work you'll be able to hire Rita.”

Joi groaned and threw a pen Buck's way.

“You're hopeless.”

“Maybe, but you'd be lost without me.”

She'd never admit it to him, but she would.