The Detective(14)

I sucked in a sharp breath through my clenched teeth. “That’s a shame.”

Max’s frown deepened. “Don’t have kids, Detective.”

“Max!” his wife shrieked.

I had to suppress a smile. “Tell me about the gun that’s missing.”

Max exhaled through his nose so hard I heard his sinuses whistle across the room. “It was a gift from my grandfather who bought it off of a gangster in old New York about eighty years ago. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old or more.” He walked over and handed me a picture of a revolver with a white handle and swirly designs along the silver barrel.

Reese looked over my shoulder. “I can see why you’re upset,” he said.

Max looked at both of us. “I don’t care about the money, but I want my gun back.”

I held up the photograph. “Can I keep this?”

He nodded. “Be my guest.”

“It was in your safe with the cash?” I asked.

He stepped away from his desk toward the large built-in mahogany bookcase that lined the wall. A panel had been removed from the back casing, displaying an open and empty safe. It was covered in the remnants of fingerprinting dust. “Reese, did we get any prints off this?” I asked.

He consulted the file. “None that didn’t belong to Mr. Carrera.”

Max held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t rob my own house.”

I smiled and examined the safe door. “No one is saying you did.” I looked back over my shoulder. “There are no signs of forced entry, but these aren’t super complicated to crack if you have the right stuff.”

Max’s eyes doubled in size. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how much I paid for that thing?”

I looked at the safe again. “I would guess around three to four thousand.”

Max looked like he might throw up.

I shrugged. “You did better than most I’ve seen. One guy had a fingerprint reader on his safe that could be disabled if you pressed down too hard when you put your finger on it.”

“Well, what kind of safe do you recommend?” He looked ready to take notes.

I slapped him on the back. “I recommend guard dogs and banks.” Then I smiled. “And sometimes not even banks.”

He offered me his hand and I shook it. “Thanks for coming by, Detective.”

I smiled gently. “I promise we’re doing everything possible, Max.”

He sighed. “At the end of the day it’s just stuff, I guess.”

I nodded. “I agree, but we’re still going to try to get your stuff back.”

He squeezed my hand one more time before releasing it. “I’m sure you are.”

The Carreras saw us to the door. Once we were outside, I glanced at the security emblem again. When we got in the car, I turned his laptop back around toward me.

“What do you think?” Reese asked.

“I think I want to know more about the security systems. Seems odd to me that none of these million dollar homes have had their alarms set at the time of the break-in. And I want this picture posted at every pawn shop within fifty miles. This gun is going to be easy to recognize.”

He nodded as he backed out of the driveway.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I yanked it out and read the text message on the screen. Half-way home. Stopped for lunch. Had a great morning. Can’t wait to see you again! <3, Shannon.

A groan escaped my throat. “Oh boy.”





SIX





THE MORE I looked at the files on the break-ins, the more convinced I was that we were dealing with some serious professionals. Out of the seven homes that had been hit, four safes had been opened without any damage, two had been bounced and their hinges warped, and I suspected they took the Kensington’s because they couldn’t get it open fast enough. It was one of the more complex safes on the market, so that made sense.

All of the homes had one key component in common: ArmorTech security systems. ArmorTech was the parent company of Daycon Securities, ATR Securities, and HomeSafe Technologies—all of which were used by the victims. I had contacted ArmorTech on Monday morning when I first discovered the connection, but by Thursday they still hadn’t found any data leakage on their end.

Thursday night, with my feet propped up on my home office desk and a takeout container of General Tso’s chicken balanced on my lap, I stared back and forth between the two bulletin boards on the wall. The one on the left was all the robbery info I had; the one on the right had the faces of eleven missing women tacked to a map of North Carolina.

Neither case was going anywhere.

My phone rang. It was Shannon.

I answered it on speakerphone. “Hello?”