“Why is he called the Cat?”
“He’s a cat burglar.”
Intrigued, Jared gave a curious grin. “A real cat burglar? Smart and silent and quick-fingered—scaling the walls of buildings, falling great distances, and landing on his feet?”
Savannah had to admit that there was a certain romance to it, which was why she indulged Jared his interest. “Yes, a real cat burglar. He’s done time for heists in Oklahoma and Kansas, too. Now he’s here, having learned from his mistakes and perfected the art. We’ve had a rash of robberies that have his pawprints all over them—that is, there are no clues at all. He gets in and gets out, snaps his fingers, and bingo, he and the stolen goods disappear. When he resurfaces, he always has an airtight alibi. Beyond that, he never even tries to put together a defense, because he knows that we don’t have enough evidence to indict him.”
“How many robberies has he committed?”
She looked at the ceiling and put her tongue in her cheek. “Oh, in the five years he’s been in the state, he’s probably pulled off eight or nine big ones.”
Jared whistled. “And you can’t nab him?”
She shook her head. “As far as we can figure it, he carries out the heist on his own. But he has to have help disposing of the goods, so we’ve been concentrating on that. Six months ago, we found some of the stolen artwork in a Manhattan gallery, and for a while we thought we were this close”—she put her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart—“to catching the fence.”
“What happened?”
She dropped her hand. “He vanished into thin air. Just like the Cat does.”
“When was the last robbery?”
“Tuesday night.”
“And you can’t find Stavanovich?”
“Nope. But he’ll be back in a day or two, whistling his way to work, as carefree as you please.”
“Is his business legitimate?”
“Oh, yes. He has an automotive repair shop.” Her lips twitched. “He services luxury imports—Jaguars, BMWs, and Mercedes. Have you ever heard anything so obvious? He comes into contact with the wealthiest people in Rhode Island. He has their keys in his possession long enough to make as many copies as he wants. He knows just when they’re going south for the winter, just when they’re going north for the summer, just when they’re staying right here. And you know what?”
Jared arched both brows in question.
Savannah slapped a hand against the desk. “He has never once robbed a customer of his. He takes the expected and does the opposite. It’s like he’s standing there thumbing his nose at us, because we’d like nothing more than to be able to say, ‘See, that’s how he knew that so-and-so was out of town and that’s how he got into the house.’ It is,” she said slowly, “the most exasperating thing in the world.”
Jared was trying not to grin.
She was about to chide him when another knock came at the door. This time, she didn’t have a chance to speak before the door opened and in walked Anthony Alt.
“You did okay,” he told her, rapping his fingers against the doorjamb. “The coverage wasn’t as bad as it could have been.” He gave Jared a once-over. “The early TV reports are stressing the fact that the AG’s office is coordinating a wide-scale investigation.” He looked back at her. “We sound in control. That’s good. As soon as you solve the case, it’ll be even better.”
“I’m not the one who’ll solve it. We have detectives to do things like that.”
“But you’ll direct them.”
“Unless you’d like to,” she offered. “If you have your heart set on it—”
“I don’t have the time.” He shot another, more curious glance at Jared. “Have we met?”
Jared complacently shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He made no move to volunteer anything else. Nor did Savannah.
Anthony stuck out his hand. “Anthony Alt. I’m Paul DeBarr’s first assistant.”
Jared’s hand met his in a grip that was firm, authoritative in its way. He nodded. But he didn’t say a word.
Nor did Savannah.
Anthony tried staring harder, as though the force of his gaze could cow the man before him. It might have worked on others, but it didn’t touch Jared. At last, with his forefinger beating against his trousers, he said, “You are…”
