“Did you file a report of the break-in?” Joe asked. It was possible the report had been misplaced.
“No, no need for that.”
Right. This man was hiding something, and something big. Joe locked the front door and turned the sign so it declared the shop closed.
“Mr. Feinstein, this will go better if you tell me the truth.”
“They were only hoodlums. Youths gone astray.”
“So you saw them?” Joe began to fill in a form on his clipboard. “How many were there?”
Feinstein licked cracked lips. “I’m not filing a report.”
“Why not?”
“I-I didn’t get a good look. At least not good enough to guess, so you see, I have nothing really to report.”
Joe reviewed the notes he’d made before leaving the station. “But you’ve filed reports before in order to claim damages to your property.” He named two dates in the last five months. “The most recent was in October when eggs had been thrown at your building.”
“Do you know how damaging raw eggs are?”
“I do. You told me all about it. The other report you filed was when someone had used the public trash can on the street corner to dispose of rotting meat. You claimed the stench was keeping customers away. But in neither of those cases did you see the people who had done those things. It didn’t stop you from filing a report.”
His composure flickered, and then he lifted his chin. “Did the police ever catch those people? No. So filing reports is a waste of time. Mine and yours, I might add.”
Joe silently watched him until perspiration beaded the older man’s brow. Nodding to the cut on his temple, Joe asked, “How’d you get that?”
“I fell.”
Joe didn’t buy it. “Here I was thinking that whoever broke into your shop last night had also struck you when you came to see what the commotion was. But if so, you’d have gotten a good look at him,seeing as you weren’t hit from behind. But you already told me you didn’t see anyone, so yeah, you fell. Okay.”
Reuben Feinstein looked so miserable Joe almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“What did they steal?” Joe pressed.
“Pardon?”
“Even common hoodlums don’t break into places for no reason, taking a risk without any reward. I see they left those silver things behind, so what did they steal instead?”
“Only a few things. A gold-rimmed bone china teapot, the matching sugar bowl, and a few teacups and saucers that went with the set. See for yourself.”
Joe followed him to the sales counter, and Feinstein lifted a box that held a creamer and three cups and saucers, all of the same pattern.
“It’s little good to me now,” Feinstein said. “The value was in having the complete set all together. No one will want to pay much for these odds and ends, even if they did belong to Eliza Hamilton once.”
So why would any thief run off with a partial tea set, when the whole was there for the taking? Feinstein was spinning tales faster than he could stay ahead of them.
“But your shop is insured, I take it.”
The color bled from Feinstein’s face. “It is.”
“So you can file a claim with your insurance company to recoup the cost of the tea set and the glass to replace the pane in the door.”
Feinstein swallowed. “I can,” he said. “Later.” But Joe could tell that he wouldn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have reacted so strangely.
Why would anyone not file an insurance claim for something like this?
Because there would be an investigation, and Reuben Feinstein didn’t want to answer questions. Not Joe’s. Not anybody’s. The man looked scared.
