Reno said, “I drove down the alley right at two AM., and it was deserted. I then went around front and parked across the street from the bakery in my truck.”
Wheeler fast forwarded until the timestamp said 2:14:44 AM.
Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then a figure walked into the frame.
The man wore dark clothes and a hooded jacket pulled up over his head. He kept his face down and turned away from the camera, which was mounted to one side of the doorway. He walked straight to the back door of Buns ’N’ Roses without slowing or hesitating as if he’d been there before. Given that none of the alley’s back doors were numbered or marked, his unerring approach to her door wasn’t likely to be accidental.
He tried the door handle, which was, of course locked and deadbolted.
He pulled a small leather case out of his pocket, unzipped it, and pulled something about the size of a nail file but thinner. He knelt with one knee on the ground, his face next to the door handle, and went to work picking the lock.
Grace’s breath caught in shock. It was surreal sitting here calmly watching someone break into her bakery.
Wheeler hit pause. "He brought lock picks. Which means his plan was to get inside.”
She blurted, “I deposit the day’s cash at the bank every single day on my way home from work. Overnight, I store the small bills I keep for change in a safe some kid’s lock picks won’t work on.”
Wheeler said grimly, “He's not after the cash drawer. And he's not a kid. Watch what he does next."
He hit play.
The figure worked the deadlock for about ninety seconds. He stopped. Studied the lock for several seconds. Then he picked up a different tool from the case and went to work again. He stopped a second time. Then he did something odd. He pulled out a small flashlight, shielded it with his free hand and examined the lock plate closely. Then he zipped his picks in their case, tucked it in his jacket, and walked back the same direction he'd come from.
Wheeler hit pause again. "He's gone for about five minutes. Then he comes back."
He fast-forwarded until the figure reappeared, knelt at the door a second time, worked at it for another several minutes, and finally gave up. Then the man stood up, looked up at the camera—unfortunately the shadows inside his hood were too deep to make out any facial features at all—and walked away.
"He saw the camera," she said, hollowly. Her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
"He saw it the first time he came in. And he was already wearing a hood to hide his face when he came down the alley. He knew the camera was there before last night, which means he cased the back door at some point."
"Why couldn't he open the lock?" she asked.
"Because the locks were rekeyed last Thursday and their interior hardware was upgraded significantly from a regular door deadlock." Wheeler nodded at Reno. "Your guy in Apple Pie Creek is good. The cylinders he installed are pick-resistant. They're not impossible, given a few hours and the right tools, a good lock picker would get in eventually, but they're a much harder nut to crack than your old lock. Our friend here figured it out and must have realized he didn’t have the time to open them."
"Or the privacy," Reno said grimly. "I drove through the alley less than ten minutes after he left."
Grace looked at the still image on the screen. The hooded figure’s face was just a dark shadow under the hood. He could be anyone.
"Sheriff," she said carefully, "is this the same person who came in Thursday claiming to be from the water company?"
"Hard to say. Height and build are in the right range. But Mary said the utility man had a mustache, and this guy doesn’t from what I can make out in this one image of him looking at the camera. Of course, the mustache could’ve been fake."
Wheeler turned off the monitor and turned in his seat to face her. "I lean toward them being the same person. I think Thursday was a walk-through, and Saturday night was the visit. Walk-throughs aren't unusual when somebody's planning a break in."
"To do what if he wasn’t going to rob me?"
Wheeler exchanged a glance with Reno that lasted about one heartbeat too long.
"I don't know," Wheeler said. "I was hoping you might have some idea."
Grace stared at him. "I sell bread and cinnamon buns, Sheriff. And flowers. There's a cash register and an old, rather cranky, espresso machine. There's flour and butter."
"Is there anything personal in the shop? Anything someone might want to find or destroy? Records. Photographs. Mail."
"Receipts. Supplier invoices. I take my laptop with my financial records on it home with me."
"I'd like to take a look at the laptop."
