LITMIR.BIZ

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office manager wouldn’t be picked out of a lineup if a witness had a snapshot of the assailant. Medium build, medium height, medium everything from buzz cut to wingtips. One of those guys who looked the same at his high school graduation as he did at the thirtieth reunion. And not in a good way.

      “How’s it going, stranger?” Wes stuck out a hand. “I haven’t seen you since the snow was flying.”

      Park City received a total of three inches all last winter, but the slip-and-fall claim Jack investigated turned out to be genuine. When the victim’s civil suit against the negligent store owner went to court, Jack would testify for the plaintiff. Gladly testify. Last he’d heard, she was still in a wheelchair.

      Wes lowered his voice. “I told the boss to call you two months ago.” A thumb pinched an index finger. “The cheap son of a gun has the first dollar this agency ever made.”

      “Framed and hung on the wall, no less.” McPhee Investigations’ first dollar was encased in Lucite on Jack’s desk. Classy.

      “Tell Gerry I’ll have the files together in a few,” Wes said. “He’ll nag me on the intercom anyway, but the photocopier’s a two-speed model. Slow and broken.”

      Jack continued on, turning into a corridor with gender-specific restrooms on his right. Wes’s parting remark was an ode to middle management. Nowhere to go but out imposed a constant straddle between indispensible and justifying your existence.

      He and Gerry Abramson shook on their mutual gladness to see each other. For as long as Jack had known him, the independent insurance broker had threatened retirement. Today, a hypertensive complexion and bulldog jaw implied a fatal coronary might punch Gerry’s ticket before dinnertime.

      Jack asked after Letha, Gerry’s wife of forty-seven years. The vivacious grandmother of nine was battling Parkinson’s disease.

      “She has her good days and bad.” Gerry winged his elbows on the arms of a leather desk chair. “The doc’s put her on a new course of treatment. It’s experimental and costs the moon, but it seems to help.”

      He shook his head. “Almost a half century in the insurance business, and I’m fighting tooth and toenail with our carrier to cover the meds.” A bitter chuckle, then, “And losing.”

      “Then chumps like me don’t have a prayer.” Jack rapped on the visitor chair’s oak frame. A sole proprietor fears extended illness and a debilitating injury more than the IRS. No work, no income. The flu bug can knock a zero off a month’s earnings.

      “Time was,” Gerry continued, “and not that long ago, when I felt good telling customers not to worry. Fire? Surgery? Hail damage? We’ve got you covered.”

      A crooked finger ratcheted down the knot in his tie, as though it were the source of discomfort. “Nowadays, I’m the villain with a briefcase full of loopholes and exclusions.” He grimaced, levering the collar button backward through its corresponding hole. “And a lot smaller check than they hung their hopes on.”

      Jack wondered why Gerry didn’t sell out and retire. What kept him coming to this cozy, thick-carpeted office paneled in genuine walnut and adorned with framed certificates of achievement and appreciation? A national newspaper’s bar chart recently rated the public’s attitude toward various professions. Attorneys historically ranked number one in the most-despised category. The poll’s results now placed insurance agents in the lead by several percentage points.

      Gerry Abramson had two first loves. Clinging to a semblance of control over an industry he hardly recognized wasn’t as painful as watching a bastard named Parkinson steal away his wife and being helpless to stop him.

      “How about a soda?” he said, rolling backward in his chair. He opened a minifridge built into the credenza. “Bottled water? Chilled cappucino?” He winked. “Just between us, these juice boxes for the grandkids aren’t bad with a shot of vodka stirred in.”

      Jack declined and was relieved when Gerry snapped the ring tab on a can of diet cola. The man had every reason in the world to spike an orange drink at two o’clock on a hot July afternoon. The Abramson clan photo atop the credenza symbolized eighteen better reasons not to.

      “This job you mentioned on the phone,” he said. “Since you didn’t specify, I’m guessing it’s a fraudulent property-loss claim. Probably a high-profile customer.”

      Gerry glared at the doorway, then jabbed an in-house button on the console phone.

      “Here’s the copies,” Wes said, entering the office at the precise moment his employer’s call connected. He cut a look at Jack, as though delivering the punch line of a private joke.

      After the handoff to Gerry, Wes pulled over a second visitor’s chair. His backside was approaching a landing, but hadn’t quite touched down when Gerry cocked his head at the phone. “Three lines are on hold.”

      Wes nodded. “One for Chase and two for Melanie. They just came back in from their claims adjustments.”

      “Then take one of Melanie’s until she’s freed up,” Gerry said “And, do me a favor and close the door on your way out.”

      “Oh. Sure thing.” The office manager left the room smiling. Behind him, the door shut with a barely audible snick.

      Gerry rolled his eyes. “Wes wants to be an investigator so bad it’s almost painful to see.”

      Thinking of Blankenship, Jack replied, “Doesn’t everybody?”

      The copied files Gerry parceled out concerned a series of residential burglaries dating back to Memorial Day weekend. “Here’s where it gets interesting.” He gave Jack a sheaf of police reports. “The same thief or thieves hit last year, starting Memorial Day, then went to ground Labor Day weekend.”

      He paused to let Jack skim the pages. “Luck of the draw, maybe, but only two of last year’s targets were National Federated clients. This year, the so-called Calendar Burglar has already nailed three of my policy holders.”

      The nickname rang a bell—the tiny baby-shoe kind, not a tolling brass one. By the number of reports, the reverse should have been true. “Why haven’t I seen anything in the newspaper about this?”

      “The Park City Herald focused on it to some extent late last summer. You know, ‘Another west-side home burgled while owners on vacation.’ Or east side. Or south side. Then the usual PD information officer quotes on home security, warnings about disclosing travel plans to strangers, etc.”

      Gerry drained the soda can and lobbed it at the trash bin. “Property-theft complaints always jump in the summer and during the holidays. By the time the cops and the newspaper connected these particular dots, the Calendar Burglar vamoosed.”

      “Feeling the heat,” Jack speculated. “Moved on to cooler pastures.”

      “That was the assumption, except a unit detective followed up in his spare time. Feelers put out to regional PDs netted no thefts that resembled these—the M.O. or an exclusive preference for jewelry.”

      Gerry allowed that the burglar could have switched specialties, wintered in a warmer clime or been jailed on an unrelated charge. “Whatever caused the lull, he’s back. The Herald isn’t happy about keeping the story low profile, but some influential victims and real estate developers don’t want their neighborhoods depicted as crime scenes.”

      “God forbid.” Jack snorted. “They may as well leave out cookies and milk for this dude. A little snack for bad ol’ anti-Claus.”

      “Residential watch groups were alerted in early June. Private security and police patrols in probable target zones have been increased.”

      “Uh-huh.” Jack’s finger tapped the prior Sunday’s date on the most recent burglary complaint. “Fairly obvious, what a big friggin’ bite that’s taking out of crime.”

      “I want him caught, McPhee.”

      Jack

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