by Dete Meserve
Without fanfare or introduction, Police Chief Charlie Harris—dressed in a dark navy uniform punctuated only by four silver stars on each collar and the LAPD badge—started speaking.
“Palazzo de Bella Vista was the site of yet another robbery by the criminal known as Robin Hood. Early this morning the thieves forced their way into the estate and stole over six million dollars in valuables. In the course of the heist, a forty-year-old housekeeper was injured and was taken to the hospital. The woman came upon the thieves while they were making their escape, and it appears one of them pushed her aside and she tumbled down a stone staircase.”
“Can you release the identity of the victim?” a reporter from the LA Times shouted.
“Not at this time.”
“Any update on the condition of the alleged criminal caught in the Holmby Hills fire? The one previously in a medically induced coma?” I called out.
“He is improving and but his medical condition still prevents us from questioning him.” He shifted his weight to another foot. “Folks, this story is getting a lot of traction because people seem to be enjoying the fact that these wealthy estates are being robbed for the benefit of the poor. But these criminals are committing grand larceny. Let’s not forget another person has been injured in the commission of this crime spree. I urge you—let us not encourage these criminals.”
Now that an innocent woman was injured, the sentiment about Robin Hood wavered a little. “Robin Hood’s Merry Men Assault Housekeeper” read the headline in the LA Times. Viewers loved Robin Hood as long as he didn’t hurt anyone, but this event had put even the most zealous fans on edge. One blogger with over a million followers wrote, “Now that people are getting injured, let’s rethink whether Robin Hood is doing this for good.”
One lobbying group seized this opportunity to fault Robin Hood’s gifts to the poor. “No society ever thrived because it had a large and growing class of parasites living off those who produce.” That set off a firestorm in social media as people debated whether Robin Hood was doing a good thing or simply enabling the poor to stay that way. This was the all-out class warfare my dad had predicted, and judging from the traction this story was getting, it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
The twenty-five microbrews on tap at Howling Wolf Den attracted a crowd of hipsters I didn’t see much in my line of work. As I waited for Jake near the outdoor bar, I overheard a group of young men and women in oversized glasses and thrift-store skinny jeans discussing the merits of the grilled gruyere cheese from the food truck they had just tried and whether an indie rock band named Reel Big Fish was imitating or influenced by ska, which a slim-bearded guy described as the “primitive, raw, syncopated precursor to reggae.” Their faces lit by the cool glow of their smartphones, they tapped on their screens, talked about ska, and sipped their craft beer from what looked like oddly shaped wine glasses. From the sounds of it, the Robin Hood controversy wasn’t even on their radar.
“Want to take a walk?” I heard someone say, and I turned around to see Jake standing behind me. His normally clean-shaven face had a three-day growth of beard and his carefully clipped hair was now grown out and a bit tousled. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed casually; usually he wore a suit and a badge, so it took me a moment to adjust to seeing him in dark jeans and an untucked blue shirt.
We started walking under the warm glow of the café lights from the restaurants along the street until we found a park bench. Across the street, a crowd had gathered in front of a food truck, which sold gluten-free burritos—apparently the new trend in Silver Lake. Fortunately, we were nearly invisible in the shadows of a stand of dense California oak trees.
I was asking questions before Jake could sit down. “What happened to you? Why were you in Dawson Springs, Kentucky?”
His eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“What were you doing with the Kentucky Preppers?”
“Damn. You found out about that too? I’ve always said you’d make a great detective. That wasn’t a smart move and raised a lot of eyebrows at the department. I had no idea how deep my brother was into the stuff until I got there.”
“But why were you there? What happened to you?”
He looked down at his hands. “Look, I’m embarrassed to say that I was suspended.”
“What for?”
He drew a deep breath. “They caught me on camera showing you around El Mirasol. Remember I said those cameras were off-line? Well, they weren’t. As you know, I’m not supposed to take a reporter anywhere near the crime scene. Ever. But especially on this case because police didn’t want anyone knowing about the silver coins with the image of Robin Hood on them.”
“Why?”
“The chief thought that if the public knew that there was some kind of Robin Hood out there stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, it would ignite a media firestorm that would make it even harder to stop these heists.”
I nodded. “He was right about all that.”
“That’s why police withheld information about everything they found at the crime scene, not only from the media but from the estate owners too.”
“Everything they found at the crime scene?” I asked. “Was there other evidence besides the Robin Hood silver coin?”
He looked away. “I really can’t say…”
“There is, isn’t there? And I bet it’s the Hidden Mickey you told me about,” I whispered.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Could be.”
“But you can’t tell me? Even completely off the record?”
He swallowed hard. “Completely off the record?”
I nodded.
“If it gets out that I told you—or any reporter—about this…”
“It won’t.”
He exhaled sharply. “The group behind this is definitely sending a message loud and clear to the wealthy owners. They wanted them to know they were robbed by Robin Hood. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret. Along with the Robin Hood coin, they left a green felt hat, complete with red feather.”
“A Robin Hood hat?”
He showed me a photo on his iPhone. “They wanted the owners to know that they were stealing from the rich to give to the poor. But do you understand why it’s a Hidden Mickey that helps police crack the case?”
I shook my head. “Because it eliminates a lot of suspects. Most of them don’t steal in order to help others?”
“In real life, thieves don’t leave calling cards—evidence deliberately left at the scene as a kind of signature. That’s the stuff of TV crime dramas. Yet these sophisticated thieves left not one, but two, calling cards behind. Why?”
“To lead you to them?”
“Nope. Think harder. Why would the thieves want to send a message to the owners? I mean, why would they take the extra measure—and time in a limited fifteen-minute window—to leave behind two calling cards to owners they don’t know?”
I thought about it a long moment. “Because they do know the owners.”
He flashed me wide toothy grin. “Exactly. It’s not random. They’re sending these estate owners a message. If I could ever get myself back on the investigation, the first thing I’d do is look into everyone these wealthy people know and every group they’ve been associated with.”
“That’s a lead I’d like to follow. OK with you?”
“If you don’t let on about the other evidence found at the scene.”
“I won’t. Now how soon until you can get back on the case?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say. Things got worse when you met with Detective Haney and showed her the Robin Hood coin. They naturally assumed that I had given you evidence from the crime scene. Now they’ve extended my suspension while they investigate further.”
“But you didn’t give it to me. I got it from—”
“I know, Kate. And now that there are silver coins being distributed everywhere, they’re starting to come around to that. But it’s
going to be a long process for me to get my badge back.”
I stared at him, feeling horrible for what he was going through. “I’m sorry, Jake. I feel responsible.”
He placed a hand on my arm. “You didn’t pressure me to do anything I didn’t want to do. After they suspended me, I was crazy with anger, so I went off the grid—canceled my cell phone, stayed off social media—and tried to escape from the hell of it all by hanging with my brother in Kentucky. But after being there a while, I realized that I didn’t have anyone to blame but myself.”
That made me feel even more guilty. “I never thought that what we were doing could jeopardize—”
“It’s no secret that I had other motivations for helping you, Kate.” He let that statement hang for a moment. “It’s not my smartest career move.”
I sat there a moment watching the shifting shadows on the sidewalk as a light wind blew through the trees. I didn’t know what to say. I knew I hadn’t misled him about my feelings, but now I felt bad for not reciprocating them. Even if he did get his job back, there’d be a blot on his record for what he did to help me.
“Would it help any if I wrote a statement that says I didn’t get the silver coin from you?”
He ran his fingers through mussed hair. “I think they’re past that now that thousands of people have these silver coins. At this point, they think that if they lift my suspension, I’ll compromise another crime scene on this case for you.”
“You can tell them it’s not going to happen again. With me, anyway. Because I’m leaving Channel Eleven at the end of the month. I’ve been offered a contract at ANC in New York.”
He sat up straight. “What? When did this happen?”
“It’s been brewing for a while now but…they made an offer this morning.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sure it’s a great opportunity. But you can’t go without me.”
I laughed. “Without you?”
“New York? Heck, I’m packing my bags tonight.” He smiled then for the first time. In the shadows, he suddenly appeared very attractive, and for a brief moment I felt a tug of affection for him. Something beyond gratitude. My emotions were riding way too high.
“Jake, I—”
He touched his hand to my knee and the tension rose between us. “I’m just playing around,” he said lightly, but I didn’t believe him. “Remind me to show you how to find a secret running trail in Central Park. Makes your run in Lake Hollywood look like child’s play.”
There was a long moment of silence between us, and I felt his feelings for me in the dark. They were palpable and real—exciting and overwhelming at the same time.
His voice was soft and low. “I know there’s someone else in your life. But until there’s a ring on your finger, a guy can keep hoping.”
As I left the Howling Wolf Den, my phone lit up with a text from Sharon, my agent. “ANC agreed to the big stuff we asked for. Want to close this up?”
ANC moved fast. Hadn’t I just spoken to Sharon this morning? She had never been a high-pressure agent before, so this could only mean that ANC was pressing her to get this done. But I didn’t have an answer. I needed to talk with Eric again. To figure this out.
I texted him. “You home?”
“Yep.”
“Coming over.”
It was nearly eleven by the time I reached his house. The streetlights were on, casting leafy shadows through the wide-canopied jacaranda trees that lined his quiet residential street. I found him in his driveway, unloading boxes from his pickup.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“Almost finished,” he said, hoisting a box from the back and setting it on the ground. He was breathing rapidly even though the box didn’t appear that heavy. “This is the last of it.”
From the open box, I lifted a red waterproof jacket, the kind you see on the guys who sail in the America’s Cup, and a pair of graphite waterproof boots. They looked to be for a man smaller and shorter than Eric.
“It’s Brian’s sailing stuff,” he said quietly. “His wife is closing out the storage locker at the marina and told me to take whatever I wanted. Guess I took most of it.”
“What do you plan to do with all this?”
He lifted another box from the van, dropped it on the sidewalk and opened it. “Not sure yet. My second bedroom is already stacked to the ceiling with his stuff, so the bigger question is where am I going to put it?”
I lifted a red helmet out of the box. “Seems like a lot of gear for sailing.”
“Brian always dreamed of racing sailboats one day.” He picked up a pair of Puma high-tops. “He often practiced with the most expensive gear.” He dumped the high-tops back in the box, took out a black flotation vest, and brought it up to his chest. On the front, in white letters, it read: hayes. “He had a friend who was in charge of designing the technical clothing for a well-known America’s Cup team, so he got a lot of free advice about what to buy…” His words trailed off.
I studied a pair of black Lycra pants. “Are you going to take up sailboat racing?”
His eyes softened. “Maybe I should, you know, to keep his dream alive,” he said just above the threshold of my hearing. “But I don’t…”
I waited for him to finish speaking, but he stood there, looking at the things in the box as though the rest of his sentence might be in there. “This is all I have left of him.”
His eye fell on something in the box. “Here they are,” he said, pulling out a pair of black TAG Heuer sunglasses. “These were Brian’s lucky sunglasses. If he wore them in the morning when the skies were gray, we were guaranteed to get sunny bluebird weather. At least that’s what he thought. One time he accidentally dropped them in the water while we were still anchored in the harbor. He had four of us in the water searching for them for nearly an hour. We couldn’t leave the harbor until we found them.”
He turned the sunglasses over in his hands, his mind miles away, remembering. The beginnings of a smile crept across his face, but in the shadowy light, I saw the weariness in the hollows of his eyes and in his slackened jaw, his shoulders hunched by the memory.
I reached out and pulled him close, hugging him tight until I felt him hug back. My questions would have to wait.
My cell phone was ringing.
What time was it? My heart raced as I tried to lift myself from a deep sleep.
My eyes snapped open. Five rings. Pause. Five more rings.
I sat up, realizing I had fallen asleep on the couch in my living room.
Where had I left the phone?
I stumbled in the dark, listening for the chime again and shuffling in that direction.
Bleary-eyed, I found the phone on the kitchen counter and squinted at the bright screen.
Hannah.
“Did I wake you?” she said before I could say hello.
“What time is it?”
“A little past six. We’ve heard from Locksley.”
It took seconds for her words to sequence in my brain. “He answered on League of Legends?”
“He claims he’s the leader behind the heists. I asked him if he was Robin Hood and he said yes.”
“Of course he did,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Soon enough everyone’s going to be claiming to be Robin Hood.”
“Thought about that. So I asked for proof. He posted a twenty-second clip showing one of the robberies in progress. Looks like it was shot at La Villa de la Paz—that’s the one with a safe in the sauna.”
I shuffled back to the couch and sat down. “Could be faked. Probably is. Anything can be faked with a little help from Photoshop and After Effects.”
“That’s why I asked if he’d let you interview him. He said yes.”
“Then he knows you’re from Channel Eleven?”
“He knew before he even replied.”
“I thought you said there wa
s no way he could figure out who you were?”
“I was wrong. If he has the ability to rob these high-tech estates, he’s probably got tech to do just about anything. He says he’s responding to us because he wants to set the record straight about what happened with the housekeeper.”
I swallowed hard. Part of me was damn certain this was a fake, but another part was hoping it wasn’t. “I don’t think Robin Hood will ever reveal himself. He’d go straight to jail.”
“It’s an interview by Skype. He has some kind of voice equalizer on his end.”
“What does he look like?”
“Don’t know. His profile is a painting of Robin Hood.”
Chapter Seventeen
I had a hard time convincing David to attend the Skype interview with the alleged Robin Hood. Not just because it would mean he would have to reschedule the assignment meeting, but because he was 100 percent certain this Robin Hood was fake. We’d both had our share of false confessors on big stories before, and given the number of fakes versus the real deals over the years, the odds were stacked against this guy being the real Robin Hood.
“If there’s an organized group—Russian or otherwise—behind these robberies, I doubt they’d come forward on Skype to announce themselves,” he said, pacing the floor of the Fish Bowl. “And if they’re going the confession route, why reach out to you instead of the usual mea culpa icons like Diane Sawyer or Oprah?”
“Actually Skype could be the best way,” I said. “For him anyway. He can keep his identity a secret and control exactly what we see and hear.”
Hannah, who had been quietly looking at something on her laptop, piped up. “Diane Sawyer and Oprah have big followings, but if a story like this goes viral, Robin Hood doesn’t need the entanglements of those brand names to get heard around the globe.”
“Look, I’m as curious as you two are about whether this guy is Robin Hood,” David said. “I was a reporter myself once, you know. I think he’s a fake, but I’ll listen.”