Busted

by Diane Kelly

  His expression was equal parts surprised and dubious as he took the card, read it over, and slid it into the back pocket of his pants.

  Brigit lifted her head to scent the garbage can as I tossed her small bag of poop into the bin. “Thanks.” I raised my hand in goodbye to the custodian. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Brigit and I walked around for another fifteen minutes. We passed the Nubian ibex, a type of large mountain goat with a long beard and huge, curved horns. We also passed the more delicate-looking springboks, antelopes with distinguishing white faces and bellies, and two small horns that curved toward each other, like a lyre. The springboks came by their names honestly, able to leap several feet into the air in a move called “pronking” intended to distract predators.

  When we left the springboks, Brigit stopped to watch errant squirrels scurry about in the bushes, making a last-minute attempt to gather acorns for winter. You’d think the dog would have had enough of squirrels with the dozen or so that constantly skittered around our backyard.

  After a minute or two, I urged her to move on. “Let’s go, girl. Squirrels are boring.”

  Brigit gave me a look that said she wholeheartedly disagreed with my assessment of the entertainment value of squirrels. Nonetheless, she left them to their nut-gathering.

  As we approached the exit, my shoulder-mounted radio crackled to life, dispatch looking for an officer to handle a theft of jewelry from a residence in the adjacent Berkeley Place neighborhood. I pressed the button. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.”

  Brigit looked up at me, her eyes bright with anticipation. She seemed to know that my response meant we might see some action. Brigit loved her job, lived to trail and chase suspects. I, on the other hand, was working as a beat cop only until I had four years under my belt and could apply for a detective position. Depending on the particular shift, working patrol could be either incredibly slow and boring or extremely fast and frightening. To paraphrase Forest Gump, police work was like a box of chocolates. You were sure to encounter some nuts, and things could get sticky and messy. You had to learn to stomach quite a bit to avoid getting sick.

  We hurried out to the lot and I opened the back door of our cruiser. “In you go, girl.”

  Brigit hopped up onto her platform. I closed her door, slid into my seat, and off we went.

  Guided by my GPS, I drove to the victim’s house, pulling to the curb in front of it. While many of the houses in the exclusive Berkeley Place neighborhood were well-kept but decades old, this house was more recently constructed, its predecessor having been razed. The home was a single story ivory stucco, featuring a heavy wooden front door and rustic shutters in a dark finish. The diminutive bushes that lined the front bed had not yet had time to spread and fill the space, giving the house a spare look.

  Brigit and I made our way to the door. I knocked and the door was promptly answered by an attractive Asian woman in her early thirties, only a few years older than me. The woman’s dark hair was worn in a low side pony that draped forward over her thin shoulder. She wore sneakers along with a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a pair of teal exercise pants bearing the Lululemon logo. Cute pants. Too bad I’d never be able to afford designer athletic clothes on a cop’s salary.

  In her arms was a male Shiba Inu, a smaller breed of curly-tailed Spitz that had recently grown in popularity. The dog took one look down at Brigit, drew his lips back, and snarled. Brigit took one look up at the dog and seemed to realize he posed no threat whatsoever. In fact, I would swear I saw Brigit roll her eyes at the dog’s attempts to scare her.

  “Come in.” The woman shifted the dog into her left arm to hold the door for us. She had long, slender fingers and a festive manicure, sparkly white snowflakes on a blue background. I seemed to have a natural affinity for detail, noting such things. Not to brag, but not much gets by me.

  Brigit and I stepped into the tile foyer. I extended my hand. “Hi. I’m Officer Megan Luz.”

  “Nanami Ishii,” she replied. “Call me Nan.”

  The woman took my hand in hers. Wow. How does she get her skin so soft? As much as I would have liked to ask what type of lotion she used, it would be unprofessional.

  Our introductions complete, I pulled out my notepad and pen. “I understand some jewelry has gone missing?”

  “Yes. My engagement ring and wedding band. I was feeding my dog a few minutes ago when I noticed I didn’t have my rings on. I only take them off to shower. The diamond gets tangled up in my hair when I wash it.”

  I nodded. I’d had the same issue with some of my rings. Of course, I’d never had a diamond ring. But if my relationship with Seth continued on its current course, I might have one in another year or two. Who knew?

  She pointed behind her, down a hallway. “I always leave my rings in the dish on my vanity so they won’t accidentally get knocked into the sink and go down the drain. But when I went to get them, they weren’t there. A plumber was in the bathroom earlier today, installing new shower heads. He had to be the one who took them. He’s the only one who’s been in the house today other than me. My husband is on a ski trip in Colorado with some of his old friends from college.”

  I jotted a quick note. Plumber installed shower heads. Hubby in CO/skiing with buddies. “Can you show me where they were?”

  “Sure.”

  Brigit and I followed Nan down the hall and into the master bedroom. The space was decorated in turquoise and chocolate brown. On the wall over the king-sized bed was a nearly life-sized wedding portrait of Nan and a man who wasn’t quite old enough to be her father, but maybe a youngish uncle. I’d put fifteen years between them. The photograph had been reprinted on canvas and showed them from the waist up. Nan’s hands were wrapped around the base of her white rose bouquet, her ring set clearly visible.

  I stopped and pointed to the picture. “The rings that were stolen. They were the ones in this picture?”

  “Yes.”

  I walked to the head of the bed and leaned over to take a closer look at the rings in the photo. The wedding ring was a simple, wide gold band. The engagement ring was similarly understated, though the marquise cut diamond was quite large. “Mind if I snap a photograph? It could help us identify the rings if we come across them.”

  “Of course,” Nan agreed.

  After I snapped a few pictures of her rings, she led me into the spacious master bath and pointed to the vanity. A variety of tubes and bottles containing expensive beauty products sat on the marble countertop, along with a box of tissue and a porcelain ring holder, essentially a small bowl with a raised center spike on which to place rings. Three other rings encircled the spike. One was silver with a heart-shaped charm dangling from it. Another was silver with a large oval of turquoise. The third was gold with an intricate filigree.

  She pointed to the bowl. “That’s where my rings were. In the bowl with the others.”

  My gaze moved about the cluttered countertop. “You’re certain?”

  Irritation flickered across her face. “Absolutely. I go through the same routine every morning. I take off my rings, put them in the bowl, then undress and shower. After I get dressed and fix my makeup and hair, I put my rings back on.”

  I hated to point out the obvious, but . . . “You don’t appear to be wearing makeup.” The splayed ends of her pony tail told me she hadn’t curled or straightened her hair before pulling it into the elastic holder, either. I had my own routines, ones I went through on auto-pilot, my body doing things out of habit while my mind paid little, if any attention. But those routines could be thrown off if unusual circumstances intervened. Given that she’d forgotten to put the rings back on after her shower, it was also possible she’d never put them in the bowl to begin with. Maybe she’d lost them elsewhere earlier.

  “Since the plumber was coming,” she said, “I took the day off from work. There was no reason to put on my usual makeup or fix my hair. I was just going to catch up on some cleaning. I didn’t plan to leave the hous
e.”

  “So you haven’t been out of your house today? Not for a run or an exercise class? Or maybe to check the mail?”

  “No. I’ve been inside all day. I let my dog into the backyard, but that was it. I didn’t go out with him.”

  So much for that theory.

  I turned my attention to the shower. It was a wide, walk-in style, with multiple shower heads at various heights. The heads had variable settings, everything from a soft drizzle to full-on, hurricane-force blast. Must be like showering in a car wash. “Did the plumber show you his work when he was done?”

  “Yes. He demonstrated the different settings and showed me that everything was working properly so I’d sign off on the paperwork.”

  “Did you ask him about the rings then?”

  “No. I didn’t notice they were missing until after he was gone.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He claimed he hadn’t seen my rings, but there’s no other explanation. He has to be lying.”

  Or does he? People were often too quick to blame missing items on housekeepers or other service providers who’d been in their homes, when often they’d misplaced the items themselves.

  I said my next thought out loud. “Any idea why he would have taken only your wedding and engagement rings and not the others?”

  She glanced over at the ring holder and shrugged. “Those three aren’t as valuable. Maybe he could tell. Or maybe he thought if he left some of them it would be less obvious.”

  I eyed the bowl. “How much are the missing rings worth?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” she said. “My husband picked them out and surprised me with them.”

  “Any chance he’s got a receipt for the rings? It would be helpful to have a copy to include with my report.” I explained that the DA would also want proof of the value of the items in order to determine if the theft constituted a felony and of what degree. “You’ll need a receipt to file an insurance claim, too.”

  “My husband handles our finances,” Nan said. “He scans the important documents. It might be on his computer.”

  She led Brigit and me down the hall to a home office with French doors. She stepped over to a desk that faced the wall. An open laptop sat on it, the screen in easy view. Still holding the dog, she dropped into the rolling chair, situating the little beast on her lap. After booting up the computer and typing in the password, she ran a search for a file that included the word “ring.” Two file names popped up. One was RECEIPT - JORDAN WEDDING RING. The other was RECEIPT – WEDDING & ENGAGEMENT RING SET.

  She pointed at the latter. “That must be it.” She clicked on the file, quickly skimmed the screen when the document popped up, and dipped her head in confirmation. She ran her finger over the built-in mouse pad, clicked a couple of times to print out the receipt, and handed it to me, hot off the desktop printer.

  Hmm. For someone who claimed to have little knowledge of their finances, she sure found the receipt quickly. Then again, her husband seemed to be well organized.

  I ran my eyes over the page. The receipt was dated seven years prior and included a charge for an inscription that had been engraved inside the wedding band. Sierra and Jordan forever. Confused, I returned my attention at Nan. “Is Sierra your first name?”

  “No.” Her voice was as tight as her yoga pants. “Sierra was Jordan’s girlfriend before me.”

  Nan’s husband had proposed to her with an engagement ring purchased for another woman? Ouch. Still, it was hard to blame him. He’d paid over twenty grand for the engagement and wedding ring set. Not exactly chump change.

  “Did the ring still have the inscription?” If so, it could help us identify the ring if it were recovered.

  “No. Jordan must have had it removed before he gave it to me.” Nan’s eyes narrowed briefly in what was likely distrust, hurt, or anger—maybe all three.

  “Was there a new inscription?”

  Again, her answer was no. Again, her eyes narrowed, And, again, I couldn’t blame her husband. Why pay for another inscription when the first had been a waste of money?

  I wondered if Nan had known about the inscription before now, whether she’d been aware the rings were originally intended for another woman, whether that fact bothered her. “I can dust the bowl for prints, see if we get a match. Unless the plumber is already in the system or agrees to supply a print, it might not get us anywhere, but it’s worth a shot. Just to warn you, though, the dust makes a bit of a mess.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I can clean it up.”

  I returned to my cruiser, retrieved my fingerprint kit, and the four of us headed back to the master bathroom together. While a crime scene team normally handled this type of evidence collection on bigger cases, beat cops were trained to lift prints in more routine cases like this.

  After brushing the black powder about the small bowl, a number of fingerprints were revealed. Some were very well-defined, probably left by Nan soon after she’d applied lotion or oil. Others were less distinguishable. I applied the tape and lifted the prints, affixing the tape to the fingerprint card for the lab to look at. Careful to keep out of snapping range of her dog, I also took prints from Nan so the lab could identify any that were hers.

  “Cute manicure,” I said as I rolled her index finger back and forth on the card, which I’d placed on the countertop.

  “Thanks. I usually paint them myself, but my office holiday party is this weekend so I decided to go all out.”

  We returned downstairs, where I snapped a photo of the invoice the plumber had left with Nan. The invoice contained his name and phone number.

  “I’ll get in touch with him,” I told Nan. “It’s likely he’ll tell me the same thing he told you, but we’ll see.”

  She thanked me and, after one last snarl from the dog in her arms, Brigit and I headed out to the car. Once I was seated in the cruiser, I phoned the plumber. After identifying myself, I asked if I could come speak to him in person.

  “What about?” he asked.

  “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  He paused a moment, processing my words. “I’m finishing up a job,” he said, keeping his voice low. “If people see my van and cops coming around, they’ll jump to conclusions.”

  “I understand.” Whether he was guilty or innocent, I couldn’t blame him for not wanting me to show up on a worksite. It wouldn’t be good for his business. “Let’s meet at a public place nearby, then.” I asked for his current location, plugged it into my phone’s mapping app, and suggested we meet at a convenience store a half mile away. He agreed.

  Twenty minutes later, the plumber, Brigit, and I stood face to face to furry face in the side parking lot of a 7-11 on north University Drive. The location was slightly outside the bounds of my designated beat, yet close enough that I could still respond to emergency calls if needed.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”

  No point in beating around the bush. My time was important, and so was his. Heck, at the rates plumbers charged, his time was more valuable than mine. “Mrs. Ishii noticed that some of her jewelry was missing after you left her residence.” I purposely didn’t specify that the missing jewelry was rings. If the plumber mentioned rings, he’d give away his guilt.

  “And she told you I took it?”

  I lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “She said you’re the only one who’s been in her house recently.”

  He issued an indignant huff. “The nerve of that woman. Accusing me of stealing from her even after I gave her a new-customer discount. No good deed goes unpunished, huh?” He rolled his eyes before returning his focus to me. “I didn’t take anything. I installed the showerheads and that was it.” He raised his calloused palms. “Don’t know what else to tell you.”