Tommy sucked the last of his milkshake through the straw. “I thought you said Mrs. Darlington was going to be there so I could still play with Mr. Dexter and Mr. Sims.”
How did someone so young remember so much? “That’s the problem, sport. Mrs. Darlington got another job, so she can’t help us out like she did before.”
“I thought kids couldn’t go on patrol,” Tommy said seriously. Had Rob told him that?
“They can’t unless it’s the boss’s kid. I’m the boss.”
Tommy looked at the lights and buttons on the patrol unit’s dashboard in front of him. “I think I like throwing Frisbee with Mr. Sims and Mr. Dexter better.”
“But I don’t think it’s such a good thing for you to play Frisbee with people who carry guns. I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Davis and see if we can move, maybe into the Towers. We’ll find somebody even nicer than Mr. Dexter.”
Davis, Rob knew, would object. But he’d either go along or find himself a new security director. And Tommy would have to put up with his father. The boy didn’t protest, but he didn’t make it easy, either.
“You carry a gun, and we play Frisbee all the time,” he said. “What makes Mr. Sims any different?”
It wouldn’t work. Rob had too many responsibilities. He found himself cutting too many corners in order to get to school to pick up Tommy. He had to excuse himself from too many appointments, then break the speed limits he was supposed to enforce.
He couldn’t be Tommy Kettleman’s father — determined that this hurt little boy would never feel alone — and Palm Shores security director, too. He would find another job, something more flexible, less responsible if need be, something that would enable him to live up to the responsibility that mattered.
But he didn’t have time. He didn’t even have a week. The first call from Rose came by phone to Rob’s condo right after Tommy left for school the next Monday.
“Problems in Pine Estates,” Rose said sternly, referring to the single-family homes overlooking the bay. “Sounds like a break-in at 2412.”
“Keep the graveyard gate guards on station,” Rob said. “Tell Buster to ask them about suspicious vehicles. Then call the sheriffs office. I’ll meet them at Pine Estates.”
A fat, greyhaired woman with wild eyes and a yappy toy poodle under her arm met Rob at the front door.
“I think it’s a fine thing when somebody can just walk around a neighborhood like this and break into whatever house he chooses. A fine thing.”
“What’s missing, ma’am?” Rob asked.
“A TV set and a stereo. A very expensive stereo. I thought we had a security department.”
The break-in was simple enough: A door on the bay side had been kicked in, the television and stereo carted outside from a family room, probably to a vehicle parked out front. There were no obvious prints. Rob managed to learn between the woman’s complaints that her semi-retired husband traveled a lot; she had spent the night with friends.
Rob was briefing a young, aloof deputy when Rose’s second call came in on the portable radio.
“Bad news, chief. Another break-in. Tennis condos, Number 20.”
Buster reported from the front gate that there had been no suspicious entries or exits during the night.
“Attention, all units,” Rob said. “Restricted access effective until further notice. Rose, notify the county of this new problem and see if they can send more backup. I’m on my way. Buster, start patroling the perimeter road. Rose, better see if you can raise Mr. Davis in Atlanta. Unit One out.”
Rose patched Davis’s call through to Rob shortly after noon as he worked the third burglary call of the day.
“Hell of a thing,” Davis said. “I’ve been listening to presentations on resort security here. I could have stayed home and got the real thing.”
Rob couldn’t resist. “Did the experts there say anything about letting your security director know you’ve got hot federal property on ice?”
Davis cleared his throat. “I suppose I should have said something.”
“Would’ve been nice, seeing as how the federal property and I are neighbors.”
“There was a session on providing protection, as a matter of fact,” Davis said coldly. “Not much about burglaries, though. I think most people here think prevention is the key in that regard.”
Davis had this way of reminding his employees who worked for whom. “Yeah,” Rob said. “I’m at Number 3, in the Towers. And there’s another I haven’t got to yet in the flats by the Sea Breeze course. Buster’s working that one and trying to keep an eye on the perimeter road all at once. We’ve got three county units, too.”
Davis said nothing for a few seconds, then, “I’ll be there in two hours. And, Rob, what I said about prevention: I know you’re understaffed. You’re doing your best, and it sounds like you’ve got it under control. I appreciate that. We’ll talk about staffing later.”
“Yeah,” Rob said, exasperated, “let’s talk.”
Rose disconnected the telephone patch and asked, “Now that you’ve told off the boss, will there be anything else?”
Rob looked at his watch. There was no way he’d be able to pick up Tommy. “Patch me through to Alan Dexter. His number’s on a pad on my desk.”
Late that afternoon Rose called as Rob, in the studio unit where the fourth break-in call had originated, checked factors with the deputy in charge of the investigations.
“Got a call from the Sea Breeze clubhouse. A couple of golfers had to play around a red van parked on the beach by the fourteenth fairway.”
“Any marks?” Rob asked anxiously.
“Something about masonry. That’s all they remembered.”
“That’s it,” Rob said. “Attention all units. Suspects are two white males, late twenties, both tan, athletic, one with medium-length blond hair, the other with dark brown hair, shaggy-looking. Charlie, check the work roster. Buster, stay on the perimeter road. I’ve got a feeling they’ll be trying to leave that way on foot. I’ll check the van.”
Rob clicked off his radio and nodded to the deputy as he ran out to the truck. Charlie called as he was pulling away.
“No checkout for the guys from Panhandle Masonry last night, chief,” he said.
“Ten-four. Unit One’s en route to suspect van, code one.” Maybe the city cop talk sounded dense in this operation. But for the first time since Mary got killed, he felt his professional instincts coming alive. Even his differences with Dexter seemed secondary now.
Tommy, he knew, was in good hands. There was a job to be done, action at last. Exhilaration, accomplishment. Something to focus a person’s thoughts.
Screw them if they don’t like real police talk.
In Tampa he’d have had backup. Here, he had himself, his wits, his .38.
He approached the van carefully, stepping over scrubby beach plants just off the fairway. Nothing moved.
He checked the cab first. Empty. The rear door wasn’t locked. Inside was what looked like everything the burglary victims had reported missing.
“Unit One to Base,” he said into the pocket radio when he was certain the burglars were nowhere nearby. “I’ve got the goods but no suspects.”
“This is Davis,” the resort owner called. “That’s great news about the property. I’m at Base with Rose. How soon can you get here?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Rob said. “Why don’t you head this way? My people and the county guys are busy, and I need somebody to stand by this vehicle. We can talk when you get here.”
Rob searched the beach, heavily tracked by golfers, and found nothing useful. The burglars might have escaped the resort by a stashed or waiting boat. But why hadn’t they taken the stolen goods? More likely, they had panicked for some reason, abandoning the van, fleeing on foot, heading for the perimeter road, the only way out. He could still catch them.