Years ago, the magazine had done a series of articles about a small-time burglar turned cult hero. Morris hoped he could remember what the B and E artist had taught him about locks.

  Most storefronts are rented, Morris knew. And most landlords go for the cheapest locksets in the hardware store. So unless the guy renting the space invests in better security, it doesn't take much to pop the lock. Just a little patience. A soft touch. And practice.

  Morris was out of practice. He worked the lock quickly but carefully, one eye on the door and the other on the street. He could sense that the lock wanted to open; he could feel it begging to be released, but still the entrance to the pawnshop remained shut. Working the hardware in the cold December night, Morris began to lose feeling in his finger tips. He had gloves in his coat pocket, but he'd never be able to feel the cylinders through gloves. He looked around. The street was quiet, but he could not expect it to stay quiet indefinitely. He blew on his fingers until the feeling returned. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down, to listen with his finger tips, working the lock patiently, caressing the lock.

  Morris felt the change moments before the cylinders released. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He would have to remember to wipe the door for prints as he was leaving. Inside the store, the lock no longer an issue, Morris pulled on his gloves. He had no flashlight, but dared not turn on a light. He would have to work in the dark.

  Morris fumbled his way through the pawnshop. He knew what he was looking for, but even if he found it, Morris wondered, would he recognize it? He would take nothing. Morris was there for information only. He was not a thief. But when he found two hundred dollars in the cashbox, well, he told himself, it was a dead pawnbroker, so it wasn't really stealing, and he really needed the money. He didn't have time for an internal debate. Morris stuffed the cash in his pocket and continued to search in the dark until he found what he was looking for.

  He left everything as he found it and peeked out the window. There were a few party stragglers on the street. Morris waited until everything was quiet and slipped out the door, hurrying to his car before any more partiers appeared on the street. He hoped no one heard his Buick coughing as he pulled the car out of the alley, turning in the direction away from the firehouse and the Christmas lights.

  Talking to a Source

  It was well past midnight when Morris dialed Cassie's phone number. "Tell the detective he was right."

  "Hunnnnh? Who is this?" Cassie was sleeping deeply, dreaming about eggs over easy when the telephone woke her.

  "It's me, Cassie."

  "Morris?"

  "Pay attention, Cassie. I found jewelry in the pawnshop."

  "What?" Cassie was still trying to wake up.

  "From the new jewelry store in the mall. The one that just opened."

  "What are you talking about, Morris?"

  "The detective is right, Cassie. Oliver must have been stealing jewelry and passing it to Big Mack. Then Big Mack would sell it to Louie. Just like the detective explained it."

  The fog lifted from Cassie's head. "Hold on, Morris. How do you know this?" She remembered Detective Bebedict's concern. "Are you involved in this, Morris?"

  "No."

  "Then how do you know about the jewelry."

  "I can't tell you, Cassie."

  "But you want me to tell the detective."

  "That's right."

  "Just like that? Call him up and tell him what? That Morris says there's stolen jewelry in the pawnshop?"

  "Yeah."

  "And you don't think he's gonna ask me how you know about the jewelry?"

  Morris didn't answer.

  "Morris, you still there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well?"

  "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell the detective."

  Cassie was no longer talking to her friend, Morris. Suddenly she was the investigative reporter talking to a source. "Of course. Anything you tell me is strictly confidential."

  "Okay, then." Morris took a deep breath. "I broke into the pawnshop tonight."

  "Are you crazy, Morris?" Cassie got out of bed and began pacing with the phone. "Have you lost your mind?"

  But Morris had an explanation. "The detective thinks I'm involved in this somehow, but I'm not. I needed a way to show him I'm on his side in this."

  "And breaking into the pawnshop, that shows him he can trust you?"

  "When he started talking about what a pain it was going to be for him to get inside, I figured maybe I could help him out, find what he was looking for. And I did."

  "You didn't take anything, did you, Morris?"

  Morris thought about the two hundred dollars in his pocket. "No."

  "Well, that's gotta count for something."

  "What do you mean, Cassie?"

  "Shit, Morris. Think about it. Detective Bebedict tells you that he plans to search the pawnshop tomorrow for evidence of a double homicide. So what do you do? You break into the pawnshop before the police have the chance to conduct the search. You think that looks like someone who's trying to help the police? Don't you realize to the detective it's gonna look like you broke in to destroy incriminating evidence?"

  Morris was genuinely surprised to see his actions from this new perspective. "I never thought about it like that. I just wanted to be helpful." Morris grew silent.

  "Morris?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You weren't, were you?"

  "Weren't what?"

  "Destroying evidence?"

  They had been friends and colleagues for nearly twenty years. Morris wished she didn't need to ask. "No, Cassie. So will you tell Detective Bebedict to look for the jewelry? It's in a small case behind the counter. It's still in the original box from the jewelry store."

  "I need to think about it, Morris."

  "I'm not involved in this, Cassie."

  "If you weren't before, you sure as hell are involved now." Cassie hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

  Cassie barely had time to roll over and go back to sleep before the phone rang again.

  "I forgot to tell you . . ."

  "Get off my phone, Morris."

  "Listen. Your friend Cheyenne, is she still under attack for canceling the town's Christmas display?"

  Cassie was too tired to explain. "I'm begging you, Morris. Let me sleep."

  "Well, tell her that Woodbine has a really nice Christmas parade and town Christmas party."

  "I'm hanging up the phone, Morris."

  "I just thought . . ."

  A Beer and Two Pickled Eggs

  Oliver watched from a distance as the car that held the detective and the writer pulled out of town. He didn't know what they were doing at Louie's, but at least they were doing it no longer. Oliver relaxed, tried to relax, feeling the knot in his neck, his muscles locked up from stress.

  Rubbing his neck, Oliver walked up the street, turning into an "old man" bar, nothing fancy, no signature drinks (excepting Augustus Busch's signature on the beer bottles), a small, poorly lit bar, and sitting on the barstools, several small, poorly lit men, retired factory workers and machinists. Oliver ordered a beer and two pickled eggs and listened in on the conversation.

  Not wishing to appear to be intruding on their privacy, Oliver only caught bits and pieces of the conversations. Mostly, he heard talk of a Christmas parade. Oliver was on his second beer before he realized said parade would be just outside the bar within the hour. He nursed the second Budweiser and decided to stick around for the parade.

  By now, Oliver's ears had adjusted to the acoustics in the old barroom, or perhaps, after two beers, he was simply more obviously eavesdropping, but he began to hear much juicier tidbits, rumors of a local man gone dead. The police had not released a name. The media outlets were not yet reporting the identity, but the gossip was spreading in Woodbine that the man murdered in the Mall of New Jersey was local storeowner Louis Feldman.

  Oliver had been listening intently to the murder gossip, nearly falling off his barstool at the mention of Louis Feldman. So that explained what the detective and the writer were doing outside the pawnshop. Oliver wondered again about the identity of the third member of that little group.

  He settled up with the bartender and wandered out onto the sidewalk where the community was already gathering for the Christmas parade. The parade held little interest for Oliver, nothing but a couple of cars, some fire trucks and tractors, children on parade, their parents cheering from the sidewalk, but moving quietly along the parade route, Oliver continued to hear random gossip regarding the dead pawnbroker, a simple man who stayed in the background, a deeply religious man who happened to sell guns and stuff and who floated loans for anyone in the neighborhood whose cash was low and whose credit score even lower.

  Oliver wondered what Little Mack knew. Did he know, when he sent Oliver to Woodbine, that Louie was dead? Is that what Little Mack meant when he said Louie would ask no questions? Did Little Mack expect him to break into the pawnshop and steal a gun?

  As the parade reached its terminus, Oliver followed the sparse crowd to the firehouse for an after-parade party. It was as he neared the firehouse that Oliver noticed the other man, the one he'd seen earlier with the detective and the writer. He was an average looking man, a little older than he dressed, a little heavier, his hair a little thinner. Oliver had not forgotten about this unidentified man; he was part of the scene outside Louie's pawnshop that afternoon and therefore dangerous. Oliver moved carefully, blending in with a knot of locals drinking punch and swapping Christmas stories. From a shadowy corner of the firehouse, Oliver kept an eye on the unidentified man.

  When the man stepped outside for a cigarette, Oliver moved from his corner position, trying to keep the man in his line of sight. He was surprised to see the man look around, checking for something, and then take off quickly down the street. Oliver followed at a safe distance, hugging the sides of the buildings.

  The man got in his car but wasn't driving fast or far. Oliver guessed correctly that he would catch up with the Buick outside the pawnshop. Oliver hurried around the corner and down the street, moving as quickly as he could, without attracting attention.

  Sure enough, when he approached the pawnshop, he spied the Buick parked in the alley around back. The mystery man was attempting to open the locked pawnshop door. Oliver hung back, hidden in the dark of night between buildings on the opposite side of the street. From this vantage point, he watched the man jimmy the lock. He dared not get closer, waiting in the dark some ten, maybe fifteen minutes, until he saw the man leave the pawnshop, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Oliver remained hidden in the space between the buildings on the opposite side of the street, trying to decide his next move. He stood there, marking time, until he was sure it was safe to cross the street. Finally, Oliver scurried over to the pawnshop. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just a pawnshop closed for the night. He saw the guns beckoning from the display window, inviting him to bust in the door, to throw a rock through the window. Oliver didn't see how he could manage it. He had come down to Woodbine uncertain whether he had the nerve to buy a gun. Stealing a gun was not an option. There was nothing left for Oliver to do in Woodbine. He hustled down the empty street, found his parked car and turned the music on loud to drown out the questions imploding inside his head.

  Eating Breakfast and Dishing about Boys

  Cassie's phone rang one more time, waking her yet again, only this time she opened her eyes and the sun was up. She rolled over and looked at the clock on her night stand. It was nearly ten in the morning.

  Cassie picked up her telephone. "Hello?"

  "Did you forget about breakfast?" It was Cheyenne. "I'm at the Eggery."

  "Omigod, Chey. I'm sorry." She was already climbing out of bed, running around her bedroom. "I'll be right there."

  "Are you sure, Cassie?"

  "Yeah, it's okay. Just give me two minutes in the shower, and I'll be out the door."

  It wasn't exactly two minutes, but Cassie did move quickly, and twenty minutes later she arrived at the Eggery, her hair still damp from the shower.

  "Thanks for waiting, Chey. I overslept."

  "Everything okay with you?" wondered Cheyenne.

  "Yeah, fine. Did you order?"

  Greta stopped at the table with two cups of rich, dark coffee. "I'll—grr—be right back."

  "So I haven't heard from you in a couple of days. What have you been up to?"

  Cassie was about to tell Cheyenne about her day in Woodbine when she remembered Morris's phone call. "I'm sorry, Chey. I almost forgot. I need to make a phone call. I won't be but a minute."

  Cassie pulled out her cell phone and dialed the non-emergency number for the police. "Detective Bebedict, please."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the detective is not available at the moment. Can I connect you to another officer?"

  "No. I need to speak to Detective Bebedict. Is he on his way to Woodbine? This is important."

  "Could I have your name, ma'am? Are you sure I can't transfer you to another detective?"

  "This is Cassie O'Malley. It's very important that I speak to Detective Bebedict. Please tell him to call me right away."

  "I'll see what I can do, Ms. O'Malley."

  Cheyenne waited for Cassie to hang up her cell phone before asking, "What was that all about?"

  "I have information for the detective about the murders at the mall." Cassie realized a lot had happened since she last spoke to Cheyenne. "It looks like there's a connection between the deaths of Teddy Maciborski and Louis Feldman."

  Cheyenne put down her cup of coffee and stared at her best friend. "And you have information about that connection?"

  "I believe I do."

  Just then Cassie's cell phone rang.

  "Hello."

  "This is Detective Harding. Am I speaking to Ms. O'Malley?"

  "Yes, Detective. You are speaking to Cassie O'Malley." She continued, "but I am not speaking to anyone but Detective Bebedict."

  "Detective Bebedict is not available right now. He asked me to call you." Detective Harding hoped that Cassie would believe him.

  "Sorry, Detective. If Detective Bebedict really asked you to call me, when you talk to him next time . . . when you talk to him for the first time . . . tell him to call me." She hung up her cell.

  Cheyenne sat across the table, mouth agape. "Was that really necessary?"

  Cassie sipped her coffee. "We'll know soon enough."

  Greta stopped back at their table, refilling their coffee cups and taking their breakfast order—two eggs over easy with a side of bacon extra-crispy and an egg white omelet ("The doctor told me my cholesterol is too high," Cheyenne explained, embarrassed by her heart healthy order) and dry toast.

  Even before they were finished placing their order, Cassie's cell phone was ringing once again.

  "Okay, Cassie, what do you want?" growled Eggs Bebedict.

  "Good morning, Eggs. Thanks for returning my call."

  "This damn well better be important, Cassie." Eggs paused, not meaning to sound harsh. "Truth is, I always like talking to you, Cassie, but right now I'm sitting in my car outside Louie's, getting ready to search the place."

  "That's better." Cassie paused, not meaning to sound petulant. "I always like talking to you too, but right now I've got some information about the search."

  "What've you got, Cassie?"

  "Look for jewelry."

  "I know that already, Cassie. Is there more?"

  "Behind the counter. Look for jewelry behind the counter. It's still in the original boxes."

  "How do you know about the jewelry?"

  "Eggs . . . Detective Bebedict . . . I think we could be friends, you know what I mean?" Cassie didn't wait for an answer. "But you're a cop and I'm a reporter. We both need to remember that. I have to protect the confidentiality of my sources."

  "Of course you do, Cassie. I understand . . . So was it Morris that told you?"

  Cassie forced herself to laugh. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that . . . Eggs."

  Detective Bebedict snorted. "Thanks for the tip, Cassie."

  Cheyenne barely knew where to begin. "You call the detective Eggs?"

  Cassie smiled. "Yeah. He told me all his friends call him Eggs."

  "You like him, don't you?"

  "Yeah. I think I do."

  And for the next few minutes they forgot about the double murders at the mall. They forgot about Cheyenne's mayoral difficulties. They forgot about all manner of adult concerns, and were college roommates again, eating breakfast and dishing about boys.

  "So what's he like?"

  "Older, I'd guess fifty, kinda rough around the edges, not much to look at . . ." Cassie saw Cheyenne's quizzical expression. "Well, not hideous, really kinda cute, but he'd hate it if he heard me call him cute. He's a gentleman, not an Emily Post kinda gentleman, but I think he'd treat a woman with respect."

  "You do like him." Cheyenne was pleased. "You're due for a good man, Cassie. Overdue. Does he like you?"

  That was the question. "I think maybe he does . . . At least, I think he will, when he figures it out."

  Close to the Edge

  "Grr—you're late."

  "Take a chill pill, Mom."

  "Tell me you didn't—grr—just say what I think you said."

  Cassie and Cheyenne buried their heads in their breakfast plates, pretending not to hear the argument that had broken out scant feet from their table. Cassie whispered, "Is that her son?"

  Cheyenne shrugged her shoulders, concentrating on her egg white omelet. "I'll never get used to this low cholesterol diet."

  Cassie chuckled. "I guess I shouldn't offer you a piece of my bacon."

  Meanwhile the argument was escalating, becoming more difficult to ignore.

 

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