“Hey, Molinson!” a voice called across the station, as Wendell strode in. “I’ve solved your big case for you!”

Halting in his progress towards his desk, he turned and sought out the speaker, a long-limbed young man with an ego so big it had to go through doorways sideways.

“What’s that, Peters?”

“Your big case,” the man repeated, almost sneering. “I’ve got your man. Caught him red-handed.”

Wendell frowned. “Where is he now?”

“Cooling his heels in interview three.” Peters leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. “He’ll keep a little longer.”

“You recovered the painting?”

The man shrugged. “No. But he’ll come across with where it is.”

“And the evidence?”

Peters hooked a thumb to the room behind them. “The trainee’s dealing with it.” At the outraged expression on his superior’s face, he added, “I bagged everything up. She’s just doing the data entry.”

“And what are you doing?”

Peters’ feet hit the floor. “I’m writing my report. On how I solved your case.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Molinson muttered, heading instead to the evidence room.

He stepped inside to find the department’s newest recruit – not actually a trainee, although Peters and several other misogynists insisted on calling her that – sitting at a computer and tapping away at the keyboard. Her smooth, blonde hair and petite frame gave her a delicate look, but Molinson knew that Officer Melissa Jorgensen was tough, smart and resourceful.

“I’m just finishing up here, sir,” the young woman told him.

“What have you got?”

Before she answered, a brief, uneasy look crossed her face and he felt a small qualm.

“Officer Peters detained a suspect in relation to the art theft at the Wheeler residence after searching his person and confiscating a number of items,” she answered. “All of these things were in his pockets.”

She spread out the evidence bags on the table for him to see. Each held a single item: a dirt-encrusted gold-coloured ring with a large, clear stone; an old pair of orange-handled pliers; a similar pair of wire-cutters; a cigarette lighter shaped like a car; and a metal gadget, whose purpose Molinson could not fathom.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the last item.

Jorgensen picked up the bag. “According to Peters, it’s a house-breaking tool. According to the suspect, it’s a hoof pick.”

Molinson’s stomach dropped. “What’s the name of the suspect?”

“William Flynn Regan.”

He swore under his breath. “Finish the data entry. Bring all of the evidence bags and come and get me when we’re done. You and I are interviewing the suspect immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be at my desk in a few minutes. Come and get me when you’re finished.”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated.

He stalked out of the room and into the reception area.

“We have a problem,” he told the desk sergeant. “When Matthew Wheeler, or some representative of his arrives, I want you to very politely ask them to wait for me to be free. Unless they’ve brought a lawyer, in which case you’ll find me in interview three.”

The man nodded agreement and they shared a look of commiseration.

His next stop was going to be Peters’ desk, but he encountered Jorgensen along the way.

“It’s all finished, sir.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

He led the way to the corridor of interview rooms and entered room three.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Regan,” he greeted, as the room’s occupant froze mid-stride of his agitated pacing. “Please take a seat.”

For a long moment, the redhead stood scowling at them, then he nodded and sat down.

Molinson took the box containing the evidence bags from Jorgensen and set it on the table.

“They tell me you were carrying these things.” He began by pulling out the bags with the pliers and wire cutters. “You’ve been mending fences? The ones cut during the robbery, I suppose?”

Regan nodded. “I finished that this morning, right after we got the call from here saying we could make the repairs.”

He pulled out another bag, the one with the hoof pick. “And you were going about your usual business.”

“It’s a hoof pick. I already explained it to that–” he broke off, seeming to reconsider his next words. “I don’t know his name. The man who brought me here.”

“Peters,” Molinson supplied, without looking up. “His name is Galen Peters. Do you want to write it down so you don’t forget again?”

“I’ll remember,” Regan answered, with a note of grimness in his voice.

“Fine.” Wendell pulled out the bag with the ring. “How about this?”

“I found it in the mud. I don’t think it’s valuable, but I was going to hand it over to Margery Trask.” He scowled. “And I don’t see what it has to do with the break-in. There wasn’t any jewellery taken.”

Neither do I, Molinson thought, but did not say. And if this is the quality of policing in Sleepyside, it’s no wonder the Belden girl is solving our crimes for us.

“Well, I think that will be all, Mr. Regan. I’ll see about having these things returned to you, but we might have the ring looked at first.”

“That’s fine,” he answered. “There’s no hurry.”

“And I’ll have someone drive you back to Manor House.” He looked to Jorgensen, who nodded slightly. “Thank you for your time, today. You’ll be free to go as soon as they sign you out.”

Wendell hurried through the formalities, and then allowed Jorgensen to escort the Wheeler’s groom home. After handing over the evidence to someone, he turned his steps to Peters’ desk.

“A word, please.”

Peters shot him an insolent look. “Why? You mad at me for solving your case?”

“You haven’t solved my case,” Molinson retorted. “I’m looking for someone with high connections in the art world, who has state-of-the-art equipment for disarming sophisticated alarm systems. You detained a twenty-four-year-old high school drop-out who looks after horses for a living and refuses to use digital clocks because they’re too high-tech.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not the one.”

“You have no evidence.”

Peters shrugged. “He’ll come across when I interview him.”

“I’ve already interviewed him and let him go.”

The other man jumped to his feet. “You have no right to do that.”

“I have every right.” He turned away as someone called his name. “What is it?”

“Matthew Wheeler to see you.”

Straightening, he nodded. “Show him into a room and I’ll be right there.” To Peters, he added, “Your conduct on this has been unacceptable. I’ll be dealing with you later.”

He made his way to the room where Mr. Wheeler waited.

“Where’s Regan?” the other man demanded, before Wendell could say a word.

“You’ve just missed him.” He struggled for a moment on how much to say, then came to a snap decision. “I only found out that he’d been detained a short time ago. I had someone drive him home. And I’ll be speaking to the officer in question about the matter.”

Matthew Wheeler nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’m glad to hear that. But it’s not my primary objective in coming here today.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s more a matter of how I can help,” Mr. Wheeler answered. “I’ve just had a conversation with my daughter and her friends and they have, shall we call it, a theory about the break-in. I’m sure you’ll be at least a little relieved that your – and my, and all of the other parents’ – advice seems to be sinking in at last.”

Wendell nodded agreement. It would certainly take a weight off his mind if those teenagers would learn to hand things over to the proper authorities in a timely manner. Some of them might one day be the proper authorities, but in the meantime their safety was more important than their detective aspirations.

“They think that the robbery was a sham and that the real object of the exercise was to discredit a certain person – or, rather, to ruin his business.” Mr. Wheeler paused, shaking his head. “I have to say that, when they told me who they thought had done it, I had no trouble believing it.”

And Wendell knew, deep in his gut, that the Belden girl had done it again. He listened intently to the explanation of the personal rivalry between the two men, one of them having all of the skills needed to override the security system, kept a straight face at the alarming details which no teenagers should have been able to easily access and made careful note of the addresses where the kids thought he would find the painting and the culprits.

“I’ll look into it, certainly.” He tapped his pen against his notepad. “Will you please pass on my assurances that the police department will give the matter every attention?”

“And that they don’t need to take the law into their own hands? Yes, of course.” The other man pushed back his chair. “Thank you for your time. I’ll leave it with you.”

Molinson showed the businessman out and set about the processes needed to follow up on the Belden girl’s tip.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Peters threw at Jorgensen, as she walked through the station a few days later. “The kitchen’s a mess.”

Molinson, only a few paces behind her, snapped, “Well, you can spend your next break cleaning it, Peters. And in the meantime, get back to your work.”

“I can handle it,” the young woman told him, with a mild reproach in her voice, once they were out of earshot.

“I know. But you shouldn’t have to. And he has to learn that there are consequences to that kind of behaviour.” Opening the rear door to the station, he waved her around to the driver’s side of the car they were going to use. “You’d better get familiar with Glen Road; you’ll be going out there a lot, unless I miss my guess.”

She smiled and got in. She followed his directions to Manor House and parked where he indicated. Wendell himself gathered the things they needed and then led the way up to the house.

“We’d like to see Mr. Wheeler, if he’s available, and also Mr. Regan,” he told Margery Trask, when she opened the door.

“Mr. Wheeler isn’t here at the moment,” she answered, “but come this way and you can see Bill Regan. And if there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”

Wendell composed a short message for the estate manager to pass on and then followed her to the stables. They almost slammed into a hurrying figure with a head of unruly blonde curls.

“Oh! Have you caught them yet?”

He put on a stern look.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

The girl looked like she would roll her eyes, but stopped just in time. “But you found the painting where I said it would be.” She did not seem to expect an answer, but turned to look at Jorgensen. “Are you new in Sleepyside? I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Officer…”

“Jorgensen,” the young woman supplied, before her name could be mispronounced.

The teen introduced herself and looked set to begin a lengthy conversation, but Margery Trask interrupted.

“I think that’s all for the moment, thank you, Trixie.”

The girl looked a little disappointed, but continued on her way. The estate manager showed them into an office, where the young man sat.

“Bill, you have some visitors.”

He looked up, surprised. “Thanks.”

“We’ve come to return your property,” Wendell explained, waving Jorgensen forward. “If you’d like to inspect the items and sign for them, they’ll be all yours.”

“One pair of pliers. Sign here, please.” Jorgensen pointed to the place in question. “One pair of wire cutters. Here.”

Bill Regan grunted and signed in the two places. “That ring. Did you have it looked at?”

“It’s not worth anything,” she told him. “Sign here for it.”

He did so.

“Thank you.” She produced the next bag. “One novelty lighter. Sign here.”

“My nephew bought it for me as a joke,” he explained, looking faintly embarrassed. “I was using it to melt the ends of some synthetic cord so it would stop unravelling.”

She nodded. “And one hoof pick. Sign here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Regan.” Wendell took a step back to allow Jorgensen to exit the room. “If you reconsider your decision not to make a formal complaint, it’s not too late.”

The other man shook his head. “I won’t. It’s not worth my trouble.”

Pity, Wendell thought to himself. I could do with all the help I can get to get rid of Peters.

“He seems nice,” Jorgensen commented, as they got back into the car a short time later. “And was that girl–”

“My problem girl-detective? Yes.”

“I liked her, too.” She looked both ways before pulling out into Glen Road. “I think I’m going to enjoy working in Sleepyside.”

“Good,” he answered. “The next time I get a call from Glen Road, I’m sending you.”

The End

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