She jerked a tissue from the box and dabbed her brow and neck. Caring for a terminally ill husband and her own failing health must have aged her a decade or two.
Although Jack knew she hadn't believed Dina was earning extra money on her back, waking to an empty house night after night must have terrified her. Death can be a blessing, a tragedy, a peaceful end to a life well lived, but few want to meet theirs all alone.
Dina shared that fear. It didn't matter if she was at a kennel, doing errands, breaking into houses or asleep. Jack had seen the anxiety when she'd hurried down the hall to check on her mother. How Dina endured the constant emotional swings between dread and deliverance, he couldn't fathom.
"I smell coffee," Mrs. Wexler said accusingly. "The real kind, not the brown water that's supposed to pass for it."
Jack said, "I'll bring you a cup."
"Oh, no, you won't. Mom can't have caffiene."
"Pshaw. I drink it all the time, and it hasn't killed me yet." She winked at Jack. "While the cat's away, the old mouse has been known to stir in a spoonful of sugar, too."
"We don't
have
any sugar," Dina shot back. "Knowing you'd cheat, I threw it away months ago and washed out the canister."
Mrs. Wexler started to argue and evidently thought better of it. She minced, "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, may I please have a drink of water?"
When Dina rounded the corner to the kitchen, her mother snatched up a bagful of yarn. From the bottom, she pulled up several restaurant sugar packets. Grinning flirtatiously, she warned, "Don't you tell, McPhee."
"Jack," he said, and held out his hand. "Give 'em here, ma'am, and there'll be nothing to tell."
She hesitated, then dropped them in his palm. "I can get more any time I want."
The eatery's name stamped on the packets had closed two years ago. The old mouse hadn't cheated on her diet and never would. The sugar stash was a rebellion against disease, her daughter, kidnapped stove knobs and a thousand other indignities. Far from the least of which was no one to crow to, other than a stranger who hadn't chirped, "And how are we feeling today, Mrs. Wexler?"
Jack returned a packet to her and slipped the rest in his jeans pocket. "That's enough to get us both in trouble."
Her fingers curled around it. "Thank you, McPhee."
He sighed wearily as he sat down on the couch. What was it with the Wexlers' obsession with his last name? Tacking a "Mr." in front of it, he'd understand. Without it, the semiformality was beginning to sound like a fast-food franchise's new menu item.
"Jack," he said plenty loud enough to hear over a teakettle whistling in the kitchen. "Just plain 'Jack' will do fine, ma'am."
"I thought you said you were a detective."
He nodded, wondering how she'd react to the questions he still needed answers for. And whether Dina would clam up until her mother went back to bed. Or permanently.
"Then you must not be a very good one," Mrs. Wexler said. "Or you haven't been in business long enough to know better."
"Excuse me?" he said, thinking a few key words hadn't registered while his mind was elsewhere.
"A
real
pro never goes by his first name. Near as a body can tell, some don't seem to have one." Apparently annoyed by his persistent bewilderment, she added, "Columbo. Kojak. Mannix. Rockford. Magnumwell, he's an exception, since his buddies call him Thomas, but the show's
Magnum, P.I.,
not
Thomas Magnum, P.I.
"
Rather than point out that TV detectives were as true to life as a talking yellow sponge, Jack thanked her for the advice.
Before the interview concluded, the Wexlers would call him plenty of things besides McPhee.
Dina reentered the room carrying a tray. Water, several tablets and a coffee cup were dispensed to her mother, then the latter to Jack and herself.
"One for all," she said, referring to the whitish skim in his cup, peculiar to instant decaf.
A special circle of Hell should be reserved for its inventor. He swallowed a mouthful, noting that a pinch of arsenic would be virtually undetectable. Hell, a little rat poison stirred in might improve the taste.
Dina set the tray on the floor, then tossed aside a folded bed-sheet at the couch's opposite end. She scooted back into the corner against a bed pillow, her legs tucked under her, as though distancing herself from Jack as much as possible.
"So," she said. "Did the two of you draw straws to see who interrogates me first? Or do you want to do it relay style?"
"Don't be hateful, Dina Jeanne. Let's just have a nice chat, then you and McPhee can help me pack my things." Mrs. Wexler smiled at Jack. "I hope your car is bigger than hers. They won't let me bring much, but that Volkswagen will barely hold one suitcase."
Dina glared at Jack. "What did you say to her while I was in the kitchen?"
"It's my fault you're in trouble," Mrs. Wexler continued. "I do wish you'd been honest with me about the money a long time ago, sweetheart. But as soon as I'm at the nursing home, you won't have to steal things to pay the bills."
To Jack, she said, "Or to makewhat do you call it?uh,
restitution.
Yes, that's the word. She'll pay it, too, then you don't have to take her to jail."
Jack raised a hand to silence Dina. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wexler, but this situation is more complicated than your daughter burglarizing houses to offset your medical expenses. Among other things, there's a serious discrepancy between what she should have been paid for that jewelry and what she swears she received."
"Comes as no surprise to me. Dina's smart, don't get me wrong, but her brother's always had a sharper head for figures. Why, before Randy started school, he could cipher whether the green beans the store put on sale were any cheaper than the others."
"A financial whiz," Dina muttered, "at begging for money. Even better at getting some out of Mom."
Determined to keep the interview on track, Jack said, "You fenced the merchandise through somebody. I want to know who, how you met, how and where the exchanges went downeverything."
Dina directed a smirk at her mother. "I asked a friend of my mooch of a baby brother which pawnshop would give me the most for my wedding rings."
"You're married?"
"Happily divorced." She went on, "When Randy's friend found out why I needed the money, he took my cell phone number and said a friend of a friend of his might be able to help. A day or two later, a man called, saying he was in the market for upscale jewelry. It took a while to realize he meant hot upscale jewelry. I hung up on him."
"But you couldn't stop thinking about it."
"Not when it seemed like every other kennel customer wore diamond studs as big as marbles. Sapphire tennis bracelets, fancy rings, watches, pendants
" Shame leavened her voice. "And I was canceling Mom's doctor's appointments and telling her they were postponed because I didn't have enough money for the copays."
"You were?" Mrs. Wexler thrust out her chin. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have taken your guff about my medicine for a second."
"Oh, yeah? Well, putting off checkups is why it scared me to death when I found out you were skipping your meds, or cutting them in half."
"Some of them made me sick, or light-headed, or so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open."
"They don't when I'm here to make sure you eat something first, or that you
don't,
if they're supposed to be taken on an empty stomach."
Dina drew up her knees, her arms clamped around them like metal straps. Mrs. Wexler stared at the hallway. She worried the gold wedding band on her finger, mumbling about being a burden.
If tension had a color, it would be chartreuse and the room was pulsing with it. Jack wasn't immune to the effect or the vibe, but should have been. From the moment he recognized the thief's pretty face, he'd felt as if his shoes were on backward.
Seldom was objectivity a conscious effort. Any personal interest in a case was exclusive to the client. Almost without exception, the women Jack had encountered in the course of an investigation were either married, significantly othered or he wouldn't date them if they were stranded on a life raft.
Admit it, he thought. You've felt like your shoes were on backward since the day you met Dina Wexler. She blindsided you, sport. There's no future in it and never was. You didn't know it until an hour ago, but you damn sure do now.
He pushed up from the couch. His coffee cup was deposited on the kitchen counter. A dining room chair was moved into the living room, as though a poetry reading were about to commence.
He pulled a notebook from his back pocket, unclipped the pen from his shirt placket and sat down. "The fence's cell phone number, Ms. Wexler."
Startled by the bad-cop routine, Dina glanced at her mother. Mrs. Wexler sipped daintily from the water glass, content to let her back-talking daughter twist alone in the wind awhile.
Flustered, but loath to show it, Dina splayed her left hand. A seven-digit sequence was recited, then she squinted at her palm. "Wait. I think that last number's a seven, not a one."
Jesus friggin' criminy. The Calendar Burglar the police had chased their tails for two years to apprehend had inked her fence's phone number on her hand.
"Do you have a lousy memory, or does it change pretty often?"
He already knew the answer, and that the fence's revolving contact numbers were linked to untraceable prepaid units, of which he had a sackful. Occasionally, he'd make brief, selective use of a stolen cell phone.
"How do you contact him?" Jack asked.
"From pay phones."
"Never the same one twice, right?"
Dina nodded.
"And he tells you, don't use this contact number next time, use this one."
Another nod.
"You don't know his name, but does he know yours?"
"Just as D.J." Dina frowned. "Unless somebody told him." A pause, then, "I don't think Randy's friend would have, and the man hasn't ever called me Dina or anything."
Odds were the fence knew exactly who she was, where she lived and why she'd resorted to burglary. Multiple receiving-stolen-property charges would bargain down nicely in exchange for particulars on the actual thieves. Even a jailhouse shyster would demand a conspiracy-to-commit charge be taken off the table before the fence flipped on his crew.
"Call him." Jack lobbed his own untraceable, prepaid phone to her. "Say whatever you usually do to arrange a meeting."
Leery, she argued, "He'll know it isn't a pay phone call. He won't answer."
"Try it."
Dina punched in the number and held the unit to her ear.
A quizzical expression, a disconnect, then a second try. She muttered, "Maybe it
is
a one instead of a seven." Her eyes telegraphed an active ring tone. A start, then, "Oh. Sorry. Wrong number."
To Jack, she said, "I don't understand."
He did. A new and legitimate phone number was Dina's pink slip. The fence was feeling heat, or decided she'd become a liability.
"Okay," Jack said, "pretend you've made your haul and a clean getaway. What was the drill from there?"
"I'd call, he'd tell me where we'd meet, he'd look at what I have and pay me."
"No ballpark estimates on the gross? No dickering? Just, 'Here's your ten percent, see ya in the funny papers'?"
The evil eye Dina leveled sufficed as an answer. "For what it's worth, which is probably nothing, I didn't take wedding rings, anniversary rings, anything that looked like an heirloom or was inscribed. Sure, some pieces may have been gifts or had sentimental value, but if I sensed they might, I left them alone."
"Lord in Heaven." Mrs. Wexler moaned and clapped a hand to her face. "You really
are
a thief."
Dina stiffened. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't respond.
"All I've got to say is, thank God your daddy isn't alive to hear this."
Since "All I've got to say" is usually an intro, not an outro, Mrs. Wexler went on, "Why didn't you tell Randy you needed help making ends meet, instead of this so-called friend of his?"
"I did, Mother. About a hundred times. Including just last week, as a matter of fact."
"I don't believe you." Mrs. Wexler tossed her head. "Randy is the man of the family now. He'd have come home if you'd asked him to."
Dina looked at Jack. The resentment of a second-favorite child smoldered in her eyes. "Go on, McPhee."
A now familiar flinch tugged his solar plexus. Dina had lived a pressure-cooker existence for years. No time to herself, none for herself. The byproducts of stress and unrelieved exhaustion were a numb conscience and quashed fears of what would happen to her mother if Dina were arrested.
