"It looks like a prank, doesn't it?" Gibbon said. "You break into one of these multi-million-dollar homes, you pass up all kinds of treasure. You take something pretty much worthless compared to everything you leave behind-and then, to top it all off, you donate your ill-gotten gain to charity. At the end of the day, the injured party's goods are restored. No harm done."

"More or less." Logan pictured the Petries' ransacked bedroom. "From a technical point of view, nothing I've seen suggests you're dealing with a pro. We've had a few in our fair city-don't get me wrong. But they don't work like this. One thing they've never done is made a statement, and that's what your guy is all about."

"You think it's a man, then?" Logan asked, regretting the question immediately. But he wanted Gibbon to assure him this had to be the work of a man, that it was inconceivable a woman-one woman in particular-could be responsible.

The Cherub eyed him curiously, but misunderstood. "I'm not ruling out the possibility of a juvenile offender, but a teenager wouldn't be satisfied with just boosting a statue. He'd want to trash the place, too, just for kicks. It's about the thrill."

"Then the latest one fits the bill." Logan told Gibbon about the Petrie break-in, the way the violence still clung to the room like a bad smell. Describing the scene, he felt his muscles tensing up. "Ripping a place apart like that. You couldn't do it without some fury inside you."

"Maybe not," Gibbon conceded. "That's what I was getting at before when I said he was making a statement. The stuff this guy steals, it's worthless. But that doesn't make it meaningless."

"Then what does it mean?"

Gibbon shrugged. "How should I know? But I guarantee it means something to him. Find the connection between the objects . . . and maybe you'll find your man."

Turning, he walked along the perimeter, keeping out of the light, edging toward the Chalmers Street exit. His steps had a deliberate quality, like he was squashing dark thoughts into the pavers as he walked. All of Lacey's warnings about Gibbon started chiming in Logan's head. He had to learn to keep his mouth shut about the book.

"Gibbon?"

The Cherub paused at the exit, silhouetted by the streetlights farther out.

"Do you know anything about Rylee Monroe?"

He lifted his brows. "The dogwalker? The girl's a fixture south of Broad."

"But what can you tell me about her?"

"Don't ask me," Gibbon said. "You're the detective now."

Chapter Nine.

"Hey there, George."

The Davidsons' gardener crouched near the bushes with a pair of shears. He didn't stir at the sound of Rylee's voice. She passed through the gate, hitching it behind her, then unhooked Toro and let him run free.

"It's shaping up to be a hot one, isn't it?" She made her way toward the gardener, determined to draw him out.

In his late fifties, George Pendergrass was a little old-fashioned. He did his gardening in a button-up short-sleeved shirt, always tucked in. His mahogany skin was toughened by the sun and perhaps hard living.

Every five minutes or so, he consulted his gold Seiko, like he was expected somewhere else. And he probably was. He did gardening for many homes in the neighborhood.

Out on the street, a Charleston police cruiser rolled by slowly. George followed it with his gaze.

"They're keeping a close eye on things, aren't they?" she said.

He grunted. "With the po-lice, there's always a lotta looking, but not a lotta seeing."

His mumbled words were so quiet, she'd barely caught them.

But at least she'd elicited a response.

Reaching for the yard bag beside him, she held it open while he dropped his trimmings into it. "Do you like what you do, George?"

No answer.

"I love what I do." She waved her arm to encompass the neatly-trimmed garden, the verdant lawn, and the mastiff circling a tree.

"When you find the kind of work that satisfies you, and you do it the rest of your life, well, that's a gift from God."

He retrieved his shears and garbage bag, then set off for his truck, mumbling under his breath. This time, she wasn't able to catch the words.

Taking Toro inside, she fed him, rolled around on the floor with him and played tug-of-war as she waited for Logan to come by. He'd called earlier, asking if they could brainstorm, compare notes.

Her phone beeped. I'm here. Where R U?

She quickly texted, Coming.

As she locked the back door, George was dragging a grass-stained trimmer through the gate.

"You gonna be at the Sebastians' later on today?"

He shook his head. "Monday."

"I'll see you then." She waved, but he'd already turned away.

Logan met her at the gate. This time his oxford shirt was yellow. My favorite color.

Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing tanned arms sprinkled with brown hair. "Who's that?"

"George Pendergrass." She pointed to his white truck with its silhouette of a wheelbarrow, a shovel, and a potted plant on its door. PENDERGRASS GARDENING arched over it like a rainbow. "I'm sure he's a sweet man deep down, but he keeps pretty much to himself.

I'm working on him, though."

Logan opened the door of a black BMW.

"This is yours?" she asked.

"A graduation gift from my parents." He patted the hood. "Still runs like a dream, even with a hundred thousand miles on the clock."

He closed the passenger door behind her and hopped behind the wheel.

"What's her name?" Rylee asked.

"Whose name?"

"Your car's. What's your car's name?"

"It's a BMW 3-Series coupe."

"No. Her name. You know. Like my Civic. I call her Daisy."

He shot her an amused glance. "You don't."

"I do."

Glancing over his shoulder, he pulled onto the street. "I don't name my cars, Rylee."

She ran her gaze over the well-kept leather seats, the gps unit and high-end stereo, with an mp3 player screen, and the gleaming dashboard. He may not name his car, but he certainly took good care of it.

Logan drove Rylee past each of Robin Hood's crime scenes, asking questions as they went. Did she know whether Karl's jewelry casket had ever been appraised? Had she ever noticed anyone who didn't belong in the neighborhood checking out the Petrie place? Were any of her clients friends with Mr. Shelby-the widower whose ormolu clock had been stolen? Besides her, who else did work for the Bosticks?

"George does."

"That gardener we just saw?"

"Yes."

"How many other clients of yours does he work for?"

"Three others. The Sebastians, the Petries, and the Davidsons." "Anybody else work for your clients? You know, housekeepers, pool guys, something like that?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know them all."

He'd fished his digital recorder out and balanced it as best he could on the console between them. With the road noise, he wasn't sure how good of a recording he'd get, but it was better than trying to take notes as he drove.

"Have the cops told you anything?" she asked.

Helping or fishing for information?

"Nate's been pretty tight-lipped lately. Gave me next to nothing on the Sebastian and Petrie breakins."

She smoothed down the hem of her top. A plain silver band encircled her thumb. "Probably because he doesn't have any information to pass along."

He checked his rearview mirror. "Possibly."

"You know what I find myself wondering?" she asked. "The Robin Hood burglar, when he enters somebody's house, does he already know what he's going to steal? If these things mean something to him-these particular things-then he has to know in advance, doesn't he?"

The same thing Marcel Gibbon had suggested-find the connection between the objects, and you'll find your man.

He downshifted as they approached a light. "The statue, clock, and jewelry casket were things you might notice during a visit, right?

And someone might have seen Latisha Petrie's brooch while she was wearing it. Makes me wonder if our guy is one of their inner circle."

"The jewelry casket wasn't on display."

He glanced at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"It was in Karl's closet."

"How do you know that?"

"I was at his house when the police came by."

"You're kidding. I had no idea."

"Yeah. I interrupted him."

"Karl?"

"Robin Hood."

He stared at her, stunned. Clearly Nate was holding back.

"Light's green."

Putting it in first, he eased forward. He'd interviewed hundreds of people in his years on the crime beat. Spotting a liar had become almost second nature to him. Wandering eyes. Fidgeting. Rapid speech. An exaggerated version of the sincere, furrowed-brow look.

Yet Rylee exhibited none of these. She sat relaxed against the seat cushions, her long legs crossed at the ankles.

"Tell me exactly what happened. Start at the beginning."

She talked him through the robbery, gesturing with her hands in an effort to assist him in seeing what she'd seen.

He braked, allowing a horse and carriage to pull in front of them.

The sun coming through the window gave her hair the same red-bathed tint as a glass of iced tea. So short in back it barely reached her raised collar, affording a clear view of her graceful jaw and long neck, but she had to keep flicking the longish strands in front away from her toffee eyes. Her blue checked top had very short sleeves, revealing the burnished tan line of her bare arms.

She turned suddenly and caught him looking.

He glanced away, tried to think of something to say. "What if it wasn't Robin Hood?"

"What?" She tilted her head, calling his attention to the creamy length of neck she'd exposed.

He took a right on Market. "What if we have two cat burglars on our hands instead of one?"

"How do you figure that?"

"It's just a theory," he said. "And maybe I'm crazy. But the robberies aren't quite the same, are they? Sometimes there's a lot of violence and sometimes there isn't. Sometimes he hits at night and sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he donates what he steals, and sometimes he doesn't."

"Maybe he donates everything, but the people don't all report it."