"Maybe because he knows Karl would bungle the case. I told you, Karl may be licensed to practice criminal law, but I looked it up today-he hasn't handled a defense case for years. Estate law is his thing, and to be honest, I'm not sure he's any good at that. His daddy owns the firm, that's his claim to fame. If I were George, I wouldn't want him handling it, either."

She handed him the refilled glass. "Still, it's better than a court-appointed lawyer, don't you think?"

"Not necessarily." He took a swallow. "So, do you think what happened to your car is connected to the Robin Hood burglar?"

"Actually, I think it might be something else." She told him about the bald, round-faced man who'd confronted her in the park.

He made her repeat the description, right down to the smell of the cigar. His face hardened. "That had to be Marcel Gibbon. You ever heard of him?"

"Should I have?" She settled back against the kitchen counter, keeping the bar between them.

"Marcel's sort of notorious around here. I got a call from him earlier today, which is pretty strange, since it's usually me who has to make contact. And he doesn't like talking on the phone."

"What did he want?"

Logan dug in his back pocket, producing the list of clients she'd given him after he'd dropped her off at the Petrie house. Next to her writing, he'd added some notes of his own.

"He was making sure I knew about George's alibis for the Robin Hood breakins. I copied them down right next to yours." He offered her the list. "The funny thing is, he said you were with George for the Ormsby break-in, but according to your notes-"

"He told me that, too. Insisted I was with him, when I knew perfectly well I wasn't." An involuntary shudder rippled through her. "How is George connected with that man?"

"They go way back. Nobody could prove it, but rumor was that the job George went to prison for was masterminded by Gibbon.

He's clean these days, supposedly, but the man's still connected.

I guess he's looking out for George for old times' sake. Maybe he owes him one, you know?"

She knew Logan rubbed elbows with a lot of unsavory characters. That's why she'd planned to call him in the first place. Still, knowing it and hearing him talk about it so casually were two different things.

"He owes him one?" she repeated, shaking her head. "He didn't strike me as the kind of person to return favors. I'd be surprised if he cares about anyone but himself."

"And I'd say you're right." He made circles on the bar with the bottom of his glass. "But I don't think he's the one who broke into your car. That's not his style."

Seeing Daisy broken into, her space violated, her things gone through and stolen, she couldn't help but feel the evil of it. "The person who broke into the car . . ." She looked down at her scuffed loafers. "He took some . . . personal things."

"I heard you telling the officer."

"It's . . ." She felt her throat tighten, then looked up. "It scared me, Logan."

And that was just the tip of the iceberg. The stalker. The Robin Hood burglar. The police. All of them frightened her.

He put his glass down and came around the corner. "Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you."

"You can't make a promise like that."

His voice was firm. "I just did. And I meant it."

The tiny kitchen shrank with him in it. He wasn't a huge man, but he wasn't puny either.

Embarrassed, she slipped her hand into her cardigan pocket, her fingers brushing his car keys. She pulled them out. "These are yours, I think."

"You keep them. I'll get that window fixed for you."

Her lips parted. "You don't have to do that."

"It's no trouble. Besides, I have connections in this town."

She knew she should argue, but the monthly bill from Bishop Gadsden sat in the bill holder. She had enough to pay for it, but not enough for the deductible her car insurance was going to require to get that window fixed. If he knew someone who might do it pro bono, she was just frugal enough to let him call in a favor. "I have insurance."

"I saw it in the glove box."

She slipped his keys back into her pocket. He tracked every move of her hand.

"Rylee." He edged forward.

She drew her hand out.

He touched her, the lightest whisper of contact.

It was a perfect moment to kiss. She knew it, and she could tell he did, too. But she wasn't ready. Just having him in the apartment was huge. No way could she handle a kiss.

Yet every nerve in her body stood at attention. Waiting. Hoping. Anticipating.

He hesitated, then stepped back, giving her a charming, schoolboy grin.

Later, that grin seemed to say. Not like this.

She let out a pent-up breath.

He moved toward the door. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Prop something under that doorknob when I leave."

She gave a slight smile. "All right."

She went out on the railing to watch him go, waving at the departing car. As soon as he disappeared from the lot, Liz threw open her door and padded onto the balcony.

"Who was that gorgeous man?"

Rylee turned, smiling in spite of herself.

Liz had on her fuzzy pink sweats. She grabbed Rylee's sleeve.

"Come over here and tell me all about it."

Chapter Fourteen.

The next morning, Logan found Nate Campbell tapping the last of the creamer into a mug of coal-black police station coffee, looking like he'd pulled an all-nighter.

At the sight of Logan, the detective slowly straightened, his features tightening. "After that article of yours this morning, you've got some nerve showing your face around here."

Logan jerked his head toward Nate's cubicle. "Can we talk?"

Nate led the way, motioning him into the chrome chair opposite the desk. "If you're thinking an apology's gonna make everything all right, you're wrong."

An apology. Yeah, right. Logan propped an ankle on his knee. "Maybe if you'd let me see the police reports I've been asking for, I wouldn't have so many questions about your case."

Nate jerked a drawer open and tossed a thick file on top of his desk. "What're you gonna want next? My firstborn?"

Logan reached for the file.

Nate slammed his hand on top of it. "In your dreams, buddy."

Logan slowly retracted his hand. Nate's vehemence took him a bit by surprise. In the past, whenever he'd hinted in print about the shortcomings of police investigations, the detective hadn't batted an eye. He'd even tipped Logan off about some corner-cutting on the part of Sheila Santos, a rival on the squad.

"You're taking this awfully personal," Logan said.

A tic in the detective's jaw pulsed. "Did it ever occur to you that you don't have the whole picture?"

"So give me the whole picture."

"Ask me some questions and I'll answer what I can."

Logan pulled out his notebook. "What's the status on George Reid?"

"He made bail this morning, and we've cut him loose. He refused to make a statement or cooperate in any way. We'll be keeping an eye on him to see if he leads us to the goods."

"Exactly what evidence do you have on him?"

"You mean besides the fact that he's a convicted felon with an almost identical modus operandi, and he just so happens to have been working for a majority of the victims?"

"That's it?"

"Isn't it enough?"

It would have been, ordinarily. For Logan, these types of coincidences usually equated to a strong circumstantial case. When the arrest had first broken in the newsroom, people who remembered back to the George Reid case slapped their foreheads: Well, duh.

George seemed like an obvious suspect. The only thing keeping Logan from joining in was that the same could be said about Rylee-minus the criminal record. If the only thing they had on George was his record and the fact he worked for a majority of the victims, then their case was pretty thin.

He tapped his pencil against his knee. "I hear what you're saying, but I don't remember George Reid giving away the things he stole. Can you actually link him to any of the Robin Hood break-ins?"

Nate rolled his eyes. "The guy has access to every crime scene. He comes and goes through the neighborhood without anyone paying attention. He's in a perfect position to case the houses." He shook his head. "The only other person who has that kind of means and opportunity is Miss Dogwalker Extraordinaire. And the only reason I haven't arrested her already is because she's got no criminal record. Not so much as a traffic ticket."

Logan stilled.

Nate leaned forward. "But I can tell you this. Lack of criminal record notwithstanding, one more client of hers gets hit and I'm bringing her in. And not to my office, either."

Forcing himself to stay calm, Logan tucked his pencil and notebook into his pocket. "That's ridiculous."

Nate gave him a knowing look. "You ever wonder if maybe you're being played, Logan? Maybe this girl's not what she seems?"

Logan shook his head. "She'd have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Besides, why break in when she already has the keys?"

Nate held up his hand, ticking off each point one finger at a time. "The Bosticks were out of town when their statue was stolen. Monroe had the house all to herself and could have busted that window any time she wanted." Tick one. "She was the sole witness to the Sebastian theft. She could have heisted the jewelry casket, ripped down the curtain rod, and acted like she'd caught the burglar in the act." Tick two. "The Petries were in London when their place was hit. Monroe, again, had the place to herself and all the time in the world to trash it." Tick three. "She used to work for the Ormsbys. She knows the layout of that house the way she knows the palm of her hand. She knows where the violins are. She also would've known which way to go when Ormsby came up the front stairs." Tick four. "One more, Logan, and she's mine." Tick five.

Wanna bet? "It's nothing but circumstantial."

"Over ninety percent of our cases are circumstantial. You know that."

"So she had the means and opportunity. But what about motive?"

"Her father, Jonathan Monroe, used to own one of those big mansions on East Battery-did she tell you that?"

No. She hadn't.

"Those people she walks dogs for? She used to be one of them.

The Monroes were Charleston royalty. What about that? Did she happen to mention that little piece of trivia?"

I barely know her. There hasn't been time.

"And get this. The dad cleaned out their bank account and disappeared. The mom ate a bottle of sleeping pills. End of fairy tale, my friend."

Sleeping pills?

Logan pinched his nose between his fingers. "Even if this is true, it's ancient history. She was just a kid. What does it have to do with the burglaries?"

"You asked for a motive, Logan, so I'm giving it to you. That girl has a temper and a lot of anger bottled up inside. I've been given a front row seat on more than one occasion. Now, who do you think all that resentment is directed at, other than the police?

Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"The people who have what she doesn't. What she should've had, in her own mind. She lives in a dump, barely making enough money to pay the bills. I know. I've been checking her bank statements. But she spends every waking moment with the creme de le creme of Charleston society, going through their houses, plotting some sick and twisted revenge. Open your eyes, Logan. You're flirting with the scoop of a lifetime. You'd see it yourself if you'd let your brain lead."

Logan slowly rose, furious with his friend. Make that ex-friend. He knew how these things went. Desperate to pin these burglaries on somebody, the police might stoop to some low-level harassment. Cold-calling Rylee's clients, pulling any outstanding traffic tickets, alerting patrol to keep an eye out for Daisy, pulling her over without cause. From his departmental contacts, he knew how easy that kind of thing was, and how common.

But Nate was trying to put her in the frame as an accomplice to the Robin Hood burglaries, if not casting her as the burglar herself.