"Is everything all right?" she asked.

Dr. Welch bent over to give Romeo a rub. "Fine, fine. But we seem to have a bit of a mystery on our hands. Look what was left on our doorstep last night."

At the top of the stairs, tucked just behind a fluted column, she discovered a two-foot-tall bronze figure. A horse jockey standing with one leg bent at the knee, his hand resting elegantly on the hip. A riding crop dangled by his side.

She crouched before him, trembling with recognition. The expression on the bronze jockey's green-gray face was cryptic as the Mona Lisa's, strangely enticing. An old-fashioned paper tag hung from his neck by elastic, inscribed in black ink: Sell and give proceeds to the poor.

"It's a fine sentiment," Dr. Welch said, coming up alongside. "But under the circumstances, I thought I'd better call the police."

She looked up at him. "I recognize this."

Officer Munn snapped to attention. "You do?"

"This is the statue that was stolen from the Bosticks. They'll be so happy to get it back."

Dr. Welch let out a sigh. "So it is the Robin Hood burglar? I thought so. Imagine. Of all the places he could have donated the loot, he chose our church. Why do you suppose he'd do that?"

"Search me. But I'll be glad to return it to the owners." She encircled the statue at its base.

"Don't touch that!"

She jerked her hands back and stepped away from the statue, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."

Dr. Welch tried to smooth over the awkwardness with a chuckle, but the policeman gave Rylee a hard look, staring her down.

Fine, she thought. After last night, she wasn't exactly a fan of the department.

"Now," Officer Munn said finally, "how do you know the Bosticks?"

"They're clients of mine," she said. "I walk their dog, Cocoa, and pet sit while they're out of town. As a matter of fact, they're on Long Island and won't be back until next Tuesday."

Officer Munn frowned. "The Bosticks were out of town when the burglary took place, weren't they? And now they're gone again?" He didn't try to hide the disapproval in his voice. A lot of locals were none too pleased by the influx of wealthy newcomers who treated the city's historic homes as occasional getaways.

"They're not like that," she said, reading between the lines.

"They've lived here all their lives. They just like to travel, that's all."

"And what's your name, ma'am?"

"Rylee Monroe. That's R-y-l-e-e."

He scratched out what he'd written and rewrote it. "Would you mind waiting here while I radio this in? I'm sure the detective will want to speak with you."

She hesitated. "Detective Campbell?"

He looked up. "You know him?"

"I ran into him last night."

Munn made another note, then headed for his cruiser. "Just sit tight and I'll let you know what the detective wants to do."

She didn't want to see Detective Campbell again. Not ever again.

"Dr. Welch?" A woman in her forties stuck her head out the massive front door. "Your appointment's here."

He turned to Rylee. "Will you be okay? You want me to stay with you?"

"No, you go on. I'll be fine. They just want to ask me a few questions."

"Well, if you're sure. If you need anything at all, you come round and get me. You hear?"

"I will. Thanks."

A few minutes later, the detective drove up in his Mustang. The baseball uniform had been replaced with a boxy, bad-fitting suit and a tie with a mottled, synthetic sheen. He and the officer spoke quietly at the curb before Campbell headed toward her.

"Trouble seems to follow you around, Miss Monroe," he said.

She tightened her lips.

"I did some checking this morning when I got to the office. I understand you were involved in a robbery on East Battery?"

"I wasn't involved. I walked in on the burglar."

"So you say."

She opened her mouth to object.

"And you work for the owners of this statue right here?"

"That's right."

"And in the presence of Officer Munn you plastered your fingerprints all over it?"

She stiffened. "I didn't plaster them all over it, I grabbed the bottom. I was going to return it to the Bosticks."

"Convenient."

"I didn't do it on purpose, Mr. Campbell. I saw something that belonged to my client. I was simply going to return it to them."

"It's Detective Campbell, and I'm just making sure I have all the facts."

"Well, now you do. Is there anything else?"

"Matter of fact there is." He rocked back on his heels. "Do you happen to work for Nathaniel Shelby over on Orange Street?"

"No."

"Have you ever worked for him in the past, in any capacity?"

"No. What's this about?"

"It's about the fact that two of the three homes that have been burgled by Robin Hood are clients of yours."

She gasped. "Has Karl Sebastian's jewelry casket been donated too?"

"Not yet." He gave her a penetrating stare. "All the same, I'd like a comprehensive list of your clients. Names. Addresses. How long you've been working for them."

"Absolutely not. Don't you need a warrant for that?"

"You got something to hide?"

"I have nothing to hide. But I do have clients whose privacy I'm expected to guard." She wound Romeo's leash around her hand.

"Now if you'll excuse me, this whole thing has made a mess of my schedule."

After a slight hesitation, Campbell stepped back and extended his hand in an after-you gesture. "Let's keep in touch, Miss Monroe."

This is the day, Logan thought.

On his drive in to work, he'd checked his phone for messages twice, and again first thing when he reached his cubicle. Nothing so far. Now he sat in front of his glowing monitor, staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page. His agent would call in his own sweet time, so there was no use anticipating.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, expecting Wash.

But it was Lacey Lamar, immaculate in a sleek pencil skirt and signature pearls. She wore perfume, a subtle bouquet, the only person with guts enough in their scent-free workplace.

He started to rise.

"Don't get up." She sized him up with those clear blue eyes of hers, drawing out the pause. "We need to talk about the Robin Hood pieces."

He leaned back in his chair. "Is something wrong with them?"

"The story's good, Logan. It's front-page good. And as of now you're not working on anything but the break-ins. We want regular coverage-unorthodox coverage. If the television news isn't taking its cues from us on this, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Like I said, I don't want you working on anything but this story."

He nodded. "Okay."

"There's a rumor that you've taken on an extracurricular project- and I'm not talking about the baseball team. Is it true you're working on a book?"

He gave her a look of baffled innocence. "We're on the same page here. The Robin Hood burglar is all I'm working on. Twenty-four seven. Scout's honor, Lacey."

"All right," she said with a skeptical nod. "But if I hear otherwise . . ."

"You won't."

He could say this with all sincerity. Even though it was true he was writing a book after hours, it was also true that the Robin Hood burglaries were the only thing he was working on.

For months, his agent, Seth, had been trying to sell Logan's manuscript in New York, but without much success. His collection of true tales from the Low Country underworld, packed with a cast of likeable, larger-than-life bad guys, was missing something.

Editors seemed to like the writing, but the story needed some kind of hook, a narrative thread to tie all the anecdotes together.

That's what the Robin Hood burglaries offered. At first, he was uncertain, but when the culprit struck the second time, he was convinced-along with the rest of Charleston-that this was no anomaly. Robin Hood was planning to stick around. The thief had some kind of message to impart, which meant there would be more break-ins-a series of future incidents to serve as a backbone to his history of the city's crime.

His agent liked the new approach and found an editor who was interested. Today, Logan was supposed to hear one way or the other. But until his book was sold, he really needed his day job. And that meant placating Lacey. He dragged his attention back to her.

"You're a good kid," Lacey said. "You'll turn into a good reporter some day, too-assuming there are still newspapers when you get to be my age. In the meantime, don't go getting any ideas.

And don't do anything stupid."

"Who, me?"

She gave him a pointed look. "Be careful, Logan. I want you on the story, but not if you're harboring any illusions. You may think this Robin Hood character is some kind of wacky eccentric from a Southern Gothic fairy tale, but trust me, guys like this are dangerous."

"Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? What's the danger in that?"

"Whatever his motives are, they aren't altruistic. Crime is crime. The moment you forget that, you're in trouble."

Turning, she walked down the aisle, her slim skirt and gray stiletto pumps drawing the eye of every man on the floor. Watching her go, Logan thought about the warning. Was it the Robin Hood burglar she wanted him to be wary of, or was it moonlighting?

With a vibrate-mode ring, his phone crawled an inch across the desk. He grabbed it and headed into the storeroom for privacy.

"You sitting down?" Seth asked.

The electricity was unmistakable. They'd been roommates in college long before Seth left for New York, so he could read the agent pretty well.

"Just tell me. Is it a go?"

"Almost. We're at ninety-five percent."

Logan's throat tightened. "What do you mean, ninety-five? What happened to one hundred?"

"The good news is, Dora loves it. She took it to the committee, and it sounds like they were pretty impressed, too."

"So what's the snag? Are they going to offer a contract or not?"

"There's no snag," Seth said. "But there is a wrinkle. You're a first-time author, and you're trying to sell a story that isn't finished yet."

"Of course it isn't. They haven't caught the guy. As long as he's robbing houses, the story keeps going."

"Which is great for the book. But not so great for the deal. They're going to need a finished manuscript before they'll make an offer. They want to be sure the end is as good as the beginning."

By now, Logan was used to almost-but-not-quite successes. Most of the illusions he'd entertained about publishing were long since gone. But he still held onto a dream he could never admit to Seth. He wanted editors to be moved by his writing, to love it without qualification. No snags. No wrinkles. He'd thought this time it would happen.

"Logan, are you still there?"

"I'm here."