"Look, this is excellent news. Finish the book, and if it's as good as what you've written so far, they will make an offer. I promise. You've been after this too long to give up now."

He sighed. "I know. It's just, this story could drag on forever-" "Just write it, man. Don't worry about the rest. And think about this. You have an opportunity a lot of writers don't. You are part of the story. You're the one who dubbed the guy the Robin Hood burglar. You're covering it. Hey, you might even be the one who reveals his identity."

"Yeah, right-"

"Actually, that would be great for the book. But the point is, you should be living, eating, and sleeping this story from now until the end. Make it yours, okay? Do that and let me take care of the rest."

They hung up and Logan tucked his phone away. Lacey and Seth might be on opposite sides in this situation, but for once they were both telling him the same thing. This Robin Hood story was his future. It was everything.

Which meant he had to do more than sneak Wash Tillman out for some dramatic nighttime photos. He had to get in front of the Robin Hood burglaries and stay there.

Chapter Four.

Logan slipped into Wash's office, converted out of the old darkroom from the pre-digital days. To enter, you still had to squeeze into the pitch-black cylinder and slide the opening around, only now the glowing red submarine lights were gone, replaced by bald fluorescents.

Wash sat with his back to the door, browsing Facebook.

"You don't leave a buddy in the lurch," Logan snapped.

He glanced around in surprise. "Bro, that's not how it went down-"

"Don't bro me."

"You think I abandoned you? I had your back, man . . . from the shadows." He cocked his head toward his computer. "Take a look."

Wash tethered one of his cameras to the computer with a length of gray cable. Soon his photos began to load onscreen.

Logan saw a blurry image of himself running, his name indecipherable on the back of his uniform shirt, then another one from a wider angle that showed the dog snapping at his heels. In a third, he was leaping for the memorial statue.

The photographer smiled. "I can't believe how fast you were moving."

"So you just stood there and snapped pictures?"

"I figured you had things under control."

The back of the girl's head was just visible in the next shot.

Then in the next one she had turned, and Logan saw her from the front. Dark hair. Slender build. Legs that went on forever.

She bent out of the next frame to remove the rollerblades.

"Do you have any-" The following image cut him off. She was looking right at the camera, though she didn't realize it, and the focus was dead on. He stared into her bottomless brown eyes, half-hidden by a reckless fringe of bangs. Maybe he imagined the slight curve at the edge of her lips, the hint of dimples on her sunglazed cheeks.

"She's . . ."

"Hot," Wash said.

"Unhinged."

"But kind of hot, too, don't you think?"

"She walks dogs for a living. On rollerblades. In the middle of the night. During all these break-ins. Textbook example of crazy."

"Yeah," Wash said, drawing the word out. "A man like you, with big ambitions, he needs to stay focused and keep his eyes on the prize. You don't want to get mixed up with this kind of girl. And I know you don't want me to print this one out or anything."

"Print it out? No way." Logan turned to go, pausing at the revolving door. "You can go ahead and delete them. All of them."

Wash ignored his instructions and by the time Logan reached his desk, the girl's picture was waiting in his e-mail.

He'd been staring at it trying to think of her name. It was something funny. A boy's name.

The lens had caught her unaware, between expressions. Her face wasn't at all how he remembered. Viewing the picture was like seeing her for the first time.

Then it came to him. Reilly.

Or maybe it was spelled Riley, like the nba coach Pat Riley. Maybe her parents had been Showtime-era Lakers fans and named her after him.

He tried to work out her age, looking at the photo. Younger than he was, for sure. Early twenties, maybe.

Riley. Honestly, what kind of name was that for a girl? Did she hold it against them?

He clicked on the corner of the picture and it disappeared. He had work to do. He needed a lead. Some new info. Something.

Pulling up his notes, he summarized the first break-in. The thief entered through a window and stole a two-foot-tall bronze of a horse jockey. His story on the crime barely received three inches. If it hadn't been for the historic angle-a picturesque treasure in a creaky historic house-the theft would have gone unreported.

The second incident was more interesting. The thief, striking at night when no one was home, entered through a back door and made off with a nineteenth-century ormolu clock. Once again, there had been more valuable pieces in the house, and the thief left them untouched.

After his story on the stolen clock ran, things really got crazy. A nonprofit in North Charleston called the police to report that the clock turned up at their back door, still ticking away. Nate Campbell had tipped him off, but it was Logan who christened the thief.

"You're saying this guy breaks into a mansion downtown, takes a clock off the mantel, and donates it to charity?"

"Yep," the detective said.

"You're saying he robs the rich and gives to the poor?"

"I guess so."

And the Robin Hood burglar was born. His story was followed up with one about the clock itself, another about the nonprofit, and yet another about the history of the house it had been taken from.

Yesterday Robin had made off with an antique jewelry casket.

Logan had tried to interview the victim of the theft, an attorney at one of the high-priced downtown firms, but so far Karl Sebastian hadn't returned any of his calls.

Reshuffling his notes, Logan tried to connect the burglaries.

He'd been to all three sites the night before and had Wash photograph them, then they'd walked a path from one to the next. The distance was just a couple of blocks.

All that was left was to call Nate Campbell. He dreaded the conversation. Nate wasn't the sort of buddy to let you forget he'd just rescued you from a barking dog.

The detective picked up on the second ring.

"It's Logan. I never did get a police report for the Sebastian break-in."

"Hey, I was just thinking about you."

"Spare me the details."

"Remember your little friend from last night?"

"The dog?"

"Not the dog," Nate said. "The girl. Miss Monroe."

Riley Monroe-that was her name. "What about her?"

"You're gonna want to talk to her, assuming you can work up the nerve. The missing jockey, from the first break-in? It just turned up on the steps of her church. When the priest or minister or whatever he's called discovered the statue, she turned up and identified it. It belongs to one of her clients."

"Maybe they should have left their dog at home to guard the place."

"Anyway, looks like your Robin Hood angle is right on target. This one had a note: 'Sell and give proceeds to the poor.' Thought you'd want to know."

He felt a surge of energy. This burglar, whoever he was, clearly intended to redistribute the wealth. "Can you give me her contact info?"

"The girl? Sure."

Nate rattled off the number. "And the name is spelled funny," he added, listing the letters one at a time.

"Rylee?" Logan smirked. "Seriously, she's got to hate her parents."

"She's certainly a piece a work. Got a real mouth on her."

"Oh, I don't know. As scared as she was, I thought she handled herself pretty well."

"You got to be kidding. We can't have every person who sees a couple of guys in the park at night calling 9-1-1. We'd be out there 24/7. I tried to tell her that, and she got right in my face."

Logan frowned. "She may have overreacted, Nate, but she was afraid."

He scoffed. "You should have seen her this morning with that statue. Defensive as all get out. Something doesn't smell right."

Logan hung up the phone but didn't dial Rylee Monroe's number right away.

If he put himself in her shoes-or rollerblades, in this case-it was hard not to sympathize. She'd been frightened enough to call the police. Even if she read the situation wrong, the fear was real. And instead of reassurance when Nate showed up, she'd gotten the brush-off.

Now he was acting like she might be a suspect. Logan didn't have a sister, but if he did, and the cops had treated her that way, he'd have a problem with the officer in charge.

Fact of the matter was, the girl deserved an apology. And it was pretty safe to say she wouldn't be getting one from Nate. But that didn't mean Logan couldn't offer one on his behalf.

Picking up the phone, he punched in her number.

"Hello?" Her voice was tentative.

"Miss Monroe, hi. It's Logan Woods. From last night?"

A pause.

Wash sauntered into his cubicle and tossed an 8x10 glossy of Rylee on his desk.

Logan picked it up. "Are you there, ma'am?"

"What's this about?"

"I was wondering if I could talk to you about what happened this morning at your church. My paper is covering the story, and since you were an eyewitness to the discovery-"

"I don't think so. I-"

"Hold on." He gripped the phone more tightly. "Before you say no, let me assure you, this won't take up a lot of your time, and you'd be doing a public service by sharing your perspective."

Public service? Wash mouthed. He sat on the edge of Logan's desk, making no effort to mask his interest.

Logan cleared his throat. "Listen, about last night. Detective Campbell was a little out of line."

"You think?" A bite in her voice.

"Could I make it up to you? Maybe over a cup of coffee?"

Wash lifted his brows.

"I'd rather not."

Logan swiveled his chair so his back was to Wash, but he still held the photo pinched between his fingers. "Just a quote, a sound bite, would be all I'd need."

"I thought you wanted to make it up to me."

"I do."

"But you also want a sound bite."

"If you don't mind."

On her end of the phone, a trolley car bell drowned out her next few words. " . . . just answer your questions over the phone?"