The Last of the Stanfields(72)

“Wow. Have you worked on cases like this before?” I asked.

“No! Never. But like I said, I’m a big reader.” Despite his lengthy and colorful monologue, the bottom line was crystal clear: the thief had taken only the bonds because everything else in the safe was too tricky for him to fence.

“Is there anything else that could have been in that safe?” inquired George-Harrison.

“Guns, maybe? If they had unlicensed firearms in the safe, they’d be sure to leave that out of the report. Valuable watches can be easier to fence, but there’s no mention of that anywhere in here. Bars of gold, that can also happen, but they sure are bulky. Just one can weigh over ten pounds, so it’s a little tough to just waltz out discreetly with it crammed in your pocket. If the Stanfields were younger, or showbiz types, I would have also thought drugs, but they don’t strike me as the nose candy crowd.”

“Aside from illegal firearms or drugs, are there other things people are reluctant to mention in police reports?”

“Nothing I can think of. More often they overshare. Folks use burglaries as an opportunity to get rich off insurance. They hide their valuables and claim they were robbed. But that’s out of our jurisdiction. Companies hire private investigators to flush out that type of scam, and it’s usually only a matter of time. Sooner or later, people who play that game slip up and get caught. Lady heads out to dinner wearing a necklace that she reported stolen, or maybe the investigators take a picture with a long telephoto lens of a painting in their living room that they claimed had been lifted.”

“But that never happened with the Stanfields?”

“No way of knowing. In general, you get busted for fraud, you negotiate directly with your insurer, and then you’re going to pay up, big-time, huge damages, just to stay out of a prison cell. Anyone could come out on top, tables turn, winners become losers, and vice versa. Also, there are cases where folks who got robbed don’t bother declaring items that weren’t insured.”

“What do you mean? Why?” I asked.

“For the rich and powerful, burglary is humiliating. Even if it seems backwards to folks like you and me, some think of it as a sign of weakness. Let’s say you had decided to cut corners on insurance and it comes back to bite you in the ass, you come across twice as dumb. So, they leave those things out, just to save face.”

“You’re saying it is possible something else was stolen that night?” George-Harrison asked.

“Sure, why not? It passes the sniff test, so if it fits for your novel, I say go for it. But whatever you end up using, just make sure it’s nothing too difficult to carry. At the same time, don’t forget: if the thief had inside help, he could have disappeared with the loot through the kitchen or by the service entrance. But hey, that’s your call. You’re the writers.”

We thanked the officer for his time, and were about to walk out when he called back after us.

“Wait, hold it! How are you gonna hold up your end of the bargain if you don’t even have my name?”

I quickly got his name, eager to get the hell out of there.

“Frank Galaggher, with two g’s and an h. Say, you know what you’re gonna call the novel?”

“Hey, maybe we’ll call it The Galaggher Affair,” said George-Harrison with a smile.

“Are you serious?” asked the police officer, on cloud nine.

“Dead serious,” said my partner in crime, with enough confidence to leave me stammering and stumbling as we bid the officer goodbye.



Watching George-Harrison from the passenger seat, I noticed he had the same driving habit as my father: one hand on the wheel, the other dangling out of the open window.

“Why are you looking at me?” he asked.

“How did you know I was looking at you? You haven’t even taken your eyes off the road. Anyway, I wasn’t.”

“You just enjoy staring at me, is all?”

“I was wondering how you got the idea.”

“You mean, about the book?”

“No, about my cousin Bertha! Yes, the book.”

“I saw he had a couple of James Ellroy novels on his desk, Perfidia and LAPD ’53, so I took a bit of a gamble. Do you really have a cousin Bertha?”

“You spot a pair of novels on his desk and just cook up that whole scenario? That takes a lot of imagination.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.”

“So, just technically speaking . . . that’s something nice you’re saying about me?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I think that may be the nicest thing you’ve said since we became friends.”

“Friends? We hardly know each other.”

“I’d say I know quite a bit about you. You’re English, a journalist, you have a twin brother and a younger sister. Your dad has a thing for his beat-up old car—I also have a beat-up old car, which you’re sitting in right now—and you may or may not have a cousin named Bertha. Jury’s still out on that one. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

“Sure, it’s a start. I don’t know all that much about you, though. How did you know for sure that the cop would take the bait?”

“Just a hunch . . . Truth is, I had no idea where it would go. I just made something up so we could walk out with our heads held high. It was dumb luck that the guy happened to be bored to death.”