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“Thank you.”
     
     
     
     

Chapter Five
     
    Tuesday
     
    After checking on Dooley, Shauna spent all morning at the library while waiting for Detective John Black to return her calls. She’s tried him last night, and again this morning. She’d even tried him through the Sac PD switchboard. Nothing worked.
    She wanted to find out everything she could about the other robberies. She pulled all the newspaper articles and the local crime blog that seemed to have a lot more information than the papers. While she couldn’t find definitive proof that Mack’s murder and the other robberies weren’t connected, there were several glaring differences. She gathered all the information into a folder, then tried the detective again. No answer.
    He was avoiding her.
    She made the rounds to the two sports memorabilia stores in the area. All she had to tell them was that she was Patrick Dooligan’s granddaughter and they gave her all the information she needed. The night before she’d made a list of the missing baseballs and included a picture she’d copied from the insurance files. She gave them the information and asked two questions: Had anyone come in since Sunday with any of the baseballs? No . Had the police come by asking if anyone had come in? No.
    She then visited the pawnshops within a five mile radius of the bar—all three of them—and asked the same questions. She learned the police had sent a fax to the pawnshops asking them to be on the lookout for stolen merchandise and mentioned the autographed baseballs. But there was no photo and no detailed description.
    If John Black was as competent as he seemed yesterday, then he must know something else he hadn’t shared with her. She’d emailed him a copy of the file she had with her—the details and the photos—and he hadn’t given it to the pawnshops.
    She drove to the main police station on Freeport Boulevard in the older neighborhood of South Land Park and asked to see Detective Black. She was told he was in the field, so she waited in the parking lot. Quickly, her car became an oven, and she sat under an oak tree. She used the time wisely on her cell phone, covering her dad’s business and making sure his construction crews knew that just because she wasn’t in the office didn’t mean she didn’t have eyes and ears on them—and if anyone slacked off or cut corners, she wasn’t in the mood for second chances. Most of her crew were long-timers, but because of the economy, she sometimes had to hire guys she didn’t know as well. She depended on her project manager to monitor the crews daily. So far, the day’s work was being done competently, on time, and within budget.
    She leaned against the tree and stared at the parking lot, waiting for the detective. She couldn’t forget how scared, how old , her grandfather had looked yesterday morning. She would never forget how she felt running down the wooden planks of the sidewalk, thinking Dooley was dead.
    Shauna had known Mack Duncan for nine, nearly ten years, since the day Dooley hired him. She’d been eighteen at the time, sitting at the end of the bar, studying for finals in between balancing Dooley’s books. She’d been managing his finances since she was fifteen and realized his accountant was ripping him off with fees and charges that were completely unnecessary. Dooley was a great owner-operator of the pub, but he’d never been a numbers person.
    Mack had walked in, responding to the ad Dooley had run looking for a full-time bartender. Unshaven, with receding hair in a stubby ponytail and a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, he looked like an old rocker who had always been on the fringe. But Dooley saw a military tattoo on his bicep and talked to him for nearly three hours while they drank beer. Mack had been a vet from the first Desert Storm, had been in and out of jobs because of a gambling habit he said he’d beat. Dooley took a chance on him, and it had paid off. Mack had proven loyal and had taken