Cuffs - Cara Lockwood Page 0,54
The glass countertop had been cracked in several places. Whoever had done this had been angry. Very angry.
“Yes, actually. We were hoping you could tell us what might have been stolen.”
The front door to her place was propped open. Mags went right on through, past the register, which had been dumped on the ground, the cash drawer out and empty. Gael felt his stomach seize. He didn’t like her jumping into the vandalized store alone, even if there were police around. He was fairly sure no burglar was lurking in the back hallways, but he still wanted to go with her.
Gael was fast on her heels as she ran to the back office, a tiny room barely big enough for a desk. She dropped to her knees by the desk and opened the cabinet door near the base. It swung open to reveal an empty shelf. Then she let out a cry that almost sounded like a wounded animal’s.
“My safe!” she cried, pointing to the open drawer under the desk. “It’s gone!”
“You had a safe?” Gael asked, and suddenly the pieces fell into place. Mags hated banks and suits. Gael had only ever seen her take cash from clients. She’d asked him for cash or a check. And he’d never seen a Visa or MasterCard sign. Hers was a cash-only business.
“The safe was heavy, but two guys still could’ve carried it.” She shook her head as if she ought to have seen this coming. “I hid it in the cabinet, careful not to let anybody know where it was.” She stuck her fingers deep into her blue hair. “I thought I was being careful, anyway.”
Gael didn’t know about the safe, and he’d been to her shop twice.
“How much was in it?” Gael asked, dread knotting his stomach.
“All of my month’s earnings so far. At least eight thousand, plus your check.” Mags glanced up at Gael, eyes flashing fury. “It’s all gone now.”
“Do you have insurance?” Officer Lopez asked gently. She’d been standing behind the two, notepad in her hand.
Mags shook her head. “For fire and damage to the shop, but not for the cash.” Mags buried her face in her hands. Gael reached down and cupped his hand on her shoulder. She felt so tiny then, so small. Her bones were so delicate. Her skin so soft. He wanted to comfort her, tell her it would all be okay, but the words would sound weak in that moment. How could he say for sure everything would work out? Someone had trashed her shop. She’d be closed down at least a month while she made repairs, and maybe longer. And then there was the problem of the missing cash. He wanted to ask her if she had a safety reserve tucked away somewhere—hopefully in one of those banks she hated so much. But now wasn’t the time for that.
“I’m sorry, Margaret—er, Mags, but can I ask you a few more questions?” Officer Lopez tapped her notepad with the tip of her ballpoint pen. “Just want to see if you have any surveillance, anything we could use?”
Mags shook her head. “The other two stores on the block have cameras,” she said. “I know Mr. Ling’s next door covers most of my shop. I think he’s the one who called you guys.”
“Yes, we’ll be looking at the footage.” Officer Lopez flipped her notepad. “But I have to ask, do you know of anyone who might have a vendetta against you? Ex-boyfriend? Someone who’d want to do this?”
Mags looked taken aback. “I don’t think so. My ex, Clint—I mean, he broke up with me. He didn’t hold any grudge.” She shook her head and bit her lip. “I can’t imagine who would do this.”
Gael was struck with a memory.
“What about that kid who worked for you? What was his name? John?” Gael remembered the scowl on the kid’s face when he’d seen him in Mags’s parlor the day she’d fired him. Then there’d been that parting shot, the insult mumbled beneath this breath. This looked like something he’d do.
Mags folded her arms across her chest. “I never thought he’d do something like this.” She shook her head, looking at the empty cabinet near her desk. She glanced toward the front of the store, where big shards of broken glass lay gleaming on the tile. “But maybe I was wrong.”
* * *
Mags felt numb. She stood with her arms crossed, staring at the broken glass on her floor, the knocked-over tattoo chair, and still not