The other night when the boys were getting ready for bed, I got a call from my friend Brian, who's a sergeant on the police force here.
"I can't talk long because I'm on another call," he said. "I just want to know where your car was found."
I told him, and he said he'd call back.
Later this week, we had lunch together and he told me what was up. The other night there was a theft at a dance school! This one is a ballroom dance school, just blocks from The Ballet Academy. A couple came in to dance. While they were dancing, her purse and his truck keys were stolen. The truck was not stolen.
The police thought they knew who'd done it. It's a guy who haunts the downtown area, going into businesses and, if no one's around, going behind desks to steal purses.
"And you know who this guy is?" I asked Brian.
"Oh yeah," he said. He lives in the apartment where they found my car parked.
Later, they were able to get the guy after his roommate led the police into the apartment. The stolen stuff was nowhere to be seen, but apparently guys like this are careful. They take the money and valuable stuff, throwing the purses on rooftops or in dumpsters.
"So, what, does this guy think of stealing purses as his job?" I asked. "Does he get up in the morning and think, 'gotta go to work today, steal some purses.'"
Brian thinks they have enough evidence to get the guy this time.
"Hey, don't forget they took fingerprints in my car!" I said.
Maybe they'll catch him. I don't have any hard feelings toward him--I did get my car back, in fine condition, with the keys in and even 1/4 tank of gas left. But seems like he's got a serious problem. He probably needs to go to prison for a while--or, as Robbie would say "get a life!"