Mean Woman Blues

them, Skip thought about praying, settled instead for crossing her fingers. If things went bad, they went bad in front of the whole city.
    Quickly (and very quietly), with no lights, the cars took their places, all officers out. The garage door was steel, the sort that required a remote to open. No way in hell to kick it in. But there were paths to the back on either side. Two officers started up each one, Skip and one of the uniforms— Chuck Cramer— on the left where they found a high, wooden gate. Skip’s scalp crawled. This hadn’t been a good idea. Who knew what was behind there?
    The silence was nearly intolerable until she heard someone laughing. Evidently, the laugher was inside the garage. She and Cramer returned to the front as did the two other officers. They also reported a gate.
    They modified the plan slightly and put it into action. Skip approached the front and listened for a moment. Again, she heard laughing, loud talking. She banged on the door. “Excuse me. Excuse me, is anybody here?”
    Inside, everything went quiet.
    “Listen, I’ve got an emergency. Mrs. D’Amico’s been in a wreck. She’s gonna be okay, but she’s unconscious, and I really need…” She was going to say “…someone to give blood,” but the garage door began to go up. Quickly, she and two uniforms rolled under it while LeDoux shouted: “You are under arrest. Put your hands on your heads. You are under arrest.”
    Skip came out of the roll kneeling, her hand on her gun. What she saw almost made her laugh: three horror-stricken thieves, slowly, very slowly raising their hands. One was in the splashy process of wetting his pants. “That’s it. Come on; take it easy now. Just cooperate, and nobody’ll get hurt.”
    She heard Cramer behind her, making a similar croon. She got to her feet. The garage door was completely open now, and the other officers had poured in. Quickly, they patted down the three men and handcuffed them, while Skip assessed the situation.
    Evidently, the men were simply sitting around having a couple of beers and a cigarette. The statue from the cemetery was still here, still wrapped in quilts, and there were quite a few others as well. But not as many as Skip had hoped.
    She opened a door at the back of the structure, felt for a light, and stepped into the backyard. The sight she beheld was more beautiful than moonlight on the ocean— the biggest trove of stolen angels ever assembled, she was willing to bet Angels and madonnas and saints, iron crosses and gates, even a deer. She recognized quite a few pieces from pictures people had brought in, photos of their angels in happier times.
    “Hey, LeDoux,” she said. “Hagerty. Check this out.”
    Hagerty said, “Holy shit!”
    LeDoux settled for “Jesus God Almighty.”
    Skip called Abasolo again, and this time her own voice tingled with jubilation. “Mission accomplished. We’ve got enough angels here for our own little heaven on Earth. It’s going to take days to move all this stuff.”
    “Yes! All
right,
Langdon! Like they say in the movies, ‘You de man.’”
    “Gee, thanks.” She braced herself for a night of crime scene photographers. After that, she planned to seal the scene and post guards. Morning would be early enough to find a place to put the art and start the transfer process.
    It was nearly one a.m. when she used her key to Steve’s house and climbed into bed with him. He woke up, startled, but not so startled he couldn’t pull her tight against him. It was the first time they’d been together since Napoleon’s death. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
    “Well, you got me.”
    He looked at the time. “You have an earlier date or something?”
    “Bust,” she said. “Got the Angel Gang.”
    He sat up. “The cemetery thieves? You got ’em?”
    She smiled with her lips closed, trying for modesty. “It’s the kind of thing makes me horny.”
    “You got ’em?” Steve took childish pleasure in her small triumphs. “Way to go! We’ve got to celebrate.” He had huge brown eyes that looked as innocent as Kenny’s sometimes. She hugged him and snuggled down for something a little more serious, thinking maybe their rift was over.
    “I love you, Skip. I’m sorry I was so… um…”
    “Mean?”
    “I was going to say judgmental. I was just upset.”
    “I know.”
    “I really am sorry about Napoleon.”
    “No, you aren’t.”
    “Oh, sure I am. Kiss me, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    She was grateful to have a