Steven Gallagher of Gallagher Investigative Services fondled a pair of female attributes, the jutting proportions of which just about blew his mind. Not for the life of him could he recall the last time he’d had the pleasure of a bare naked lady’s company, much less had his hand on her…

“Teetzees,” supplied Maurice Pentegrine, of the Raleigh, North Carolina Fortune 500 Pentegrines.

Well, hell, yeah. Juggle a few letters, and that pretty much said it all. But how come a straight-up guy like Maury had zeroed in on Steve’s fantasizing?

“Yes, indeed,” his client droned on. “Teetzees is worth a small fortune.”

"You don't say," Steve replied, whimsically juggling the diminutive jade figurine in his palm to the slow beat of his client’s snooze-producing monotone.

For the past thirty minutes Steve had listened to the history behind each and every invaluable object d’art in Maury’s library, all one hundred forty-five pieces, and he was zoning out from sheer boredom. If not for the distraction of Teetzees' amazing green chest he would've snored his way to dreamland a half-hour ago. And whoda thunk a fly-right sort of fella like Maury for collecting the smutty stuff, anyway?

You just never knew in this business, Steve mused, blocking a yawn with the back of one hand while bouncing Teetzees in the other.

“Uh—uh—careful there.” Maury looked a little worried. “That statuette is the centerpiece of my fifteenth-century erotica collection. Rub her…uh…bosom and your love life is certain to improve."

“No kidding?” Steve replied rubbing away. But casually.

“Oh, my. I would never joke about a fertility goddess. The Mesopotamians believed that he who rubs Teetzees…er…um…breasts will produce progeny within the next year.”

Who was Steve to argue with the Mesopotamians?

Off came his thumb from Teetzees’ fine rack. And then, before he did something seriously dumb, like accidentally dropping the voluptuous little beauty on her well-worn hooters—Maury wouldn't like that—the three-inch statue went back on the shelf where she belonged.

As the saying goes, beauty is all in the eye of the beholder. One man’s idea of invaluable art is another man’s idea of the kind of hard-core porn you wouldn’t want your mama to discover should she happen to drop by for a sneak visit. But hey, to each his own kink. And what did he know anyway? Married to his childhood sweetheart at the tender age of nineteen, Steve had no need for naughty knick-knacks to get his motor running; his engine had been fully cranked, morning, noon, and night—

For one idyllic year.

Twelve months, that's how long the honeymoon lasted. Widowed at twenty, in a sad mood ever since.

‘Time heals all wounds,’ the well-meaning told him.

Nice sentiment.

No dice. Almost two decades later, his wife’s death still ached like a raw wound. Steve didn't like to think about that ache, much less talk about it. After Jen’s death, he went a little crazy—

A little crazy?

Shit, he went berserk. Almost tore himself apart. Booze. Broads. Bad habits. If not for his family’s quiet support, for always being there for him, he probably would have succeeded in ripping out his own heart.

Right there and then, as Maury continued his never-ending monologue, Steve decided not to return to his New York City office. He would fly into Logan instead. No point keeping a vacation house on Cape Cod if he never took a vacation. He’d snag some R&R in his Falmouth retreat, that’s what he’d do. Spend some time with his family. He missed them—

Maury’s soliloquy cut into Steve’s plan making. "Now, over here, we have some fine, albeit eclectic, examples of pre-Columbian phalluses. Notice the intricate leather tooling.”

Aw, man. He was not admiring a bunch of ancient dildos! In his line of work, he came face to face with plenty enough phony old pricks as it was.

Before those ten-inch examples of wishful thinking got thrust at him, Steve interrupted Maury's spiel. “Your erotica collection is just nifty, but could we maybe get back to the business at hand? You know, the robbery? You say you heard nothing during the break-in?”

“Not a sound. The wife and I were upstairs in our bedroom. We slept through the entire incident.”

Steve stuffed the pockets of his trench coat with his hands. “And you first noticed The Cuzin was missing, when?”

“We didn’t realize the house had been burglarized until the following morning. None of the alarms sounded.”

Steve nodded. “This job has all the markings of a professional art ring. The thieves came over the roof, then down and in through that bay window.”

“H-how do you know?” Maury stammered.

Steve gestured to a gargantuan rubber tree on the sill. “The bottom leaf on that plant is crushed.”

Maury rushed to the clay pot. “They stepped on the Ficus elastica?”

“Looks like it. Note the caked mud.” Steve’s crime scene analysis took a detour out the window. “Your lawn is real thick and green. You must have one of those underground sprinkler systems, huh?”

“It’s on a timer,” said the dazed Maury. “Rain or shine, the lawns are automatically watered every night between the hours of two and four.”

“A sprinkler serves as a noise barrier. You know, like the sound of a shower running. A steady spray of water will muffle unfamiliar sounds. Could be why you didn’t hear the break-in. These thieves knew exactly what they were doing, all right." Steve frowned. “And you’re sure nothing else is missing?”

“Only Cuzin’s Study in Light.” Maury turned to the rectangular faded spot on the wallpaper. “My wife is devastated. She loved that painting. The blue background exactly matched the fabric on the curtains.”

“Tough break about the décor,” Steve said dryly. Wandering to a corner curio cabinet, he glanced at the display behind the glass. “You collect antique car memorabilia?”

“Yes.” Maury’s half-smile was sheepish.

Steve faced his client. “Did you recently remove something from this rear shelf?”

“W-why no.”

“Sure about that? There’s a small oval area free of dust.”

Maury raced to the cabinet. “My angel! She's gone!”

“Angel?”

“A brass hood ornament,” Maury explained. “The angel once graced a Dusenberg."

Now they were getting somewhere. Unless Steve was very much mistaken, this was his first lead on the case. "Circa 1930, Model J?"

"Why, yes. How did you know?"

"Lucky guess."

In Steve's humble opinion, the Dusenberg was one of the grand dames of the road. For good luck, the original owner of one of the cars—a notorious bootlegger during prohibition—commissioned an artist to create a sculptural interpretation of a Botticelli angel. That angel hood ornament was something else!

But the angel was worthless without the car. So—why’d the thief bother snatching her? There were valuable things in this house, in this room—why swipe the angel?

Because this was no ordinary thief, Steve concluded. This thief had a soft spot for antique cars, probably owned one or two, maybe even a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. Trace the current ownership of that bootlegger’s car, and he just might find a brass angel…

And maybe someone who knew a little something more than he should have about Cuzin’s Study in Light.

Solid.