Page 49 of A Dye Hard Holiday

“Define credible, Cap,” Adrian said.

“Ones that don’t include aliens or famous people,” I replied.

“The gypsies are still on the table then?” Officer Jones asked with a snicker.

“Keep it up, Jones, and I’ll send you to the surrounding woods to interview Sasquatch.”

Everyone laughed, but someone had called the tip line and suggested that Sasquatch was the one waging war on Christmas. I added that one to the Not Likely pile along with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley.

“My apologies. I take it back, Cap.”

“Let’s see if we can get through half of these tips today and the remaining ones tomorrow,” I told them.

“Calls keep coming in, Cap,” O’Malley said. “We’re getting messages on our social media pages too.”

“It’ll die down.” God, I hoped so.

“Excuse me,” a female voice sounded behind me.

I turned around and saw a woman standing in the police station holding her teenage boy in place by the collar of his coat.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure my son is your Christmas Bandit.”

“Come right this way,” I said, gesturing toward my office. I really wanted this kid to be the bandit, or part of the crew, but doubted I was that lucky. Besides, he didn’t look nervous or defiant—emotions I’d expect him to express if he were guilty. Instead, he looked… bored. He even rolled his eyes as they walked by me.

“I’m telling you, this is your guy,” the woman said as soon as I shut my office door. She guided her son to a chair then took the empty one next to him.

“What makes you think so, ma’am?”

“My husband and I caught him sneaking back in through his window last night after we returned from neighborhood patrol last night,” she said.

“Neighborhood patrol?” I asked.

“Sure! They’re forming all over town. We want to help you catch the Christmas Bandits.”

“You want the money,” the defiant teenager said snidely. “You’d give up your own son for a few bucks.”

“Try five thousand dollars, but I’d turn you in for free,” she boasted then looked at me. “I’m sorry that my son stole from your husband. I’m sure you have techniques to make him tell you where he hid them. I don’t mean torture,” she quickly said so that I wouldn’t misinterpret her intentions. “Lie detector tests or trust serum.”

“Truthserum, Matilda,” the kid said.

“Robert, don’t you correct me in front of the chief of police.” She glared at her son, but he didn’t look in her direction. “And stop calling me by my first name. It’s Mom to you.”

“He’s the policecaptain,Mom.”

“Oh you,” she growled, swatting her hand in the air. “Anyway, Herb and I looked up and saw a shadowy figure crawl into our only son’s window. We rushed inside and found him stashing his load.”

“Loot.”

“Shut it, wise ass!”

It was all I could do to keep a straight face as she butchered slang words and he corrected her. “Loot? What kind of loot?”

“This!” Matilda pulled a baggie out of her purse and dropped it on my desk. “He’s been smoking the Sara Jane.”

“Mary Jane, Matilda. You grew up in the sixties, the best generation for cars, music, drugs, and self-expression, but you don’t know the difference between Mary Jane and Sara Jane. Ohhh, perhaps you smoked too much Mary Jane yourself?”