The Heart of a Man: 5
The heart of a man that is touched by intuition,
Finds in unspoken words tiny germs of suspicion.
The heart of a man seeks truth. . . 
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
 Paul Blaisdell walked tiredly into the precinct carrying an 
armload of handouts and brochures that had been given him at what he'd 
considered to be a complete waste of time. As far as he was concerned, the 
first stop upon reaching his office would be at the trash can so that he 
could properly file all papers that the high priced consultant had been 
given him. Worse, there were two more days to go.
 As he passed Peter's desk, he wasn't completely surprised to see 
that it was empty. Well into swing shift, Peter should have gone home over 
an hour prior. But something about the guarded look Mary Margaret Skalany 
flashed his way told him that he was about to get a cherry to top off a 
very trying a day.
 "It's about Peter," he stated, without preamble.
 "I take it you didn't get the message." She nodded her head toward 
the muted television set against the wall.
 Paul completely forgot about the trip to the trash can.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
 "Steph!" Peter called as he stepped into the high-end pawn shop, 
Stephanos Import & Consignment. "How's business these days?"
 The dark-haired man gave him a grim look before raising his hands 
in defeat. "Detective Caine, long time no see. But I am still simply an 
honest business man trying to make a living, yes?" The man spoke with a 
heavy accent that was largely show for his wealthier clients. Nicholai 
Stephanos was the American-born son of Greek transplants.
 "Oh, I remember that." Peter shot him a knowing grin as he 
recalled the first time that he had met the man. He remembered the dreaded 
shopping expedition that Jenine had dragged him on in search of the perfect 
statuette for their soon-to-be home. Peter recalled with humor the way 
Jenine had squared off against the burly Greek when he had tried to pawn 
off a fake Harrington House collectable. The man had been shocked at the 
young woman who had called him a liar, and then proceeded to tell him what 
he had done wrong in his forgery.
 A month later, Steph's special knowledge helped Peter solve a case 
that had gained him recognition very early in his career. Blinking away the 
past, Peter returned his attention to the man before him. Steph was nothing 
if not consistent. "Larceny with a touch of class, if I remember correctly. 
Maybe even a little forgery along the way? Know anything about the Crawford 
robbery?"
 Steph shifted nervously. "Ah, Detective. I could not tell you 
about this thing even if I know. My clients require. . . discretion. You 
understand."
 "Steph, Steph, Steph, don't you watch the news?" Peter leaned 
across the counter. "I have first hand knowledge of the robbery. Ruined a 
favorite shirt of mine. I'd really like to talk to the perpetrator about my 
cleaning bill. Getting the vases back would be a bonus."
 Steph dropped his newly-arrived Greek routine. "I'm sorry, 
Detective. I don't know anything. I can't help you."
 Peter studied the man for several moments. Steph liked to play 
hard to get with his information, but this was strange. "Is something going 
on that I should know about?" he asked seriously, allowing the concern to 
show in his tone.
 Steph looked at him as if he were on the verge of confiding 
something, then sighed. "No. But I promise you that if information about 
your stolen vases makes its way into my shop, I will call you."
 Peter nodded. "Thanks. Before I go, what do you know about this 
Crawford Collection? How much is it really worth?"
 Stephanos sniffed. "A pittance in comparison to Crawford's other 
holdings. Any collector worth the amount of oxygen he breathes knows about 
the old man's art collection. The vases barely rate, and TCE stocks are 
through the roof based on the technology side of the company alone. This 
little collection of vases has more sentimental value than monetary. They 
were given to him by his wife in Tokyo."
 "Who do you think would want to steal them?" Peter asked.
 Stephanos shrugged. "I didn't bring my crystal ball today."
 Peter chuckled. "Fine. You've got my number for when your vision 
is less hazy. Take care of yourself."
 "Expect nothing less."



 "Do you think he knows anything?" Jody asked, once they reached 
her car.
 Peter shrugged, glancing across the top of the roof at her. "He 
knows something, but not who did it. That's probably his connection right 
now." Peter gestured through the glass store front where Nicholai Stephanos 
could be seen making a telephone call.
 Jody shook her head in amazement. "How is it that you know this, 
specifically?"
 "It's all in here." Peter pointed a finger to his head as he 
climbed into the passenger seat.
 "Yeah, I'll say it's all in there," Jody teased, climbing in as 
well. "I'm surprised your eyes aren't brown. So where to next?"
 "I say we pay a little visit to Mr. Thomas Crawford. Maybe he can 
shed a little light on the incredible vanishing vases."
 "All right. But, I hope you're up for a drive. It's 45 minutes 
outside of town. Trinity Park -- home of the filthy rich, and the filthy 
stinkin' rich."
 "My kind of people," Peter grinned. "Let's do it."

 "Are you sure you got the address right?" Peter asked as yet 
another gated mansion surrounded by acres and acres of well-manicured lawns 
slipped by. Being in the passenger seat always made him antsy.
 "This isn't exactly "go to Trinity Park, ask for Crawford". . . ." 
Jody shot him a frustrated look, then sighed. "These damned street signs 
are more ornate than useful, especially in the dark."
 Peter relaxed slightly, then chuckled. "I guess you're right. I 
just want to see if I can find out anything more about those vases. There's 
got to be some reason that the robbers wanted them so badly. I think we 
find that reason, we find the vases and the robbers."
"Well the old guy is probably in the middle of dinner or something. Why 
couldn't we wait till morning?"
Peter rubbed his brow thoughtfully; a headache was beginning. Pushing the 
pain aside, he answered his partner. "I've just got a feeling, Jody. Things 
aren't quite what they seem to be."
Jody cocked an eye at him. "A feeling, huh?"
"Whatever. Something's not right."
Jody shrugged, then suddenly slammed her foot on the brake, sending Peter 
hard against the vehicle's shoulder restraints.
"And my driving is bad?" Peter groaned.
"Sorry," Jody replied insincerely, then shifted the car into reverse. "I 
think this is the place." She gestured her head toward a large wrought iron 
fence with a calligraphic TCE woven into its design.
Peter turned and looked up at the imposing structure, complete with cameras 
and call box before letting out a low whistle. "Filthy stinkin' rich is 
right. Think they'll let the riff-raff in?"
"One way to find out." Jody reached out of her window and pressed the 
button. Within moments a disembodied voice requested that she identify 
herself.
"Detective Powell, 101st precinct." Jody displayed her badge for the 
benefit of the camera.
"Do you have an appointment Detective Powell?"
"No. But we are investigating a robbery at a jewelry store belonging to Mr. 
Thomas Crawford."
"You will have to come back at another time. If you would leave your card 
in the box, I will request that his secretary contact you. Mr. Crawford 
cannot be disturbed."
Peter leaned across the seat toward Jody's open window. "Look, Detective 
Powell and I have driven for nearly an hour to reach your Mr. Crawford. Or 
is there some reason he isn't interested in recovering his property?"
"And you are, Sir?" the disembodied voice asked.
"Caine." Peter stated succinctly. "Detective Peter Caine."
Without another word, there was a loud click accompanied by the motion of 
the large gates moving apart.
"Looks like you know the magic word." Jody grinned at him.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
 Kwai Chang Caine came to a stop and turned in the middle of busy 
foot traffic along the outskirts of Chinatown, sensing the presence of Paul 
Blaisdell moments before the man yelled to him. Moving at an angle to the 
flowing crowd, he stepped toward the open window of the captain's vehicle.
 "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything?" Paul apologized.
 "You are not," Caine replied, concerned with the tenseness he 
noted around Paul Blaisdell's eyes. "I was on my way to visit Mrs. Woo, but 
we had not agreed on a specific time. Is something the matter?"
 "I don't know," Paul admitted. "I'm. . . worried about Peter. But 
what else is new? Have you seen him? Can you tell if he's in any kind of 
trouble or anything?"
 Caine frowned at the question. "He is unharmed. I sense no trouble 
from him."
 "Are you sure, Caine?" Paul asked. "Are you really sure?"
 "I am certain," Caine replied, holding the man's gaze.
 "I'm sorry. I know you're sure. You've got something with Peter 
that I could never have. And it doesn't help that I just saw my. . . your. 
. . "
"Our. . . " Caine injected.
"Our," Paul corrected, "son getting another blow to the head on the evening 
news."
"Ah," Caine said as realization came. "The new injury did not aggravate the 
old. Peter will recover with rest."
"Well, he's not exactly resting. I've been looking for him since I found 
out what happened. But since you think he's okay, I'm just going to chalk 
this up to a little foster fatherly worry."
"A feeling that occurs often in the case of Peter," Caine said with a smile.
"Indeed it does," Paul laughed, agreeing with him. "Thanks Caine."
Caine bowed slightly. Standing back from the edge of the street, he watched 
as Blaisdell pulled away from the curb and into the busy nighttime traffic. 
He felt worry for Peter also, but not in the physical sense. He hoped that 
both his and Paul's feelings were unfounded, and merely the reflection of 
the love they had for their child. For the moment, Peter was safe. The 
future, however, was unpainted.