Free Lana's Lawman by Karen Leabo Page A

his promise to say good night to Rob, he went to the front door, conscious of his filthy state. He didn’t feel right, entering Lana’s pristine house reeking of pine and tar. Plus, he was giving Lana another opportunity to push a check on him. But a promise was a promise.
    Lana answered the door with a stiff smile. “Come on in,” she said. “I grilled an extra pork chop for you.”
    â€œThat wasn’t necessary.”
    â€œIt is to me. There’s a bathroom down that hallway on the left where you can wash up,” she said, pointing. “Rob’s room is across the hall. I already brought his dinner to him on a tray. He’s waiting for you.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he couldn’t resist saying, since she was issuing orders like his first field training officer in Dallas. She expected to be obeyed.
    Sloan washed his face and hands, shook the sawdust out of his hair, all the while smelling pork chops and thinking how nice it would be to have dinner with Lana. But pork chops cost money. She probably hadn’t counted on him when she’d bought her groceries this week. He couldn’t bear the thought of taking food out of her mouth, or Rob’s.
    He would find an excuse to turn her down.
    Across the hall from the bathroom, Rob’s bedroom door was open a crack, the sounds of a popular TV cop show blaring from within. Sloan tapped on the door and stuck his head inside. “Okay if I come in?”
    â€œSure.” Rob tore his gaze away from the TV. “Are you done with the roof?”
    â€œNot yet. I’ll need to come back one more day.”
    â€œHave you chased any bad guys lately?”
    Sloan moved farther into the room. He noticed that Rob hadn’t eaten much of his dinner. “I arrested a burglar yesterday.”
    â€œCool! Did you chase him in your car with the siren on? Did you shoot him?”
    â€œWell, no. Police work really isn’t much like what you see on TV, you know. Tell you what. If you eatsome more of that pork chop, and a couple of bites of green beans, I’ll tell you how we caught the burglar.”
    Rob looked down at his dinner, then up at Sloan, evaluating, weighing his choices. At last he picked up his knife and fork, sawed off a hunk of pork, and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m eating,” he said, still chewing.
    â€œThere’s a burglar that’s been doing a lot of houses over on the west side of town.”
    â€œWhere the rich people live, like my dad?”
    â€œYeah. And we knew it was the same guy, because the M.O. was the same. Do you know what M.O. means?”
    Rob shook his head.
    â€œModus operandi. It’s Latin for ‘method of operation.’ See, this guy always broke in through a back window and came out the garage. He usually struck in the afternoon, while people were at work, and he always took the same three things—computers, TVs, and VCRs. Never anything else. That’s how we knew it was him.”
    Sloan paused, nodding toward the plate of food. Rob took an obedient bite of green beans, scrunching his face up to illustrate his distaste.
    â€œThis guy never left fingerprints. But this time, because of all the rain, he left a tire print in the alley behind the house he’d burgled. And a neighbor had seen the truck he used. So we looked up all the green trucks of the same make and model, and lo and behold, one of the owners was a convicted burglar. So we went to his house, compared the tire print, and bingo, wehad a suspect. Since his garage was full of TVs and VCRs and computers, we arrested him.”
    Rob stared at Sloan blankly. “That’s it?”
    â€œThat’s usually how it’s done. No guns, no car chases, just good detective work.”
    Rob seemed disappointed. But at least he’d eaten most of his dinner.
    Lana tapped on the door and walked in. She had a slice of lemon pie in her hand. “Ready for