had been left behind. The other eight guitars were in a locked closet; those hadn’t been touched. No time in a smash-and-grab.
Five guitars stolen and five left behind. The obvious reasons the thief didn’t take them all were time and attention—not enough of the first and wanting to avoid the second. But the obvious was not always true.
Five stolen: an acoustic Favilla, a Gibson J-2000, a Lucite Dan Armstrong, a Les Paul, and a Telecaster. Five left behind: a Teisco Del Ray, a plastic Maccaferri, a Japanese-made little western number with cowboys painted on the front, a two-toned green Gretch Anniversary model, and a Guild acoustic.
Why those five taken? Why those five left behind?
You’d think someone who knew guitars would have taken the good stuff and left the crap, financially speaking. Or a random thief would have just grabbed five, maybe recognized the big names like Gibson or Fender but otherwise just taken his chances.
But what was actually stolen was somewhere in between.
The guitars were worth between about two hundred bucks and two grand. I figured the thief had guessed what was worth the most and he’d been wrong. I’d got a list of what was taken and what was left from Lydia and I’d had a few different guitar dealers look the list over. The values were not obvious. Most people would have expected the Les Paul to be gold, but it was a fake, worth only a few hundred bucks. The stolen Favilla didn’t look so special but it clocked in at about six hundred. Of course, our thief, who was likely also our murderer, would get much less than that. But he’d get something. The stolen Korean-made Telecaster was only worth two or three hundred, but the Teisco he’d left behind was worth close to a grand, and the Maccaferri, which looked like a worthless plastic toy, would bring in at least six hundred bucks. The Gretsch, which was beautiful but not famous, was worth close to two grand.
Maybe the thief had just grabbed five guitars at random. Maybe he was someone who thought he knew guitars but wasn’t as knowledgeable as he thought. Going by that I could put half the men in San Francisco in a lineup, along with a quarter of the women. Or maybe the thief knew something I didn’t.
You couldn’t exactly call it a clue, but it was something.
Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom. I went to the bathroom and looked through the medicine cabinets. Lydia had left a bottle of Vicodin, twelve strong pills left. I put the bottle in my purse.
One bedroom they used as intended, the other held clothes, shoes, and occasionally guests. Both Lydia and Paul were sharp dressers, and they had tons of clothes. Scattered around were more CDs, more books, guitar picks and pick guards and pick-ups. On top of one dresser in the first bedroom were three coffee cups and two books. One cup was vintage, from Tahoe; in it was a twenty, two singles, and a few dollars in change. In another, a souvenir cup from Las Vegas from the same era, was a paperclip, two guitar picks, a cheap sandalwood
mala
, and a roach from a joint.
It was where Paul emptied his pockets. Nearly every man has a spot like this one. Everything here was Paul’s, used to be Paul’s, had been touched by him.
I put the thought aside and looked at the last cup, from the Spot of Mystery in Santa Rosa. In it was a little collection of business cards. I flipped through them: A Vietnamese restaurant in Alameda. A guitar store in San Rafael. A stamped card one-tenth of the way toward a free smoothie in Oakland.
Nothing jumped out at me. Nothing spoke to me. I put the cards in my pocket. The bed was unmade, sheets wrinkled and tossed. I imagined Paul sprawled across it, asleep, sun streaming in on his last morning, blissfully unaware of what the night would bring.
I left the bedroom and started to walk down to the kitchen and then, suddenly spooked by being in a dead man’s house, I ran. I ran into the kitchen and looked out the window to remind myself there was
Five guitars stolen and five left behind. The obvious reasons the thief didn’t take them all were time and attention—not enough of the first and wanting to avoid the second. But the obvious was not always true.
Five stolen: an acoustic Favilla, a Gibson J-2000, a Lucite Dan Armstrong, a Les Paul, and a Telecaster. Five left behind: a Teisco Del Ray, a plastic Maccaferri, a Japanese-made little western number with cowboys painted on the front, a two-toned green Gretch Anniversary model, and a Guild acoustic.
Why those five taken? Why those five left behind?
You’d think someone who knew guitars would have taken the good stuff and left the crap, financially speaking. Or a random thief would have just grabbed five, maybe recognized the big names like Gibson or Fender but otherwise just taken his chances.
But what was actually stolen was somewhere in between.
The guitars were worth between about two hundred bucks and two grand. I figured the thief had guessed what was worth the most and he’d been wrong. I’d got a list of what was taken and what was left from Lydia and I’d had a few different guitar dealers look the list over. The values were not obvious. Most people would have expected the Les Paul to be gold, but it was a fake, worth only a few hundred bucks. The stolen Favilla didn’t look so special but it clocked in at about six hundred. Of course, our thief, who was likely also our murderer, would get much less than that. But he’d get something. The stolen Korean-made Telecaster was only worth two or three hundred, but the Teisco he’d left behind was worth close to a grand, and the Maccaferri, which looked like a worthless plastic toy, would bring in at least six hundred bucks. The Gretsch, which was beautiful but not famous, was worth close to two grand.
Maybe the thief had just grabbed five guitars at random. Maybe he was someone who thought he knew guitars but wasn’t as knowledgeable as he thought. Going by that I could put half the men in San Francisco in a lineup, along with a quarter of the women. Or maybe the thief knew something I didn’t.
You couldn’t exactly call it a clue, but it was something.
Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom. I went to the bathroom and looked through the medicine cabinets. Lydia had left a bottle of Vicodin, twelve strong pills left. I put the bottle in my purse.
One bedroom they used as intended, the other held clothes, shoes, and occasionally guests. Both Lydia and Paul were sharp dressers, and they had tons of clothes. Scattered around were more CDs, more books, guitar picks and pick guards and pick-ups. On top of one dresser in the first bedroom were three coffee cups and two books. One cup was vintage, from Tahoe; in it was a twenty, two singles, and a few dollars in change. In another, a souvenir cup from Las Vegas from the same era, was a paperclip, two guitar picks, a cheap sandalwood
mala
, and a roach from a joint.
It was where Paul emptied his pockets. Nearly every man has a spot like this one. Everything here was Paul’s, used to be Paul’s, had been touched by him.
I put the thought aside and looked at the last cup, from the Spot of Mystery in Santa Rosa. In it was a little collection of business cards. I flipped through them: A Vietnamese restaurant in Alameda. A guitar store in San Rafael. A stamped card one-tenth of the way toward a free smoothie in Oakland.
Nothing jumped out at me. Nothing spoke to me. I put the cards in my pocket. The bed was unmade, sheets wrinkled and tossed. I imagined Paul sprawled across it, asleep, sun streaming in on his last morning, blissfully unaware of what the night would bring.
I left the bedroom and started to walk down to the kitchen and then, suddenly spooked by being in a dead man’s house, I ran. I ran into the kitchen and looked out the window to remind myself there was
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