He seemed puzzled to hear from me again so soon, but then he quickly turned FBI, concerned for my safety.
"Guy sounds like a professional," he declared. "Probably got in with an electric picker, like the Edge. Any asshole can buy one for a hundred and thirty bucks. It'll rake cylinders at a hundred times a second. Pro like that, you can be sure there'll be no prints."
"But why would . . . ?" My voice was still a croak. "I mean, my God, all for a lousy reel of film?"
"Fucker wants you to know he's in town. So how he did it's as important as what he did. It's a time-proven scare tactic." He paused. "Morgan, I don't like this one bit. There could be more before this is over."
"Think I should call the cops?"
"Damned right you should," he said, slowly and sadly, "but to tell you the truth, they ain't gonna do all that much. Somebody messed up your apartment and lifted a third-hand copy of a woman talking. They'll say it sounds more like malicious mischief than a crime. Then they'll write it up and that'll be the last you'll hear from them."
"Well," I said, my anger welling up, "maybe I don't feel quite so laissez-faire. Tell me, you know anybody who can run a plate for you on a Sunday?"
"You got the prick's license number?" he exclaimed. "Why the hell didn't you say so?"
"Honestly, it sort of slipped my mind. I'm having a little trouble thinking straight right now."
Fortunately my short-term memory is pretty good, even when I'm stressed, so I spewed it out.