The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block

anything,” I said, “that might be it. The first part, anyway. I can’t really call it abuse.”
    “No, a victim doesn’t usually have such a good time. It was a real Playboy fantasy, wasn’t it? She’s hot and gorgeous, she does everything you can think of and a couple of things you can’t, and then she’s gone. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
    “It could have been better. Around four in the morning she could have turned into a pizza.”
    “Hold the anchovies.”
    “A pizza without anchovies,” said a voice from the doorway, “is like an ointment without a fly.”
    I looked up, even as Carolyn was closing her eyes, and saw a big man in an expensive if ill-fitting suit. His name was Ray Kirschmann, he’s a detective in the NYPD, and over the years he has occasionally served as the fly in my ointment.
    “Hello, Ray,” I said.
    “Hello, Bernie. Hello, Carolyn.”
    After a beat, just long enough to show her heart wasn’t in it, Carolyn said, “Hello, Ray.”
    “Whatever that is you’re eatin’,” he said, “I have to say it smells better than it looks. I guess it’s some kind of Chinese, bein’ as you’re eatin’ it with chopsticks, which I never got the hang of usin’ myself.”
    “That’s just as well,” Carolyn said. “I don’t have an extra pair to offer you.”
    “I wouldn’t know what to do with ’em if you did.”
    “I could probably suggest something,” she said, “but never mind. There’s no food left over, anyway.”
    “Plus I already ate.”
    “And yet here you are, Ray. And I’ll bet you’re going to tell us why.”
    “A guy sets out to be friendly,” he said, “and what does it get him? A guy walks in here, he doesn’t make any nasty remarks about dykes, he doesn’t even come up with any short jokes, although God knows he’s got ample opportunity for both. And what does it get him?”
    “The abuse he must unconsciously crave, or why else would he walk in the door?”
    He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Carolyn. Bernie, where were you last night?”
    “Last night?”
    “That’s right. That would be the little stretch of time between yesterday afternoon and this morning.”
    “I had an early dinner,” I said, “and then I was at my apartment.”
    “Alone, I suppose.”
    “No, I had company.”
    “I suppose it was a lady,” he said, “unless you’ve started pitchin’ for the other team.”
    “My preferences haven’t changed,” I assured him, “although I sometimes think it might be easier if they did.”
    “Does she have a name? And how do I get in touch with her?”
    “You don’t.”
    “You’ve got an alibi,” he said, “but you want to keep it to yourself, and how can it do you any good that way? What is she, Bernie, married? Are you droppin’ your load in some other man’s Maytag?”
    “That’s the worst figure of speech I’ve heard in a long time,” I said, “but never mind. Anyway, I’m not.”
    “You’re not what?”
    “What you said. She’s not married. Not yet, anyway. All I know is her first name, and I have a feeling it’s not really hers in the first place. I don’t have a phone number for her, or an address.”
    “So how are you gonna see her again?”
    “I’m not, and I don’t care if she can’t give me an alibi, because what in the world do I need with one?”
    “They’re useful,” he said. “They come in handy for keepin’ burglars out of jail.”
    “I don’t do that anymore, Ray.”
    “Yeah, right. But if you did, an alibi wouldn’t hurt a bit.”
    “What happened last night?”
    “What happened? Well, I’d say a few things happened. If he’s to be believed, Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s son Bernard got lucky with a mystery woman. And, just playin’ the odds, I’d guess that Mrs. Kaiser’s daughter Carolyn got drunk in one of the muff-type dives on Hudson Street.”
    “If you’ve got nothing else going for you, Ray, you’re just plain dripping with class.”
    “Thanks,