The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  I first tested the program on my own personal accounts, shaving off some of my income from stock dividends and sending it over to that hidden account that I really do have. It worked like a charm.

  When I was ready to go for the real deal, I knew getting into a bank’s system was far beyond my capabilities. This meant I had to work out different ways each time. Lucinda Goforth was a plain Jane, never married and lived alone with four cats. When I paid her any bit of attention, she quickly melted in my hand. It was nothing to get the keys to the bank’s front door, the security code and the login passcode to her desk computer that synced with the mainframe.

  When I went into the bank, I practiced on hacking into the computer system without using the code. I couldn’t do it. I still can’t. And I’ve tried every time since then. However, I have honed my skills at getting into less secure computers by studying programs for cracking password software, scanning network software, and there is even an instructional book called Hacking for Dummies. While this gets me into personal computers, I still need the login passcode to get into the banking system.

  Anyway, I know I have digressed a mile from when I told you that old man tonight wasn’t the first person I smothered. The first was Lucinda Goforth. That damned woman figured me out and I had to smother her. She kicked, flailed, and fought worse than that old man did. I finally had to straddle her and put my whole body into it. You’d better not be thinking I’m a weakling. I’m not. It’s just some people really don’t want to die. Lucinda Goforth was one of them.

  Now my thoughts are all the way back to Carol who is sleeping soundly beside me. Moonlight is streaming in through the bedroom window and gleaming across Carol’s face. Instead of it giving her a peaceful, angelic glow, it is streaking a ghastly shadow across her face and making her appear to be possessed by an evil demon.

  “Fix it,” she had said, which is what she always says.

  I think about smothering her again and wonder if that would “fix it.”

  My response is always to either tell her that I have fixed it, or that I will. And then I do. She has never once questioned me as to how it suddenly becomes “fixed.” Does she know she is sleeping next to a murderer? If so, is she willing to keep my secret forever? Or is she simply biding her time until her trust fund matures? When she gets her hands on her mega-millions, will she turn on me and go to the police? Or will she be the one to kill me?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Douglas

  I am beyond exhausted and would love nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep. But Carol is right. I need to fix it. So, I throw back the covers and get my feet to the floor. After another piss, I put my clothes back on.

  “What are you doing now?” Carol asks when she awakens to my cussing because I have stumped my toe on the corner of the bedpost.

  “Going to fix it,” I tell her.

  “Good. I’m glad.” She rolls over and pulls the covers up to her chin.

  A frustrated sigh leaves my lungs when I hear her immediately drift back into slumbered breathing. Bitch.

  Downstairs, I go into my study and pull out a locksmith kit. I’ve had more practice at picking locks than I have at hacking into computers. At first, I practiced on my own house, even timing myself to within minutes. Underneath the kit, I have a package of disposable gloves. I take out two pairs and put them in my pocket. One is just for backup and shouldn’t be needed. But you never know. I might tear one on a tool or something.

  As soon as I enter the garage, I pass by the Q3 and pop the cargo lid on my Lincoln Navigator. After shoving in a ladder, I drive over to Westhaven Storage and switch out my vehicle for an older model Toyota Corolla. I lay the backseat down to stick the ladder in. I like using this car on just such occasions for several reasons. To begin with, it’s the most common car in the world and it’s white, which is also a high-ranking popular color. This means it doesn’t stand out. And blending in is extremely important. But the best reason for using this car is that it is still registered in Leroy Smith’s name, some guy I bought it from on Craig’s list.

  On the seat next to me, I have a ski mask, a pair of binoculars and several towels. The glovebox is equipped with duct tape, some rope, zip ties, a Taser, and a gun. I’ve never used the gun. But that other stuff has come in handy.

  Then I head over to Hannah’s apartment, hoping her fanny pack only contained her apartment keys and her phone. As I approach, my stomach becomes a nervous bundle. It would’ve been my preference to avoid Hannah’s apartment altogether. Living in a community-based complex creates the huge risk of someone spotting me when I break into her place, not to mention there will most assuredly be security cameras filming me at some point. As I turn down West 7th, my heart picks up a thud, thud, thud, and my hands become clammy.

  Hannah doesn’t live in a gated community and I’d like to tell her she should upgrade her living quarters. But tonight, at least getting past an entrance gate isn’t something I have to worry about. At first, I circle the block, searching to see if anyone might be out and about. When everything appears quiet, I feel a slight bit of relief. Hopefully, I won’t be forced to enter through the front entrance. Instead, I circle down the backside where the garages are located and back my car into Hannah’s parking space such that I am positioned closest to her apartment, with my vehicle providing a slight bit of cover.

  “Just do it,” I tell myself, trying to work up my courage. After taking several deep breaths, I hop out of the car, dash to the back, and wrangle out the ladder in a few flat seconds. Pushing it open, I position it evenly on the cement driveway and softly close the trunk.

  From a nearby interstate, the sound of intermittent traffic can be heard and a few blocks over a dog is barking. The moon is a bright white and it makes me feel like I am on stage under a theatrical spot lamp with an audience watching me from somewhere unseen.

  After donning my plastic gloves and black ski mask, I shove the lockpick set and a flashlight into the pocket of my black leather jacket. Looking around for any signs of movement, when I don’t see anything, I climb like a squirrel to the top rung and bound over the balcony railing. Then I stretch down and pull the ladder up, fearing someone might drive through the alley and spot a suspiciously placed implement.

  Right now, I would also like to tell Hannah that a sliding door with a broom handle in the track would be harder for me to penetrate. French doors aren’t difficult for me to get past. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I work the picks as quickly as possible and in no time at all, I have stepped inside her apartment.

  Now, at this point, one of two things will happen. Either her apartment security alarm will go off and I am screwed, or she didn’t set it before she went on her bike ride, knowing she’d return in a short span of time. If an alarm goes off, all I can do is run like hell. If a camera captures me, the only image will be of someone clothed completely in black with a mask covering their face. If I manage to evade the camera, but my vehicle is recorded, the only result will be a muddied license plate which traces back to good old Leroy Smith. I should be all right, I hope.

  For a long moment I am frozen in place, waiting and listening to see what happens. When the sound of silence rewards me, I let out a huge breath. This is my first time to be in Hannah’s apartment. From my position in the small dining area, I see a kitchen off to the left, lit by a light above the stove. Then I shine my flashlight into an open living room. Everything is neat as a pen, except for one of the dining chairs is covered in cat fur and I notice a chair in the living is in an equal state.

  Glancing across the countertop, I don’t spot her purse, but I do see a bunch of bananas. Just the sight of them has my stomach grumbling. It has been hours and hours since I have eaten, the greasy pizza long gone. I follow my nose to a laundry room to see if she keeps her purse on the washer or dryer. All I am rewarded with is the stench of a cat litterbox.

  Backtracking to the front door, I see that it is not on the entry table. I also take note that she do
es not even have a security system. My Hannah needs to move.

  While I am in the vicinity, I take a closer look at the living room to make sure she didn’t dump it off on the couch. But there is nothing there.

  Crossing back through the entry, I turn down a hall that leads to a bathroom and two other rooms. The first is a small bedroom which is being used as a study. I will come back to that room in a minute. But first I head to what will surely be the master. When I enter, my torch picks up movement on the bed and I have a heart attack, thinking it is Hannah’s parents and they have spent the night here while she is in the hospital.

  Instead, it is her cat. She makes a hissing sound and bounds to the ground in a loud thud and scurries like a blur down the hallway. A few loose hairs kick up in the air as she makes her getaway.

  “Shit,” I say to myself, letting out a small laugh at having been spooked over a big furry creature. Then my eyes rove around the room. The bedspread is nothing more than cheap cotton in a floral design of grays and creams. It looks like something my granny would love. In the corner, armoire doors have been left open exposing a TV. Nightstands flank each side of the bed. I go through the drawers just to see what she has in them. The far side is empty. The one next to where she probably sleeps has a box of tissues, some vapor rub, lip gloss, and a package of cough drops. It makes me wonder if she has been recently sick or just keeps that stuff there.

  I have already spotted her purse on the dresser, but just as I felt the urge to go through her nightstand, an equal curiosity propels me to rummage through the drawers. I am delighted to find panties and bras in the top one. I take out a matching set in a delicate pink covered with a creamy lace and I imagine what Hannah looks like wearing only these tiny garments. For a perverted moment I consider taking them with me. Instead, I shove them back in the drawer and grab up the purse.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I prowl past a wallet, cosmetics, a grocery list, and a hairbrush. My hand next dips into a zipper compartment containing a pen and a tube of breath freshener. In an open flap I run across a pair of sunshades. It is in the next pocket I hear the jingle of keys. My heart skips a beat when I pull them out and find three keys. One is presumably to the bank entrance. One is most likely to her office. And based on experience, I’ll bet the small one unlocks a clear-plastic locking cover over the security panel. Now I have two out of three things: the security code and the keys. All that is left is the computer login information.

  Placing the purse back where I found it, I return to the kitchen and get me one of those bananas. Peeling it down, I take a few bites while fantasizing the produce being a purchase Hannah and I made while shopping together and that this is our home. And then my imagination shifts to us going to our bedroom where I will remove the pink undergarments and make sweet love to her.

  While I am in the process of devouring the soft fruit, Hannah’s cat crawls out from under the couch and makes a beeline for a couple of bowls between the kitchen and the laundry room. She must think I am here to feed her. I feel bad for the poor thing, considering I have laid her mother up in the hospital. I place the banana on the counter to go in search of kitty vittles.

  “Okay Lucy, where’s your food?” I ask the cat. “Don’t worry, I’ll find it.” She looks at me with big round golden eyes. “Where is it,” I say, rummaging around in the cabinets until I find a small packet of dry cat pellets. “Oh Lucy, look what I’ve found.” I shake the package, and she begins turning circles around my legs. “Is this what you want?”

  She meows, getting antsy for me to dole some out.

  “Okay, okay. Here you go.” I can barely get it in the bowl and a few bits even fall across her head. “Goodness, were you starving to death?” She shouldn’t be as there are a few morsels of some other type of cat food in her bowl.

  This time she doesn’t answer because her head is buried in the bowl and all I hear is the crunch, crunch sound she is making.

  “Let me get you something to drink too.” I take the secondary bowl and pour the stale contents down the drain and refill it with fresh water. “Here you go, you beautiful thing,” I say as I place the bowl next to her. Then I reach over and stroke the back of her neck.

  “MEOW!!!” It comes out harshly and she bristles. Before I know it, she has scratched the hell out of me.

  “Ouch!!!” I yell back at her. “Damn you, you damn cat.”

  My tone is equally as harsh as hers was. She lets out a low hateful growl and darts between my legs and back down the hallway.

  My glove is shredded, and blood is dripping all over the place. Cupping my other hand underneath, I head quickly to the sink and peel off the glove. Blood drip, drip, drips into the sink and I begin running water over the back of my hand. “Shit! You damn cat,” I yell down the hallway.

  With the use of paper towels and pressure, I finally get it to stop bleeding. Then I mop the blood between the bowl and the sink. “You damn cat,” I gripe again.

  Thank goodness for my second pair of gloves, which I now pull onto my hands and snap my fingers into. Enormous time has been wasted with this scratch and now dawn is beginning to arrive. I need to get the lead out before neighbors begin their day.

  Rushing back to the office, I power up Hannah’s computer. Thank goodness for those “hacking” lessons because it doesn’t take me long before I am signed in on her personal computer. Pulling up her internet browser, I log onto her iCloud and go into her “notes” app and scroll through them. After just a few moments, I am patting myself on the back. Just as I suspected, the security code and her bank log in information are both on here. I don’t dare take a screenshot with my phone. It would be a big no-no for such incriminating evidence to be discovered on my electronics. Instead, I reach for a sticky pad and a pen and carefully write down the numbers, double-checking them to make sure they are correct.

  Stowing my flashlight back in my jacket pocket, next to the bloody torn glove, paper towels and the locksmith kit, I leave through the French door, purposely leaving it unlocked. From the balcony, I open the ladder and hang it over the railing and try to balance it just so, hoping to drop it to the ground in an upright manner. The damned thing hits the ground and flops over.

  “Shit! Son of a bitch. Can’t anything be easy?” I mutter to myself.

  With an exasperated huff of air, I crawl over the balcony and then position myself with my fingers hanging on the ledge then I carefully drop to the ground. I land on the top rung of the damned ladder and twist my ankle.

  “Shit! Dammit!”

  It hurts like hell, but I climb to my feet and put the ladder back in the Corolla. Jumping in the driver’s seat, I take off for a little convenience store down the road. Wheeling into the parking lot, I stumble out, dragging my aching ankle, and hurry inside to a kiosk for cutting your own keys. I make three sets of each of the keys … extras in case I leave a metal splinter on one of them and it doesn’t quite work properly. After paying for them, I speed back to Hannah’s where I drag the ladder out again, climb up and go back inside her apartment. With long strides I head swiftly back to her bedroom. The cat is back on the bed and she repeats a series of hisses at me and bolts under the bed.

  “Damn you, you damn cat,” I grunt at her.

  Retrieving Hannah’s keys from my jacket pocket, I carefully place them back in the little pocket of her purse.

  The cat pokes her head out from underneath the bed and stares at me.

  “Goodbye you damn cat,” I say as I leave.

  This time, I lock Hannah’s door from the inside and pull it to, double-checking that it is secured. Once again, I try dropping the ladder into a standing position, only to watch it fall again. This time it bangs into my car. I look around to see if anyone might have heard it. There are a few apartments with the lights blinking on now. But I don’t see anyone out and about. “Shit,” I complain as I crawl over and drop myself down to the ground. “Son of a bitch,” I cuss when my knee buckles under me and I land on my ass with a hard thud
.

  Opening the trunk, I toss the ladder back in and hobble back into the car. As I pull away, a car starts up in a driveway three doors down.

  “Shit!” Hopefully, he didn’t see me. It’s too late now. I just want to leave.

  Driving back to the storage facility, I exchange the cars and then drive back across town to home. All the way through the house, I bitch and complain about my aches and pains. I am so freaking tired by the time I trudge up the stairs. Then it is a monumental effort to limp into the bathroom to take another piss and undress. By the time I crawl back into bed, the sun is already beaming through the windows.

  Carol rolls over and looks at me. “Did you fix it?”

  “Almost.”

  “Good.” Then she crawls out of bed to start her day. Bitch.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hannah

  When Sunday arrives, Dr. Kinkaid goes over care instructions for my leg. “Please rest for the next few days with your leg elevated to reduce the potential of any swelling.”

  “No problem,” I assure him. I am so looking forward to lying on the couch for the next few days with a good book in front of me and I’m anxious to get home to Lucy.

  “Hop in,” the nurse says as she maneuvers a wheelchair into place.

  It’s a chore for me to shuffle around and get my butt down in the seat. The nurse hands the crutches to me and I carry them along with us as she wheels me from my room, down to the elevator, and out the front door where Phillip is waiting for me in his red Jaguar. While I was in surgery, Phillip had a friend pick him up at the hospital and take him to his car. I am thankful that he is here for me and I don’t have to Uber myself home.

  He jumps out, runs around the front, opens the passenger door, and helps me inside. His car is lower to the ground than I am used to, so I pretty much fall into place and then he helps me get my cast inside.