The Hardest Part (A James Bishop Short Story)

by Jason Dean

  It was 23.45 and I was parked directly across the street in Bobby’s pick-up. After making sure the street was still empty, I got out and gently shut the car door behind me. As I crossed the road towards number seventeen I reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out my manual lock pick gun. I had a few of these back at my place on Staten Island and usually took one with me whenever I had to travel. This one was made of hard plastic and had two thin picks and a double-ended tension wrench affixed to the side. As I walked, I unclipped them all and inserted one of the picks into the barrel.

  When I reached the front door of the house, I took a quick look at the lock and saw it was a standard deadbolt. Nothing complicated about it. Inserting one end of the tension wrench into the keyhole, I pushed the needle of the gun into the space just above and pressed the trigger while using my thumb to apply torque pressure to the wrench. On my second try, there was a snap and I felt the upper pins fall into the hole casing and the door unlocked itself. Removing my tools, I pushed the door open and entered the house.

  Once inside I listened hard for signs of life, but I heard nothing. I sensed nothing. Other than my presence, the house felt completely empty. I felt along the wall until I found two switches and pressed them both and the lights came on. Since I was supposed to be the actual tenant of the house, there was no reason to act suspicious.

  I was in another living room, but I could see straight away that Calvin took a little more pride in his surroundings. The couch and chairs actually matched, there was no mess on the carpet, and no crappy posters on the walls either. I checked the rest of the house and discovered it was much the same. Neat and tidy for the most part, especially for a man living on his own. In addition to the living room, there was a kitchen/diner, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, the smallest of which was now being used as a spare room, with an old sofa bed against one wall and a wooden work desk with a PC on top.

  I searched the place quickly and found nothing useful in the living room or the diner/kitchen, but in the main bedroom I did find an old snub-nosed .38 Special in a drawer next to the bed, along with a box of cartridges. I left it where it was.

  Only the spare room remained, and that didn’t look too promising. The sofa bed was fairly ratty and worn, and while I was no expert with computers it was fairly obvious the PC had gotten some heavy wear over the years. Yet if Calvin had been involved in that factory robbery, I felt sure a new computer would have been the first item on his shopping list.

  It just didn’t make any sense. None of the pieces were adding up. Why the hostility from Bobby and Calvin if they hadn’t been involved in the robbery? Was there another reason behind their attitude towards me? Was I completely off the mark on this? And had the locals been right about Lenny all along? Was he the sole perpetrator of the robbery, and was he now living a normal life somewhere else under another alias?

  I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. My instincts were still telling me I was on the right track, and they’d never let me down before. I just had to keep looking, that was all.

  The work desk had three drawers running down the right-hand side. None of them had locks. I opened the top one and saw it contained dozens of plastic game cases with names like Need For Speed, Halo, or Half-Life. The second drawer was mostly empty except for a couple of new-looking notepads, a few stationery items, and three sets of keys that could be for anything. But the bottom drawer contained a couple of ring binder folders and some loose paperwork underneath. I pulled the contents out and placed them on the work desk.

  I went through the paperwork first and found a copy of the rental contract for the house, old bank statements, slightly more recent pay slips, a few standard letters from the IRS, copies of tax returns, and plenty more like that. I glanced over the figures on the sheets, but saw nothing out of the norm. I stuck the paperwork back in the drawer, then opened the first ring binder. Inside were a number of loose colour brochures and slick catalogues. There was one for the Suzuki DR125SM sports bike, another for the Honda CB125R, and another for the latest Ford Mustang. There was also a four-page brochure for a place called EZ-AXS Storage in Albany, a thick Fry’s Home Electronics catalogue, and a thinner catalogue from Best Buy. There were also a bunch of Deal-of-the-Month flyers from a local fishing tackle store.

  That was all. No personal stuff.

  I opened the second binder and saw this one contained seven clear plastic wallets, all filled to bursting with receipts of one kind or another. I went through the first wallet and saw the usual penny-ante stuff you had to account for on your yearly tax return. Same with the next two. Nothing jumped out at me.

  But it was in the fourth wallet that I finally hit pay dirt.

  Almost hidden amongst the rest of the dreck, I found a computerized receipt from the same company whose brochure I’d just seen in the other ring binder: EZ-AXS Storage. It was for a three-year rental of a standard, five-by-ten locker, and came to $689.95 in total. It even listed the number of the locker: fifty-seven. That was all interesting enough, but the best part was the date in the top right-hand corner: January 30th of the year before last.

  And the robbery at the factory had been on February 13th, just two weeks later.

  Black Friday.

  All of a sudden I very much wanted to see the contents of that locker, and the sooner the better. From the other binder I pulled out the well-thumbed EZ-AXS brochure and went through it again. Each page contained white text on a black background, along with numerous photos showing the main office, the entrance sign, the locker buildings themselves, and so on. In its list of features, they pointed out that clients had twenty-four-hour access to their lockers, but that outside of office hours they’d need to key in an access code to get past the electronic gates.

  Which, of course, I didn’t have.

  And the other problem was the padlock Calvin had used on his particular locker. If there was anything of value in there, then it was a sure bet he’d gotten himself a good one. And while my lock pick gun was a whiz at getting me into houses it wouldn’t be much help with this. Frowning, I went through the rest of the receipts and in the second-from-last plastic wallet I finally found another interesting one, dated February 7th, one week before the robbery, from a Locktite in Albany. The item listed was a 1-3/4’ (44mm) Rectangular Stainless-Steel Rekeyable Padlock (w/Bumpstop) – American LastLock A5400 Series + three keys. The price was $44.96.

  American LastLock. I’d heard of them. So he had gotten himself a good one.

  Then I remembered the keys I’d seen before. I grabbed the three sets from the second drawer and looked them over. And wouldn’t you know it, one of the sets had two identical brass keys on a small ring, each key with the American LastLock logo imprinted onto its face. Calvin’s spares.

  Okay, it looked like I now had a key, but I still needed the access code to get past the electronic gate. I figured it had to be the same code for everybody, though, which made it likely that Calvin would have written it down somewhere so he wouldn’t forget. Just in case he needed to get to that locker outside of normal hours. But where?

  I went through every item of paperwork again, looking out for handwritten notes or numbers. Nothing. I flicked through the two notebooks, but they were completely empty. Nothing on the back of the rental contract, or any of the other letters either. In fact, the more I thought about it the more likely it seemed that Calvin would have simply jotted down the code on his phone instead. Fewer and fewer people used pen and paper to write notes anymore, it seemed. And if that was the case, I’d have to find another way into this storage place.

  Then I looked down at the EZ-AXS brochure on the table again. It was still showing the back page, as I’d left it. But now I could see there was an impression of something just above the address at the bottom of the page. It looked as though Calvin had written something down in ballpoint pen. Using a dark pen on black paper was hardly ideal for note-making, but a person could read it easily enough if he knew it was there. Picking up the
leaflet again, I angled the back page under the ceiling light until I was able to see the notes more clearly.

  Two numbers and one word. The word looked like SIMON. Next to it was a ten-digit number that started with 229. That was the code for Albany, since the phone number for EZ-AXS began the same way. And underneath that was a five-digit number: 73455.

  It wasn’t much to go on. But maybe this Simon had been the EZ-AXS rep Calvin had dealt with when he’d rented his locker, and maybe Simon had given him the number for his direct line in case Calvin had any further questions. And then he’d given Calvin the code for getting into the place outside of office hours.

  Maybe.

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  XI

  I got my directions from Google Maps this time, and it was 00.23 when I reached EZ-AXS Storage on Gillionville Road, Albany, which was about thirty miles east of Sagamore. Before setting off I’d stopped off at Bobby’s again, but he still hadn’t moved position. I thought he might be more seriously concussed than I’d first calculated so I rechecked his pupils, but they weren’t dilated. Not much I could do about it now anyway. While I was there I also took the opportunity to grab one of the guy’s hooded sweatshirts from the bedroom cupboard, since it fit more into my plans if Bobby had made to trip to the storage place rather than me.

  After pulling into the large parking lot out front, I saw a two-storey building further back that had to be the administrative offices. There were no lights on inside. Past that I saw a long single-storey cinder-block building surrounded by a ten-foot-high fence and a steel gate off to the right, lit by a single spotlight. When I drove towards the gate I saw more identical cinder-block buildings back there. There was a yellow sign affixed to the gate with the words ELECTRIC FENCE in large letters, and a pole on the other side of the gate held a security camera, pointed my way. On this side of the gate was a key access panel on a steel post. As I pulled in next to it I pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over my head and kept my face in shadow as I lowered the window.

  It was a standard keypad with twelve buttons. This was the moment of truth. If it wasn’t the right code I’d have to come back during office hours and rent out a locker for myself and get the access code that way, then return this time tomorrow and try again. That would mean a whole day wasted as far as I was concerned. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  I reached out and pressed the seven button, followed by three, then four, five and then five again. I waited. A whole three seconds later there was a metallic clack and the gate began to open.

  Smiling, I let out a long breath and drove into the compound. There were five long storage buildings altogether, with huge aisles separating them. Illumination was provided by spotlights at roof level, and I also saw plenty more security cameras on poles. I turned into the first aisle and saw mostly garage-sized roll-up corrugated doors on both sides. There were numbers above each unit, starting at one and finishing with thirty-six.

  I turned into the next aisle and set into the second storage building were about fifty normal-sized corrugated swing doors in a row. When I reached number fifty-seven, I brought the vehicle to a halt and got out to check the padlock on the unit door, the hoodie still covering my head. As I’d hoped, the make was American LastLock. I inserted one of Calvin’s spare keys into the keyhole and turned and the shackle clicked free. Removing the padlock, I pulled the door open.

  At only five feet wide and ten feet deep, the unit interior wasn’t much larger than a closet. I pressed the wall switch and the single bulb in the ceiling revealed twenty-five or thirty packing boxes stacked up against the left side of the unit, all the way to the rear. I closed the door behind me, then picked up the top box on the first stack and opened the flaps.

  Inside were crumpled clothes that looked as though they’d just been thrown in on a whim. Old jeans, T-shirts and dress shirts, a few socks that didn’t match. I opened the next one and got more of the same, except this one contained kids’ shirts, along with a couple of women’s skirts. The clothes smelled musty and old, but they were clean. The next box was the same. More old clothes, but no clear reason as to why they were in storage.

  Unless they were just a cover for the real reason.

  I kept opening boxes down the line, but it was only when I reached the bottom carton of the second-to-last stack that I found the one I wanted.

  Like the others, the box contained more old clothes Calvin must have picked up from Goodwill as a bulk lot, but this one was a lot heavier than the others. I pulled out a couple of shirts, a pair of black pants, and some women’s’ shorts, and there at the bottom of the box was a small dark knapsack. Even though it had been flattened, it still looked about half-full. I pulled the bag out and undid the zip.

  It was full of money.

  Reaching in with one hand, I extracted a messy wad of creased tens and twenties, with a few fifties thrown in. I grabbed another bundle and it was more of the same. I felt it highly likely that the bag contained approximately a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, and all of it in small, untraceable bills.

  So I’d been right all along. Calvin had been behind the factory robbery. Calvin and his best buddy, Bobby. And since it would look far too suspicious if they both suddenly started buying new cars or motorbikes or computers so soon after the theft, Calvin decided he’d play it smart and tuck the money away for safekeeping until everything died down. Got himself a storage unit, a decent padlock, and a bunch of old clothes packed away in boxes to make it all look kosher, then he could forget all about it for two or three years.

  Which brought me back to the missing Lenny: the fall guy. He was obviously dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, probably fairly close by. I didn’t know any of the details yet, but I imagined the poor kid had entered Calvin’s bad books the moment he started going with Kim. And Calvin, being a careful guy who thought ahead, proceeded to strike up a friendly relationship with his ex’s new boyfriend, knowing all along that when the time came to rob the company safe he could blame it all on Lenny. But only if he made sure Lenny wasn’t around to give his version of events.

  I figured Calvin had given the order for Bobby to do the deed, either immediately after the robbery or maybe even just before it. Or maybe they’d done it together. And all for a measly hundred and twenty grand. Not a hell of a lot in this day and age, but people killed for far less all the time.

  But even if Lenny was dead, I still needed to know where his remains were. And at least now I had the bait I needed to get that information.

  XII

  At 06.25 I went into Bobby’s kitchenette, grabbed the five-litre bucket I’d found in the backyard and filled it with cold water in the sink. Out the back window I could see the night was still pitch black, with sunrise still over an hour away. As the container slowly filled, I went through everything again and wondered if I’d overlooked anything. I probably had. I was dealing with far too many unknowns and you can never plan properly under those conditions. And the main thing I didn’t know was quite how Calvin would react under pressure. I’d only been in town a few hours and that simply wasn’t long enough to find out everything I wanted to about the man.

  Still, you can only work with what you’ve got. And at least I knew Calvin was at home now, which made things a lot easier. I’d passed his place coming back from Albany and had been pleased to see a vehicle parked in the carport, and a light in one of the front windows of the house.

  When the bucket was full, I carried it back to the bedroom. Bobby was lying on his side, both wrists now affixed to the headboard railing with some thin electrical cord I’d found under the sink. He had actually begun to stir while I was tying his wrists, but I’d been ready and elbowed him in the left temple and knocked him out again. I’d tied his ankles together too. That had been two hours ago.

  Now I lifted up the bucket and emptied the contents over his head.

  As soon as the cold water splashed against Bobby’s face he immediately jerked his
head off the bed, spluttering and gasping and spitting out the water he’d swallowed. Then he realized he couldn’t move his hands and started struggling frantically, straining his muscular arms, the movements of his large body shaking the whole bed. With his wild eyes and his hair all over the place, he looked like a man who’d just escaped from an asylum.

  ‘Relax, Bobby,’ I said, tossing the bucket. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury.’

  He stopped struggling as he noticed me for the first time, his eyes narrowing to slits again. ‘You.’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You hit me from behind with that bottle.’

  ‘It was the only way I could put you down,’ I said. Time to stroke his ego a little. It was amazing what some people would do after a little flattery. ‘Let’s face it, Bobby, you’re a much better fighter than me and I needed some kind of advantage.’

  ‘That ain’t playin’ fair, you bastard. I woulda had you otherwise.’

  He seemed to have forgotten that it was he who’d struck me from behind in the first place. But I just said, ‘You’re probably right there.’

  ‘Ain’t no probably about it. I woulda put you down, and that’s a plain fact.’ He looked down at his bound ankles and frowned. ‘Why the hell d’you tie me up like this? What you want?’

  ‘I want you to answer a few questions, and I just figured it would be a lot safer for me if I restricted your movements a little.’

  ‘Huh? What questions? What about?’ He yanked again at the cord binding his wrists, as though sheer force alone might free him.

  ‘Mainly to do with the robbery at the factory two years ago, and how you and your pal, Calvin, set up Lenny to take the blame and then got rid of him. I know that was probably Calvin’s idea, but I’m still kind of curious as to who actually killed him. Since you’re the obvious muscle, I assume it was you. It was probably you who buried the body too, right?’