Men lied, particularly married men. They lied to both their wives and their lovers. Hyrum had been too quick to dismiss the problem, and Sylvia was sure that there was something Hyrum wasn’t telling her. Something she would have to find out for herself.
Two forty-eight, that was the number she was looking for. Sylvia pulled her car to the curb. It wasn’t an elegant home, but it looked to be much more house than a dental hygienist should be able to afford. She made a mental note to research Michelle Ackerman’s past and current finances.
Well, no use putting it off. If Michelle was going to be a problem, Sylvia would meet it head on as she did with everything in life. She walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. A set of Westminster chimes echoed through the house. Sylvia waited. Silence. Then she heard the faint sound of footsteps. Just a few at first, but soon the footfalls increased in frequency until they evolved into the cadence of a runner. She leaned toward the door to listen, but the sound wasn’t coming from inside. Sylvia crouched down behind a hedge and closed her eyes. The rhythmic beats rose in volume and pounded in her brain. She feared being seen here, although she didn’t know why. It was like walking down a dark street and being sure that someone was following you, even though you couldn’t see anyone. Something bad was going to happen. Soon the steady patter began to diminish, and she peeked over the hedge. The jogger moved down the street with a measured pace while Sylvia’s heart ran a four-minute mile. She took in long, slow breaths to try to control her overwhelming desire to leave, to run away and pretend she had never come here. What did she hope to accomplish by talking to Michelle anyway? The hood on the runner’s sweatshirt was pulled up over his head, and the words “Pittsburgh Steelers” rippled across his back. The footsteps faded, becoming ever softer until she couldn’t distinguish them from the rushing of the blood in her ears, and then the night was quiet again.
It seemed unlikely that both the living room and bedroom lights would be on and no one home, so Sylvia decided to walk around to the back of the house to see if Michelle could possibly be in the backyard. She stayed behind the bushes as she worked her way toward the back, still not comfortable with the prospect of being seen, and still not knowing why.
Her feet found the paving stones that connected the front walk to the rear of the house. She inched her way along the path in the dark. A loud screech and a hiss startled her. She put both hands over her mouth to stifle a shriek. An animal ran from just under her foot to the back door. The narrow slit of light from the kitchen widened as the cat clawed at the slightly ajar door. Sylvia walked toward the crack of light and pulled on the doorknob. The orange cat squeezed through into the kitchen.
“I hope you’re Michelle’s cat,” she whispered as it ran toward the living room. Sylvia wouldn’t normally walk into someone’s home uninvited—that was Mort’s job—but that feeling of something being terribly wrong was back again. She stuck her head in the door and softly called out, “Michelle?” There was no answer. Through the archway leading from the kitchen to the living room, Sylvia could see the tail and hindquarters of the cat. He seemed to be rubbing against something just out of her line of sight. Sylvia stepped carefully into the kitchen and closed the door.
The cat ran back and jumped to the counter, causing the Louisville Slugger to roll toward the edge. Sylvia lunged forward and caught the bat by its handle. Sergeant walked up and down the counter, purring. He lay on his side, then rolled on his back, exposing his belly.
“I’ll bet you’re her cat, and you haven’t had your dinner yet.” She scratched the animal’s belly. The cat kept rubbing his chin against Sylvia’s arm, but now her attention was elsewhere. From this angle she could see a shadow on the wall, a shadow cast by someone sitting on the living room sofa. So Michelle was home.
“I’m sorry to barge in,” she said, “but your door was open and…” She approached the couch, and that old feeling came back again for a third time, but this time she knew what was wrong. Michelle was slumped down on the sofa seat, her eyes closed, and her arms limp at her sides. The bat dropped from Sylvia’s hand and rolled across the floor. She placed two fingers against the side of Michelle’s neck and felt for a pulse. At first she thought there was none, but as she held her fingers against the carotid artery, she could feel a faint movement. Sylvia put her ear close to Michelle’s mouth and heard an almost imperceptible wheeze. She was alive.
Sylvia pulled her cell phone from her pocket and poked 911 on the digital keypad, then stopped before pressing call.
Several thoughts flashed through her mind at once. The jogger who had run by could have come from the back of the house; he could have been Michelle’s attacker. Her second thought was even more disturbing: Hyrum Green was a Steelers fan. She had seen him, on many occasions, wearing a hooded Pittsburgh sweatshirt, just like the one worn by the jogger.
Sylvia didn’t want to believe that Hyrum would try to kill Michelle. What reason would he have? Surely exposing their affair could make Hyrum’s life difficult, but not difficult enough to warrant murder. If Hyrum did this, he had to have a bigger reason than was apparent, and if he did do it, an investigation into the murder would probably expose their relationship. Normally that would be inconvenient for Sylvia, but not devastating, unless…
If the police looked at Hyrum’s lover as a possible accomplice to the murder, and if they dug deep enough, they might even expose the burglaries she and Mort committed as well. Calling 911 and having her phone traced to the scene of the crime would not be helpful either. This was becoming a nightmare.
Sylvia paced back and forth across the living room, trying to think. She sat in an armchair and stared at Michelle for several minutes. She jumped up. She couldn’t just sit there and let a woman die. She took out her phone again and began to dial. Suddenly Michelle gasped and tried to raise her hand to her neck. Then, just as suddenly, she exhaled. It was a long, hissing exhale. Her eyes opened, and her body went limp. It was over. Sylvia stuffed her phone back into her pocket. She was surprised at how calm she felt. She needed to stay calm until she was safely away with no trace that she had ever been here.
Sylvia thought about calling Mort to get his advice. Mort was very experienced at removing all traces of his presence at a crime scene. She speculated, if he had killed Michelle, which of course he hadn’t, he would know how to dispose of the body and cover his tracks. But if she called him, he might think that she was responsible for Michelle’s death, and he could use that knowledge as leverage against her in the future. No, she couldn’t tell him she was here or that she suspected Hyrum.
Then she had an idea, a brainstorm that might cause Mort to unwittingly solve her problems for her. What if Mort thought he killed Michelle? What would he do? He would probably clean up the murder scene and then get as far away as possible. Of course there was always the chance that he might be caught, and the police might still find a path to her, but he was a professional. That was less of a risk than if they found clues and investigated Hyrum. Sylvia quickly formulated a plan. If it worked, Mort would believe that he killed Michelle, but it would only work if she could get him here tonight. She took out her cell phone and speed-dialed his number.
“Mort, I have a job for you. Meet me at the usual place at seven thirty. You need to do the job tonight.” She hung up the phone before she gave him a chance to object. She would have to hurry. She looked at her watch: 5:35. She had less than two hours to prepare and much to do before she met Mort at the bar.
***
Mortimer Banks, alias Mortimer Schmidt, carried the small black burlap bag to the bed in his one-room apartment and dumped out its contents. He carefully checked to see if he had everything he needed: a blank plastic card the size and thickness of a credit card, a cordless screwdriver with assorted tips, a set of bent wire lock picks, a pry bar, a glass cutter, rubber gloves, about ten feet of copper wire, and a small pruning saw. He walked to the dresser and reached into the top drawer. Mort opened a package of nylon stockings, pulled one
over his head, and faced the mirror. His low-pitched laugh sounded eerie as it passed through the fibers. Mort studied his masked face for a moment. The pressure of the nylon on his features distorted them beyond all recognition and made him look evil. It was good, and he snorted with pleasure. He repacked the bag with his tools and mask. He was ready.
Mort had been a cat burglar for a good part of his life. He was very skilled and extremely successful until one day when a man walked in on him before he could escape through an open window. In the struggle, Mort took quite a beating. His nose was broken as well as a few ribs. Unfortunately for both of them, the man who had just kicked his ass fell over and died of a heart attack. Mort lost the fight but won fifteen to twenty in a New York State prison for manslaughter.
He decided that one major mistake in his life was enough, and he worked hard to prove he was rehabilitated. He became a trustee of the prison and pushed the book and magazine cart through the cell blocks. He volunteered for a road crew. The digging and raking was hard work, but it reminded him of his early years working as a gardener, and it helped the time pass. His new positive attitude and cooperative behavior won him parole after just twelve years. As a reward for his impressive rehabilitation, he was given a new suit of clothes, a room in a halfway house, and help finding a job bussing tables at a local Denny’s Restaurant. Mortimer Schmidt had turned over a new leaf; he had a new beginning.
Now, three years later, his name was Mortimer Banks. The new leaf had lasted for just about two weeks. Mort violated parole by leaving the state. He changed his name from Schmidt to Banks and started over in Pennsylvania—but this time he would be a whole lot smarter.
Mort grabbed the black bag from the bed, took his car keys from the hook next to the door, lit a cigarette, and walked out of his apartment.
***
Sylvia sat at a small round table in the corner of the darkened bar nursing a scotch, neat. Headlights from passing cars on the boulevard shone through the large plate-glass window and migrated across the backs of the neighborhood patrons as they sat on their barstools. She pulled a gold case from her vintage Christian Dior handbag, took out a long filtered cigarette, tapped it on the table a few times to compact the tobacco, and placed it between her lips. A man’s hand suddenly appeared, holding a silver-plated cigarette lighter. She didn’t look up. She drew the flame into her cigarette and slowly exhaled a long stream of smoke.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked.
“Thank you, but I’m waiting for someone,” she said, barely glancing in the man’s direction. He nodded and walked toward the bar.
A woman in her early thirties sat on her barstool sipping her beer from a longneck bottle. Sylvia watched the woman’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair was long, bleached, and slightly tangled as it hung over her open cloth coat. Sylvia supposed that Blondie was ready to leave with any man who would buy her dinner and drinks.
The woman looked at each man who passed her seat and smiled, then turned back to her beer as the men kept walking. She reminded Sylvia of her mother and how she must have dealt with men at that age. She took pleasure as it came and never seemed to have a plan that carried her past tomorrow morning, wherever and with whomever she awoke. For all she knew, Sylvia’s father may have been a man who just happened by when her mother was in need of a light for her cigarette and offered to buy her the next drink. She hated her mother for raising her in poverty, but she also pitied her, as she now pitied the feckless matron at the bar.
She wondered about this woman’s life. She supposed that if her luck matched her appearance, she would return to her three-room apartment when she either became tired of waiting for Mr. Right or her money ran out. She would probably watch The Price Is Right on television and fall asleep in her clothes on the couch. Her kids, maybe two little girls, would have to fend for themselves, and in her absence, they would make their own meals and sometimes shoplift when they needed school supplies or just wanted something pretty to wear. She pictured them sitting in their room, ears pressed against the door, listening to their mom “entertaining” the latest man she brought home. They would pray that he wouldn’t be mean to her and that she wouldn’t be angry and yell at them because her night didn’t turn out as expected. She probably never had dinner with her girls, asked them about school, or held them close when they were frightened or just lonely, but at least they’d grow up tough and resourceful. They’d learn to make their own way in the world. To take what they needed and have little concern for others. Yes, she both hated and pitied this woman.
Sylvia watched the bartender point to the woman’s empty beer bottle. The woman frowned, opened her purse and rummaged through it for a moment, and then waved off the bartender with a shake of her head. Sylvia raised her hand to attract the bartender’s attention, pointed to the woman on the stool, held up her own check, and nodded.
The bartender handed the woman another beer and pointed to Sylvia when she looked at him questioningly. The woman turned toward Sylvia and smiled. Sylvia barely acknowledged the smile with a nod and turned away as she sniffed and secretly wiped a small tear from her eye.
***
Mortimer Banks stood in the middle of the bar and carefully scanned the patrons. His eyes brightened when he found Sylvia at the corner table. He swaggered over to her. He turned a chair away from the table, straddled it, and sat down. Mort waved his arm at the bartender. “Club soda.” Then he turned back to Sylvia. “I’m working tonight, right?”
“Two forty-eight Walden Avenue,” Sylvia said.
“What am I after, and what time will the place be empty?”
“It won’t be empty,” she said, not making eye contact. “A woman will be home alone.”
“You’re nuts,” Mort said, throwing down the paper on which he had written the address. His pretense of joy at seeing her had now dissolved. “I’m not doing it. It’s always my neck on the line, and you always take half of the prize. I don’t need to run into some housewife with her husband’s shotgun just because you want her ring. What else have you got?”
Mort had been showing signs of dissatisfaction with their arrangement for some time now. He played along because the information Sylvia collected about each job was valuable, and because he was seeing her mother, but the information was not valuable enough, nor her mother good enough in bed, to take this unwarranted risk.
“I need this, Mort,” she said, now looking directly in his eyes and holding his hand on the table. “You have to help me.”
“What’s the story?” Mortimer asked, still not convinced.
“This woman is ruining my life, and I need her gone. I want you to scare the piss out of her. Send her running back to Colorado.”
“You want me to scare her? What do I get out of this?”
Mort stood, bending toward Sylvia, both his palms flat on the table, his face within inches of hers. “If you want her gone,” he whispered, “you get rid of her. I’ve wasted enough time working with you. I’m going back out on my own.” Mort straightened and turned to leave.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr. Schmidt.”
Mort stopped and walked back to the table.
“Be very careful what you say next,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” Sylvia said, again not meeting his eyes. “I really need the favor. I’ll make it up to you on the next job. I’ll raise your cut.”
“What did she do to you—steal your guy or something?”
“Not exactly,” Sylvia said. “She knows about me and a friend, and she threatened to tell his wife.”
“Making threats can get you in a lot of trouble,” Mort said, catching her eye and maintaining his stare.
“She pissed me off, Mort. I want her gone.” Sylvia smiled and reached out for his hand again. If threats wouldn’t work, maybe charm would. Mort pulled his hand away but decided this was not the time or place for this argument. He would humor her this one last time. Thin
gs would change when this job was over, but he didn’t need to tell her that now. He sat back down at the table.
“What if she calls the cops as soon as I leave?”
“Scare her good and send her packing, and you won’t have to worry about that. It’s just another burglary, Mort,” she said, whispering now. “The newspapers are full of home invasions. She’ll just think she was unlucky enough to be home when her house was being robbed. Tell her if you see her again, you’ll hurt her. You could be scary enough to send anyone packing. I’ve made a lot of money for you over the last year—give me this.”
Mort resented Sylvia’s attitude. He was the one who made money for her. It was his skill that made this partnership work. But, again, he would avoid this discussion and resolve the problem later in his own way.
“I don’t like it, but I’ll do it this one time.”
“Thanks, Mort. Now do it tonight,” she said, smiling at her victory.
Sylvia opened her handbag and removed a folded piece of paper containing the product of her prerobbery research and handed it to him.
“Who’s this guy in the hooded Eagles sweatshirt you say to watch out for?”
“I don’t know, just a jogger who passes her house between eight and eight thirty each night. He’s pretty consistent. I saw him from my car as I checked out the neighborhood. Don’t let him see you.” She had seen a jogger, but the rest of the story was window dressing.
“I’m a ghost,” said Mort. He refolded the paper, stuffed it into his pants pocket, and strolled out of the bar.
***
Mort sat in his car and took a slightly bent cigarette from the open pack on the passenger seat, straightened it with his fingers, and placed it in his mouth. He flipped up the top of his lighter and brushed the flint wheel with a snap of his fingers to light the flame. It was more dramatic than simply stroking the wheel with his thumb, and besides, he thought it looked cool.
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