The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Suppose, speaking hypothetically, I needed to get into someone’s house when they were in it, what would be the best way? Not that this would happen or that you would counsel someone to commit a crime.”

  “Like you said. Hypothetical. They got a security system?”

  “Hypothetically, yes.”

  “It usually means there’s alarms on all the ground floor entrances and windows. What kind of system?”

  “Don’t know. Say an extremely good one.”

  “Motion detectors?”

  “Yes, and a lot of locks.”

  “No problem. First, you find a place to hide where the cops won’t look afterwards, and then you work on the motion detector. You could wave a branch so the shadow triggers the alarm.”

  “But . . .”

  “A thick tree is a good hiding place. Then when the cops show up four to five minutes later, they check out the house. Okay? That takes maybe fifteen minutes. Ten minutes after that, you wave your branch and set off the alarm again. You go back to your hiding place.”

  “A tree? I don’t know . . .”

  “Cops come, cops check, cops go away again. They don’t think you’re hanging around in a tree, they think you ran away. Speaking hypothetically. Ten minutes later, you do the same thing. Cops come, cops get a bit pissed off with the resident, cops suggest they’ll be charging for all three false alarms. Resident calls the security system and gives them hell. Turns off system. You’re in like Flynn.”

  “Brilliant. But there would be cops outside the house, and they wouldn’t think it was a false alarm. They’d think it was me. In this far-fetched scenario.”

  “Wow. And you’re armed and dangerous, eh. They’ll just shoot you.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You need a better hypothetical plan. Is there a second floor?”

  “Yes. That’s where I need to be, if this were a real situation.”

  “Any security there?”

  “Motion detectors. Window alarms wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “It’s an apartment?”

  “Yes. Top two stories of a house.”

  “Okay. I’ll bet you anything there’s no security on the third floor.”

  I closed my eyes again. “I don’t know.”

  “No one ever thinks you can get in on the third floor. But it’s a piece of cake. All you need is a ladder.”

  “I can’t carry a ladder around the way I am now. Even if I had one.”

  “Say you’ve got a ladder, then you hustle up to the window.”

  “The window is on the third floor.” No point in boring Bunny with my various ailments, such as losing balance and seeing quadruple. I decided to let him finish, then try to find another solution.

  “Third floor windows are easy. People leave them open all summer.”

  “This apartment is air-conditioned.”

  “Practically impossible to cool off the third floor. Windows will be open.”

  “Even if a window is open, which I doubt, there will be a screen.”

  “Nothing to a screen, Camilla.”

  “For you, maybe. But I would be, hypothetically, up on a ladder, three-stories high, and new to the game.”

  “Just cut it out.”

  “I’m merely stating the facts, Bunny.”

  “I mean just cut out the screen. A box cutter is best.”

  “It’s three in the morning, where’s a person going to get a goddam box cutter?”

  “So just give the screen a push. That’s all it will take. They come away like nothing. Particularly if it’s one of those converted places with older windows. You just push it, hard. And either the whole screen, frame and all, comes off or the screen breaks loose from the frame. Either way, you’re in.”

  “If the frame were to fall in, wouldn’t it hit the floor and make a lot of racket?”

  “Well sure, if you let it fall. You have to be fast. When I was allegedly in this game,” Bunny paused, “that’s what I would have done.”

  “I don’t think I could pull that off.”

  “For me, the thing that worked the best was visualization.”

  “What?”

  “You know, mentally rehearsing the outcome, seeing yourself succeed. You never heard of this stuff, Camilla? All the sports guys use it.”

  “I’ve heard of visualization, but I just never realized it could be used for . . . this line of activity.” How many times had my father advised me to see the desired outcome in my mind? Of course, he hadn’t been thinking about burglary.

  The phone beeped, indicating low battery.

  “Phone’s running down.”

  “Where’s the hypothetical house?”

  “Near Spruce.”

  “Wait half an hour and go to the alley between Spruce and Danton, you’ll find a ladder.”

  One long beep, and the line went dead.

  “Thanks, Bunny,” I said.

  Thirty-Three

  I lurched to the rear of Elaine’s place on the bike and peered into her Pathfinder. No sign of the photos. That left Bunny’s not-so-easy hypothetical plan. In the alley between Spruce and Danton, a lightweight, extendable painter’s ladder was propped against a shed. I didn’t want to lose Donalda’s bike to some other prowler. I slid it into a slim space between two garages. After that, I struggled for a good twenty minutes to drag the ladder to the back of Elaine’s house. The less said about how I looked and sounded the better.

  First, I groped my way to the front of the house and peered around. I caught the gleam of a dark sedan parked one house down. Not good.

  As far as I could tell, only one of Elaine’s third floor rear windows was open. I positioned the ladder under it. Grappling with that ladder was the hardest thing I’d ever done. But climbing it turned out to be worse. In my visualizations, I saw myself crumpled on the ground. I felt my neck snap. I heard myself scream. I decided to visualize nice things. Like good Samaritans feeding Mrs. Parnell’s cat and Gussie adapting well to Mombourquette’s.

  The real-world problem was the swaying of the ladder. All the thoughts of the cat and Gussie couldn’t override that. By the time I reached the third floor, my heart was beating so loudly, I was surprised the neighbours didn’t fling open their windows and tell me to shut up. I realized I should have left my stupid backpack on the ground. My knees shook, my mouth was dry and everything swirled.

  The window was in Elaine’s office, if my calculations were right. I stared at the screen. I hung on to the ladder with one hand, the window ledge with the other and gave a firm push with my elbow. Technically, that turned my activity from unlawful entry to breaking and entering, a definite notch up on the offence-o-meter.

  The screen stood fast. I tried giving it a sharp rap with my palm. What if the cop got out of the car and checked the back of the house? That thought brought a surge of adrenaline, and I whacked the screen. The screen fell in, silently. But in what seemed like slow motion, the ladder swung away from the wall. I visualized a slow arc to the ground, and my life ending in a clatter. I grabbed the window sill and clung. The ladder swayed, stuck on my feet. With every scrap of strength, I pulled myself toward the window. The ladder came forward, hitting the wall with a clunk. After a bit of panting, I disengaged my feet and launched my body into the dark room. At that point, I didn’t care if I landed at the feet of the tactical squad.

  I should have remembered Bunny’s professional history. Specifically the part where his plans go wrong, which is why he always needed a lawyer. If I got out of this spot, I too would go straight.

  Lying on the floor, breathing raggedly, I tried to get my bearings. Where was the desk? Where were the photos? Was there a motion detector? I stared around at the walls, but I didn’t see a sign of the little green light that would turn red as soon as something, say me, passed in front of it.

  But what was that noise? Some kind of alarm system? A guard dog? It took a minute to remember that Elaine snored. I’d landed in her bedroom by mistake. I crawled on my bell
y past the bed. Elaine’s floor was covered with clothing and shoes. No wonder the screen hadn’t made any noise. Well, as long as she was snoring, I could keep crawling.

  Whenever the gurgle stopped, I froze. A moment later, a thunderous snore would follow. When this was over, I’d insist Elaine see a doctor. Assuming she hadn’t shopped me to the police. I slithered across the hall to the office. I had a bad moment when I hit the wastepaper basket, which reverberated. I exhaled when the next snore sounded.

  With only the pale sliver of moon to see by, I took ten minutes to hunt through boxes of photos. No luck. I had a vague memory of Elaine pushing some snaps onto a chair. Maybe there had been something in that pile. Would she have gotten rid of them? No, getting rid of stuff was not Elaine’s best thing. Would she hide them? Why bother? I was on the run, with the cops ready to shoot me full of holes thanks to false information, maybe from Elaine. So, no need to hide anything.

  I found the pile of photos on the seat of one of the chairs. I glanced at the first few. Sure enough, eighties hairdos and sweaters. Groups of people I remembered from Carleton. I couldn’t see clearly and I couldn’t turn on a light. I stuffed the photos into my backpack and began the return crawl.

  As I passed Elaine’s desk and saw the blue light of her computer screen, I stopped. Her computer was always on. And she had high-speed internet. I stopped and got on my knees.

  This could be the answer to one of my missing bits of information. If I could just remember Jasmine’s last name. Norine had called her Ms. What? Thurston? Thingwell? Thurlow! I was easily able to access Canada411. To my surprise, a J. Thurlow was listed. The Lowertown address sounded right. Jasmine would be close to Maisie’s and within walking distance of the university when her classes started. I closed down the Canada411 site. I didn’t want Elaine knowing what I’d been up to. The phone number was not unlike my birthday, and the address was easy to remember, unless I hit my head again.

  I resumed the long crawl back through Elaine’s clothing-strewn bedroom. Under normal circumstances, I would have been pleased: she made me look good in comparison, but this time I added it to her transgressions. Thoughtless and messy. False, treacherous friend.

  The crawl had its compensations. I picked up a sundress and a light sweater from the floor and stuffed them into the backpack. I snatched one of Elaine’s floppy straw sun hats. Every wardrobe change helps.

  By the time I reached the bedroom window, I felt optimistic. I checked the ladder and froze. The ladder was still in place, but beams of light flickered. I unfroze and pulled my head in fast.

  Who the hell was down there? From the shadows, I squinted down. At the foot of the ladder, a pair of police officers were gesturing. They shone their lights around the yard. I decided they wouldn’t climb the ladder. They’d call for back-up, and when it came, they’d surround the building. Then they’d go in. I had no idea if this theory was true, but it made sense.

  I picked up a pair of Elaine’s shoes. With every bit of strength I had, I heaved the shoes, one at a time, as far as I could, out the window in opposite directions. My aim was pretty bad, but that didn’t matter. One shoe landed noisily on the neighbour’s barbecue. The other clattered as it hit a shed roof. The officers whirled and inched toward the sounds.

  Elaine still snored. I skittered across the bedroom, down the stairs, through the second floor living room and down the final flight to the front door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the green motion detector indicator turn red. There’s something to be said for adrenaline when you’re in a tight spot. I knew the alarm would trigger one minute after I opened the front door. If luck was with me, that would be just enough time to scramble into the middle of the big old blue spruce in the front yard. The door slammed behind me as I made a dash for the tree and wrestled my way into its spiny centre. The thick, dark branches hung almost to the ground. I was counting on my navy blue and beige clothing to blend in.

  The alarm was lovely, long and loud. Lights snapped on in nearby houses. By the time the police officers reached the front door, Elaine was standing in her nightie on the doorstep, screaming her head off.

  Served her right.

  As the officers made their way into the house, I struggled out of the spruce and staggered off around the corner, heading for my bike. I could now add sticky spruce gum on my hands, feet and bum to my list of troubles. Never mind. I jammed on the fishing hat and the glasses and set off like any solid citizen.

  Too bad about Bunny’s ladder. I hoped he’d wiped off any fingerprints. Otherwise, it could scuttle his plans to go straight.

  A couple of squad cars rocketed past as I steered toward the bike path. I would have been toast if I’d been spotted. I needed to lie down, but I reminded myself that you can sleep all you want when you’re dead.

  My dawn ride down the bike path was a bit easier than navigating by night. Still, by the time I got to the back of the Parliament buildings, my adrenaline boost was depleted. I was ragged. I had trouble biking in a straight line and was getting distracted by some new green flashes in my peripheral vision. It took a while to realize they came from inside my head. I wondered if they were the reason I felt nauseated. Or maybe that was because my painkillers had worn off.

  Aside from my balance and nausea issues, I needed to find a place to stop and look at the photos without being recognized. I needed a glass of water to take my pills. I needed a cup of coffee like no one ever before in the history of caffeine. Most of all, I needed a bathroom.

  Twenty-four hour cafés are rare in Ottawa. The Second Cups aren’t open at five in the morning. There was always Tim Hortons, but they were crawling with cops. I found a small restaurant at the far edge of the Market, not far from Jasmine’s address. I took a minute to inspect myself in the window of the shop next door. I brushed off twigs, leaves and dirt from my knees. I ran my sleeve over my face and hoped that if it had been dirty, I hadn’t made it worse. I couldn’t do much about the spruce gum on my hands.

  The diner was warm and smelled of coffee and fresh bread. The breakfast was $2.99. There was a smiling woman behind the counter, and five male customers, wearing baseball caps. None of them looked like police officers.

  Someone was hogging the unisex washroom, so I ordered the largest cup of coffee they had, double double, and unbuttered toast to settle my stomach. I sat at a small table with a clear view of the washroom door. I kept my back to the other customers, yet I was close enough to the front door to skedaddle if I had to. At the next table, someone had left behind the Sun and the Citizen. I scooped them up. No one paid attention.

  I was the front page story in both papers, something you never want unless you’re representing Canada in the Olympics. The Citizen had printed a shot of me entering the court house last year for Elaine’s bail hearing. I was in “no comment” mode, holding out my hand to push back cameras. I would not want to run into me in a dark alley.

  The headline read: “Rogue Lawyer Armed and Dangerous”.

  The Sun had done even better. They’d found a photo from this summer’s showdown at the Bluesfest.

  My hair was wild, and my eyes wilder. My mouth was open. I know I was in shock, waiting for the paramedics. But I looked like I’d just busted loose from a facility for the criminally insane after biting a few armed guards.

  They hadn’t run that photo at the time. I’d been a hero then. What a difference six weeks makes.

  The headline read: “On the Run: Body Count Hits Three.” And rising. A photo of Chelsea looking innocent and untattooed was included. At least no one was likely to recognize me. I tossed back my painkillers and tried to eat the toast. The washroom was still occupied, so I wasn’t ready to start the coffee. I removed the photos from my pack. Before I had time to look at them, a cruiser pulled up outside. Two young police officers sauntered through the front door, looking for a cup of coffee to get them through to the end of their shift. I recognized them right away. Zaccotto and Yee.

  The bathroom door swung open, and a
guy in a baseball cap swaggered out. I took a sip of the coffee, trying to look calm, shoved the photos in the backpack, and headed toward the bathroom. No one in the restaurant looked up.

  I thought I saw a flicker of recognition on Yee’s face, even though I tried not to look. The fishing hat must have thrown him off a bit. Inside the room, I jammed the wastepaper basket against the door and took advantage of the facilities. Then I climbed onto the toilet tank and gave the window a shove. I was developing a technique for banging out windows.

  At the same time, there was a rap on the door.

  “Out in a minute,” I said, trying for a slight accent.

  “Can you open the door, ma’am?” I think that was Yee.

  “Hold your horses,” I said. “I waited ten minutes to get in here.”

  I reached down and gave the toilet a flush with my foot, and with all my strength, heaved myself out and into the alley. My entire body screamed. My head merely reeled.

  I didn’t wait around to hear if they broke the door in. I careened down the alley beside the restaurant. My bike was back by the front door. No use now.

  Within minutes, the APB would be changed to the fishing hat and dark-rimmed glasses. I tossed them into a dumpster as I lumbered past. I stripped off the dark pants and top. There’s a first time for everything, including standing in an alley in your underwear. I slipped on Elaine’s sundress. I added the sweater and the floppy sun hat.

  I got back on to the nearest street and kept my head up, although it felt like it was about to fall off. The inevitable cruisers shot past me, heading for the restaurant. My goal was to get to Jasmine’s place without passing out. If there was even a small chance she would recognize someone in those photos, it was worth the risk. There was no chance I could accomplish that if I were in police custody.

  I couldn’t imagine any kind of happy ending in sight for me. It was a set of circumstances I used to see with my recidivist clients in my legal aid days. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what the hell you do, you’re screwed.