The signals can also be jammed to stop them from tripping an alarm by sending radio noise to keep the signal from getting through from the sensors to the control panel. Once you jam the home communications you can suppress the alarm to both the occupants of the house and the monitoring company.
The alarm this house was using was an old one, from the mid-nineties, which meant it was very susceptible to manipulation. I had the little gizmo in my pocket that could accomplish that, so there’d be no problem disarming the system.
If it had been an electrical hookup, I could find the box on the side of the house and instead of fooling around with the alarm, I could just shut down the electricity to the house. If I came back late enough, when everyone was asleep, they wouldn’t even notice the electricity went down until they woke up in the morning and found that their clocks were an hour or so slow.
Once I knew what I was in for, I headed back to my motel to find something to eat. After dinner, I’d hang out in my room for a while, doing a little prep work and then, when it was late enough, I’d head back out to the house.
I didn’t have my work clothes with me, so I had to improvise. A pair of black jeans and black turtleneck sweater would do. I was already wearing a pair of black Chuck hi-tops, size seven and a half. When I work, I always wear a pair of sneakers a couple sizes too large. I put on three pairs of socks to fill the shoes. I learned this little trick after I broke into a place early on and stupidly left a footprint on one of the kitchen cabinets after climbing in through a window. Fortunately, the cops couldn’t match it to my sneaker because I got rid of that pair as soon as I read about the footprint, a detail printed in a newspaper story. Stupid cops let some reporter know what they had and he printed it. If he hadn’t and I was picked up for the heist they would have had me dead to rights. That wasn’t going to happen again. I always have multiple pairs of sneakers in lots of different sizes. After every job, I get rid of the pair I wore. Today, there was no time to buy another, larger pair. But the ground was dry and I’d just have to be extra careful about leaving any impressions.
I didn’t have a screwdriver, a tool that does most everything I need it to do, so I copped a couple knives from the joint where I had dinner. The knives, one butter knife and one dinner knife, neither of them sharp enough to slice open an apple, would serve me well enough to pry open a window. No point in carrying anything sharper because if, on the unlikely chance I’d get pinched, something I didn’t see happening in this rinky-dink town, I didn’t want to be charged with armed robbery. Not that it matters much because not only do cops lie all the time but they can also be very creative in what they charge you with. Let’s face it. If they want to nail you they’ll nail you. Nothing you can do about it. That’s where a good lawyer comes in. And that’s where the money goes out. I’ve got several all over the country I can call if I get into trouble, but the only time I ever had to use one was that mob fiasco thing.
I found one of those all-purpose drugstores on my way back to the motel and bought a pair of surgical gloves, a couple candy bars and a package of condoms. Anyone asked, all the kid at the checkout would remember would be the condoms, not what I looked like. Just some dude who bought condoms and candy bars. And, knowing all these stores have surveillance cameras now, I made sure I wore my baseball cap and kept my head down. The only other thing I needed was a flashlight but I had one of those small ones attached to my keychain and that would do.
I was ready to rock and roll.
Most jobs I spend days, sometimes weeks, studying, observing, not only the house but the neighborhood. I like to know where I’m going and where I can go if I have to. But this was different. This was strictly for fun. It didn’t count. I didn’t give a shit who lived in the house or if they had anything of value.
I found one of those internet cafes, went online, and found a street map of the neighborhood. I studied it until I knew every block, every street, every intersection, every cul de sac, every dead end. I came up with at least four different escape routes. I never write anything down. Don’t have to. I’ve got one of those near photographic memories. I see it once, I’ve got it forever.
That time of night I’d be too conspicuous walking alone on the streets, a likely target for any passing patrol car, so I checked for the local bus line on the internet and found a stop not far from the motel where I was staying, and another only a couple blocks away from the house. According to the online schedule the last bus arrived at the stop nearest the motel at eleven-twenty-six and the buses stopped running at midnight. No problem. I’d be dressed like a jogger, so I’d jog back to the motel, which was only two, three miles away. An easy run for me. And if I was stopped, I’d tell a sanitized version of the truth: I was stopping over for one night, couldn’t sleep, so I decided a little run might help.
I got to the stop ten minutes early. The bus, practically empty, was on time. Only a couple old black ladies with shopping bags on the seat next to them, probably coming from work; a homeless dude nodding off; and a couple Goth teenagers making out in the back of the bus.
There wasn’t much traffic so the bus moved quickly, even skipping several stops. By the time the bus finally reached my destination only the two horny kids, still going at it, were left onboard, and they’d have no way of recognizing me if it came to that.
I checked my watch. It was a few minutes past midnight. I was alone on the sidewalk. It was so damn quiet I could hear my slow and steady heartbeat. I walked the couple blocks to the house. The lights were out. Everyone was asleep. All I heard was the sound of crickets and the faint sound of a TV. I needed to know where that sound was coming from before I got started. I glanced at the neighboring house on my right and saw a flickering light coming from an otherwise dark upstairs window. It was either a kid playing video games or someone having a tough time falling asleep.
I was in full work mode. I was totally focused as I silently went over my plan in my head. I could see every step I’d make. I was in a familiar zone. I could hear better. I could see better. I could move better. I was better. I flattened myself against the hedge in front of the house then suddenly leaned my body into it, pushing myself through carefully so I didn’t make a sound.
Crouching low, I moved quickly toward the side of the house. I pulled out the little gizmo I’d use to deactivate the alarm. But at the last second, when I noticed the electrical box, I changed my mind. I wanted a challenge. Instead of using technology, I’d disconnect the power. People are so stupid. They pay thousands of dollars for fancy, high-tech alarm systems and don’t give a thought to protecting the electrical box. The alarm installers couldn’t care less. All they care about is that their stupid system works and the monthly fees roll in. As if any system could ever keep me out. This box had such a dinky little lock on it a child could have opened it. I slipped on the surgical gloves, pulled a wad of tissues out of my pocket, wrapped it around the lock, then I used one of the knives from the restaurant to bust it open. I unhooked a couple connections. The house was now totally without electricity. Even if they had a motion detector inside the house, it would be useless. From this point on it was like cracking open a piggy bank, only easier.
I hugged the side of the house and slowly made my way toward the back, always on the lookout for the best place to make entry. A window. A back door. A storm cellar door. The best are glass doors that open up onto a pool area or the backyard. They’re easiest to pick, and lots of times people forget to lock them at all. People with alarm systems get lazy. They rely on technology to keep them safe. Big mistake.
As I slowly edged my way back around the house, keeping one hand on the house as I felt my way in the dark, I spotted a small window by the back, chest-high, that had been left partially open. No more than an inch or two, but that was enough. Could they have made it any easier for me? I wouldn’t even have to break a sweat prying my way in or risk someone hearing when I broke a pane of glass. I stood on my tiptoes and peered inside, using my small flashlight to see w
hat was in what looked like a small room. Coats hanging from a rack on the wall and a washer/dryer tucked against the back wall gave it away. It was the mudroom, a perfect place to land. If I did leave any residue from outside it would mix with what was already there. It was far enough from the upstairs bedrooms that I wouldn’t have to worry about any noise I might make. If there was a downstairs bedroom that was occupied, it wouldn’t be anywhere near the mudroom.
I wrapped my keychain in the wad of toilet paper so they wouldn’t jingle and give me away, then jammed them into the front pocket of my jeans. I pulled out a couple pats of tinfoil wrapped butter squares from my back pocket. They were soft, almost liquid, from my body heat. I squeezed them out on either side of the middle of the window frame so the window would slide open easily, without making noise. I carefully pushed up the window until there was an opening of about twelve inches, more than enough for me to squeeze through. I hoisted myself up on the windowsill, then went in head first. When my waist was resting on the windowsill I shimmied the rest of the way down until my hands touched the floor, then I pulled in the rest of my body until I was practically standing on my hands. Slowly, I leaned forward so my legs were touching the closest wall, then carefully walked them down the side of the wall until I was standing upright.
I was in. A jolt of electricity shoot through my body ending up in my brain. It was a familiar feeling, a feeling I live for. I was Frankenstein’s monster suddenly given the gift of life.
I was now in someone else’s space, an uninvited guest. I was a ghost who could walk through that house with no one knowing I’m there.
For that brief moment I am part of someone else’s family. I am the eccentric uncle. The prodigal son. The perfect father. The trusted family friend. I am whoever and whatever I want to be. I am taking something from them, something they will never get back. Not their most treasured valuables. Their privacy. They have been violated and their lives will never be the same.
I had no idea what the layout of the inside of the house was, but I could pretty much guess. After all, I’ve been inside enough of them. The mudroom is usually off the kitchen and this house was no different.
The house was fifty, maybe sixty years old. I knew that from outside, by the thickness of the paint on the wood, the architecture. But the kitchen is new. The refrigerator was one of those sub-zero jobs. I opened it. It was filled with food. Leftovers from dinner. Roast beef. Broccoli. Roasted potatoes. All in blue dishes wrapped tight with Saran wrap.
I’m wasn’t hungry but still I grabbed a potato and popped it in my mouth. It was good. I took another. They probably wouldn’t even notice they were gone. But I will know there are fewer of them than there were an hour ago. That made me smile. I took out a container of orange juice from the side of the refrigerator. It was the fresh squeezed kind, not from concentrate. I opened the cap and took a swig, then put it back, not in its place on the side of the door, but in the front of the refrigerator. I wondered how long it would take for someone to realize it’s been moved. By rearranging a carton of orange juice I have rearranged lives, without them even knowing it.
I’m finished in the kitchen. The next room should be the dining room. If I was there for silver, this would be where I would find it. But I’m not. What would I do with it? Where would I put it? How would I explain it if I were caught? No, tonight is just for kicks. Just to prove how good I am.
In the dining room, I spotted the breakfront. That’s where the silver would be stored. Most of it would probably be the cheap, plated stuff. Not worth the trouble. I was curious enough to see for myself, so I opened one of the drawers. I was right. Cheap crap. I opened the glass door and took out a pitcher. This was more like it. Not antique, but real silver. I put it back. I smiled. They’ll never know how lucky they were.
I didn’t want to linger long, so I moved into the living room. That’s where I really wanted to be. Although there might be a playroom downstairs for the kids, and a den where the man of the house can go to drink his beer and watch his football game in peace, this is the heart of the house. This is where the family meets. This is where guests are entertained.
I stood in front of the plush, cream-colored sofa and listened. There was complete silence except for the faint, harsh sound of snoring coming from upstairs. Every once in a while. There was a burst of noise, like the sound of a small cannon, then it settled down into a monotonous monotonal drum beat.
I sat down on the sofa. So plush I sunk into it, as the cushion molded itself to the shape of my ass. It was more comfortable than any sofa I’d ever sat on. The couch I grew up with was hard and frayed and smelled of cat urine. I’d never been in a house this long, long enough to sit and enjoy the comfort of another man’s home.
I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to stay there forever. But I knew I couldn’t. I looked at my watch. Twelve-thirty. I needed to get back to the motel. I would leave this burg in the morning, back on the Greyhound headed north for New York City.
I stood up but before I headed back into the dining room, on my way to the kitchen and then the mudroom, I did something I’ve never done before. I don’t know why I did it, but I did.
There was a dish of nuts on the coffee table. I picked it up, and dropped it on the carpeted floor. It made a dull thud, and the nuts scattered all over the carpet.
I heard noise coming from upstairs. The sound of feet hitting the floor. Like someone was getting out of bed. Slower than I should have, I headed back the way I came, a smile on my face. I wished I could have been there when the dad came downstairs and found nuts all over his floor. What the hell would he think?
But I had no time to wonder because I could hear bare footsteps coming down the stairs. I made it to the mudroom. I opened the window I came in a little wider. I stood back several feet, then took a perfect dive through the window. I tumbled through the air until I landed outside on my feet. A fucking circus acrobat couldn’t have done better.
I looked at my watch. I had been in the house for less than half an hour. I was there, but I’m not there any longer.
In the blink of an eye I’m someplace else.
Charlie Floyd
My boy, Georgie Porgie, came through. By the time I got back home, managing to just beat the rush-hour traffic, there was an email from him.
Here’s a start, Charlie, and I’m working on some other leads for you. Good to see you back in the saddle, my friend.
Porgie
It was a lot more than a start. He listed a New Jersey cop, Theodore Sullivan, the one who’d set up that unsuccessful stakeout for Hoyt; a New York City fence named Tommy Pfister; and a Hartford pimp named Ricky B.
Sullivan would be easy to locate. Porgie included the city in New Jersey, Westfield, where he worked. I was sure he’d be cooperative. The fence, well, that might be a problem. Porgie was going to try and get an address for him but I knew that wouldn’t be easy. Pimps don’t like talking to cops. They move around and don’t leave forwarding addresses. Since Ricky B worked mostly around Hartford, I figured I could track him down with the help of some friends I still had on the force, guys I’d made cases with. Once I found him I had plenty of ways to make him cooperate. As for Pfister, well fences don’t like to talk to cops either but I was pretty sure between Manny and me we could convince him it was in his best interest to help us out.
When Manny got back from the city I’d sit down with him and we’d figure out how to split up the workload. Time was important because we didn’t want it leaking out to Hoyt we were on his trail. So long as he didn’t know we were after him, there was a better chance he’d get complacent and make mistakes. The longer we could keep it quiet that we were after him the better our chances of nailing him.
A little after seven Manny texted me from the train, saying he’d be back around eight and would grab a cab back to my place.
I texted, back, You’re my guest and that includes pickups and drop-offs.
It was almost nine, long after the last of the commuter
s had arrived home, when Manny’s train pulled in. As I watched from the parking lot I could tell it was him walking down the platform by his familiar gait. He has this bounce in his step, almost as if he’s dancing the cha-cha or the rhumba instead of walking. I wondered if maybe he was humming some popular salsa tune in his head as he walked.
“Long day?” I said, as I met him at the ramp and we started walking toward my car.
“Yes, Charlie Floyd. It has been a very long day but it has also been a very satisfying day.”
“You’re just dying to tell me about it, aren’t you?”
He smiled broadly. I loved seeing those perfect white teeth.
“Tell you what, there’s a pub on the way home. Why don’t we stop there, grab something to eat, and you can unburden yourself.”
“I believe that will work out just fine, Charlie Floyd.”
While we waited for our burgers to arrive, Manny filled me in on his day. A blow by blow description, leaving nothing out. Did I mention how much Manny likes to talk? Fortunately, the man knows how to tell a tale.
“I visited two libraries, the main branch and the Annex, but there was no sign of Francis Hoyt. It was only when I made a visit to the Society Library that I was rewarded. It is a wonderful place. Have you ever visited the Society Library?”
“Don’t believe I have. But then I’m not much for libraries. They kind of give me the willies. All those books, all those ideas, all those words, all that silence. As you probably know by now I’m not exactly the silent type. But then, neither are you.”
“Oh, but you are missing so much, Charlie Floyd. Libraries are such wonderful places. The entire world is at your fingertips.”
“That’s what they’ve got the internet for.”
He shook his head. “I am afraid you are missing the point, my friend. Have you never held a book in your hands and felt like you were transported to another time, another place? It is the cheapest, most efficient way to travel.”
Second Story Man Page 7