by Mark Pryor
“Nothing. There's nothing to be done. Which means that you're going to stop being paranoid and leave him alone as well.”
“Seriously?”
“Look. I didn't know he had a storage locker. I also don't know what kind of underwear he has on. I don't believe he has the balls to go back into those woods, while the police are standing right there, and haul out all our money.”
“You think that's more unlikely than someone wandering aimlessly around in the trees and stumbling on two bags that you buried?”
“I didn't bury them, I covered them up. And not very well, apparently.” I stood and looked down at Otto. “Look, it fucking sucks we lost the money. But we committed capital murder and so far we're free and clear. It's been a week and the police aren't anywhere near us. We need to hold it together, individually and as a group. We start pointing fingers at each other, Otto, things will go downhill very fast indeed.”
He nodded. “I guess. But keep an eye on him. If he starts buying himself expensive new shit, I want to know about it. And do me a favor. Call your buddy Gus. You seem to think we can trust him, but…just call him, will you?”
“Yeah, sure.” I smiled. “So how do you know I'm not in on some scheme to defraud you? With Tristan or Gus?”
Otto shrugged. “We go back, me and you. And I'm a good judge of character. I just don't think you have it in you to double-cross me like that.”
When I got back to the apartment, I called Gus's phone like I said I would, and left a message. Ten minutes later, my phone rang, and his name showed up.
“Howdy, Gus.”
“Dominic, it's me.” Gus's wife, Michelle.
“Oh, hey, how're you?”
“Not good. Have you seen Gus?”
“Not for a few days, actually. Everything okay?”
“I don't…I don't know. He went to work yesterday, had meetings all day so I didn't talk to him. He didn't come home, so I tried calling his phone and it rang by the bed, he'd left it at home.”
“Did he play a gig maybe? Get stuck out at a bar?”
“No, he'd have told me and there's nothing on the calendar on his phone. Plus, why would he stay out all night?”
“I don't know. Has he done this before?”
She hesitated. “A couple of times.” So much for the perfect, doting husband. “He's not…he loves me, he just sometimes gets…sidetracked. He gets so into his music when he's playing, and so do other people, girls. You know how it is. Then, if he stays at the bar and drinks, well…”
Only I'd never seen him like that. And no reason he'd hide it from me because I didn't care who he slept with, and I'd told him that. In fact, he'd screwed up a couple of great opportunities for me by bailing out of a foursome and going home. The idea that he'd go to work without his phone, stay out all night without letting Michelle know, not go home the next day, and not include me, just didn't compute.
“Honestly, Michelle, I've never seen him with anyone else. Even show interest in anyone else. I really mean that.”
“That's nice of you to say. But it's okay, I don't expect others to understand our relationship.”
“Hey, if you ask me, you never know anyone else, Michelle, unless maybe you're married to them. Whatever you guys have going on, I'm not doing any judging.”
“Thanks. Right now I just want to find him, make sure he's okay. It's not like Gus to not call.”
“I agree. I spoke to him a few days ago but haven't seen him or heard from him since…” I thought back, “I guess since Monday or Tuesday.”
That hesitation again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“A few weeks ago, he was being weird. Not very weird, and with him it's hard to tell sometimes. But he was all excited about something, nervous but giddy as well, like that time he put his album together. This time, though, he wouldn't tell me what it was about, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't about his music.”
“I don't think I noticed…”
“That's the thing. It had something to do with you. He kept disappearing off to meet with you, and you came over here one time. I thought maybe you were working on something together.”
“No,” I said. “I mean, we play together sometimes, critique each other's songs, but I don't really know what to tell you. I don't recall him acting weird, and we weren't working on any project together.”
“What about that girl, the one who called here?”
“She's my girlfriend—he didn't tell you that?”
“He did. I just…wanted to be sure.”
“She is. Her idea of a practical joke, sorry.”
“Huh. Okay. Well, if you have any ideas, please call me. I'll have his phone with me. This just isn't like him.” Her voice caught, like she was going to cry. “If he's not back tomorrow, I'll have to file a missing-person's report.”
This didn't sound like Gus. Turns out he could be an asshole, like most men, but not getting in contact with Michelle for so long? Obviously I didn't know him like I thought I did; I'd swallowed the perfect house/husband line, but that wasn't even what Michelle was worried about. If he could get away with the occasional dalliance, why wouldn't he call home if he'd done it again? The closest you can get to knowing someone, as I'd said to Michelle, was being married to them. Apparently that didn't always pan out. Despite the prevailing wisdom about people like me, I'd never tried marriage.
I scored a rare zero on the Hare checklist question that asked about “Many Short-Term Marital Relationships,” not because I didn't have the urge, the raging impulse to impress the hell out of some girl by professing my love and proposing marriage, but because the smarter side of me knew that it wouldn't work. She'd get to know me and my cover would be blown. And the marriage blown too, of course, but that'd be a big deal to her, not me. Maintaining cover was my main goal, not marital bliss. Or disaster, as the reality would be. But Gus…it sounded like he had some kind of accord with Michelle, if not acceptance then tolerance, and if not tolerance then studied ignorance. But that didn't include abandoning her, clearly, because that was her concern. That Gus had fallen in love and skipped off with a bar-room floozy.
I didn't think that for a minute.
Gus knew about our plan, and I was pretty sure I knew what Otto and Tristan were worried about. That he had some kind of revelation, some change of heart. They were wondering whether he followed us and saw where we put the money, then went back and helped himself. Maybe he filled his pockets with our loot and left his wife, because maybe that shack on a Costa Rican beach looked like a possibility to him. At Michelle's expense. And ours.
But me, I didn't think that for a minute.
On Sunday, Tristan went to church. I didn't know he even owned a Bible, and once he'd gone, I tried the handle to his bedroom in the vague hope he'd forgotten to lock it. No such luck.
It wasn't that I believed Otto, or thought he was right about Tristan. No, that Poindexter barely had the balls to drive past the mobile-home park at night, let alone sneak in there and go digging up the forest floor with cops lingering nearby. I figured Otto had exaggerated, letting his paranoia see more than there was to be seen. At some point, I'd come out and ask Tristan about his trip to the trailer park and his storage locker. But, as any good trial lawyer will tell you: when the stakes are high, don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to.
One thing, though, I didn't like Tristan's change in routine. This disappearance to church, it made me nervous. I sure as hell didn't want him getting all religious and confessing his sins to some guy in a dress with an overly tuned sense of right and wrong.
The other problem with straight out asking him was that I'd have had to wait, and waiting was hard for me at the best of times. My music usually provided enough stimulation to keep me out of trouble, but Otto's accusations, and events generally, had put pressure on my natural self and forced cracks in the shell I'd constructed, and dangerous little pieces of me were looking to squeeze out. When self-preservation, my own life and freedom,
were at stake, my incapacity for inaction always became unbearable.
So, assuming he'd be out for another hour at least, I rattled the door to his bedroom one more time, then picked the lock.
Both of our doors had pin-and-tumbler locks, more secure than those you usually find in apartments where a button on the door handle pretends to be security. I had no idea whether they came with the place or if Tristan had them installed. Either way, I had the tension wrench and pick that I'd bought online, tools I'd practiced with on my own door when Tristan was out.
I knelt on the carpet outside his room and got to work. The tension wrench went into the bottom of the keyhole. I twisted it slightly in the direction the door should unlock, and put the pick into the upper portion of the key hole. I ran it back and forth, picturing the five pins that dropped down into the tumbler, keeping the door locked. I started with the most stubborn of the pins, pressing it up out of the cylinder until I heard a faint click. I upped the torque on the wrench, just a hair's breadth, to make sure the pin stayed up and out of the way, then found the next pin. And the next after that until, with a final, gentle click, Tristan's door swung open.
I went in and looked around.
A queen-size bed lay to the left, taking up most of that wall. A flat-screen TV hung to my right. Opposite me, his windows looked out over the parking lot, and under the windows he'd put two desks, end to end. A desktop computer sat on the left, a laptop on the right, and various electronic debris was scattered in the spaces between, cables, chargers, and mini speakers. Matching bedside tables sat either side of his bed, the one nearest me bearing an alarm clock, the one the other side of the bed carrying a stack of books.
I started in his closet, a small walk-in just past his TV. It was emptier than most closets, but then I wouldn't have expected him to have too many clothes. He was a geek, and not in a metrosexual way. One corner held his laundry basket, another was filled by a tumble of sneakers and work shoes, and the one behind me to my right was a stacking place for three wheeled suitcases, each a different size. I flipped the light on, unzipped the top case, and peered inside. Empty. I put my hands in all the pockets but came up with nothing. I dumped the case and tried the second, then the third. No money, and no guns.
I restacked the bags and looked in his laundry basket, holding my breath. He didn't empty it as often as he should have, and it took an unpleasant thirty seconds to be sure there was nothing stashed at the bottom.
I went to his double desk next, resisting the urge to go wash my hands first, and checked each drawer methodically. I knew what I was looking for, guns or money, so I went through them quickly, and I couldn't decide whether to be relieved or frustrated when all I found was batteries, instructions manuals, and three flashlights. Not even any porn, though he had the Internet for that. I got to the last drawer, the bottom one in the left-hand desk. I tugged the little handle, but it didn't open. I pulled harder, but it stayed shut. A tiny keyhole told me I'd found the one interesting place in his room.
I perched on the edge of his bed and began the lock-pick routine. The keyhole was small, almost too small, but I managed to get the tension wrench into the bottom of the slot. I slipped up several times, letting the pins pop back into place accidentally and having to start again. Five long minutes later, I was intently focused on the last of the six pins when I heard the front door. I slid the drawer open and quickly looked inside. Its contents had nothing to do with our heist, but I saw why he kept it locked, and I smiled. I closed the drawer, locked it, and twisted toward the door.
“Hey!” Tristan stared at me, bug-eyed, his face reddening. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”
His eyes left me and went to the little drawer, so I palmed my tools and stared at him, choosing my lie. My options were outrage (You're damn right I broke in here, you've been acting so weird and Otto thinks you have our money, so what the fuck is going on? Locking your doors, pawing my girlfriend, pretending you're going to church? Are you fucking kidding me?) or apology. The former created conflict and gave me a modicum of power over him, the latter defused conflict and gave him power over me. A wonderful weapon, the apology.
“Shit, Tristan.” I stood and slipped my tools into my pocket. “I'm so sorry. I know this is wrong and I know you have nothing to hide—”
“Yeah, now you've been through my fucking stuff.” He was furious, planting his righteous anger in the middle of my apology, just like I wanted him to.
“I know, you're right, totally right. I just…everything's been so fucked up this past week or so, like you said yourself…man you've been weird. I suppose we all have, but you've not been yourself. I mean, I know she asked for it, but walking in on my girlfriend like that. And pretending you're going to church, I mean what's that about?” I held up my hands in apology, not giving him a chance to respond. “But that doesn't make this okay, I know that. I know that, and I'm truly sorry. It won't happen again, I promise.”
Tristan stood aside to let me out, then looked down at his door knob. “How did you get in?”
“It was unlocked.”
“No, dude, it wasn't. I always lock it.”
“I don't…” I put on my confused face. “I don't know, then. I just tried the handle and I swear it just…well, you know, I did rattle it pretty hard. Maybe that's what did it? Maybe you locked it and it came loose somehow, when I shook it. That's all I can think, I don't really know.”
I went into the living room and sank onto the couch. Tristan hovered near his bedroom door, eyeing it and me. I knew he was unsettled, not just by my intrusion but also by my attitude because he'd never seen me apologize to anyone before, for anything. It was his first encounter with a contrite Dominic, and he didn't know how to handle it.
“Seriously, I'm so sorry. But there's one thing I should tell you, even though now's not the best time.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”
“The reason I went into your room.”
“To snoop. Because you don't trust me.”
“Not me. Look, I wanted to be able to tell Otto he was wrong. And I can, I can do that now because there's nothing in your room—”
“Wait, Otto? What do you mean, tell him he's wrong?”
“He called me yesterday. He wanted me to meet with him because he had this stupid fucking idea that maybe you…knew where the money was?”
“What?” His eyes widened into saucers, and I knew for sure that he was truly shocked by the allegation.
“I know.” I held up placating hands. “I met with him, and told him he was full of crap. I told him we've all been acting weirdly, not just you, and that there's no way in hell you'd try to double-cross us, just like I wouldn't and he wouldn't.”
“I don't believe I'm hearing this.”
“Good, because I was horrified, too. And now, as wrong as that was, I can tell Otto I went into your room and all I found were some smelly socks and a stack of porn magazines. Actually, no porn magazines.”
The joke went by him. “Why would Otto think that?”
“He said he watched both of us when we went out there, when we were checking on the police. He said that you parked and walked around the trailer park for about ten minutes. Did you do that?”
“Yeah, of course. I didn't see the cops so I parked in the area near that shitty office. I didn't want to be driving around so I just walked. The place creeped me out, so as soon as I saw the cop car I left.”
“Yeah, I told Otto it was something like that.”
“I didn't go into the fucking woods, I'm not stupid.”
I watched him carefully for his reaction to my next question. “And the storage facility you went to right after that?”
He was quiet for a second, as his brain traced back to that night, a look of slight confusion on his face. “The storage…I went to get some speakers. For my new iPod. When you moved in, I had to pack a lot of my crap and…Wait, how did you know I went there?”
“Otto. He followed you. He couldn
't see what you were doing, so he got suspicious.” I held up both hands as if in surrender. “That's him, not me.”
I thought he'd explode with anger, I know I would have, but instead he leaned against the wall and shook his head. “What have we done, man? What are we becoming?”
“Nothing, Tristan. Nothing at all. Just stay cool and everything will be fine. Otto will shut the hell up, we'll all keep a low profile, and everything will work out.”
“We can't do that, man, we can't be accusing each other of shit.”
“I know, and I agree. Maybe we can have a sit-down with Otto and clear the air.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I've a few things to say to him.”
“No, like you just said, we can't be turning on each other. So when everyone's calmed down, you, me, and him, we'll get together.”
Something in my voice made him look at me. “What?”
“No, nothing. Don't worry.”
“Dude, tell me.”
I paused, as if to think about it. “While we're on the subject, it's my friend Gus.”
“What about him? Don't tell me he wants a cut.”
“No, no. Quite the opposite, I suppose you could say.”
“Meaning?”
“He's disappeared. His wife called me yesterday, he went out a couple of days ago and hasn't come home or even phoned her since.”
Tristan looked wary. “That common for him?”
“No. Not at all.”
“So you think it might have something to do with…our money?”
“Seems like odd timing, don't you think?”
“Yeah, very. What should we do?”
“I think I'm going to head over to his place, talk to Michelle again. I might have a little look around while I'm over there. Anyway, if she's not heard from him, there's only one thing I can do. I hate to, but I don't think I have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I'll have to call the police.”
Tristan stared at me, like he wasn't sure if I was kidding. I assured him I wasn't.