by Rob Ashman
Harper knelt down and opened his toolbox. A man burst out of the apartment opposite, and Harper kept his head down.
‘Can I help you?’ The man was dressed in running gear with a backpack slung across one shoulder.
‘No, I’m fine, sir. Just here to fix this lock.’
‘Where’s Bernie?’
‘It’s not a job he can do, so they sent for me.’ Harper guessed Bernie must be the regular maintenance guy.
The man slammed his door behind him and rattled a key in the deadlock.
‘You ever see the person who lives in this apartment?’ Harper asked. ‘He said he would be in, but there’s no one home.’
‘No, never seen him, or her, or whoever lives there. And I’ve been here two years now.’
‘Oh well, I’ll just get on with it.’
The man walked past Harper and headed for the elevator. What’s the point of using the elevator on your way to your morning run? Harper thought.
He opened a small leather pouch and got to work. After a couple of minutes, the picks did their job and the lock sprung open. Harper tended to travel light, but wherever he went, his lock picks came with him. He stepped inside and put the lock on the latch.
The apartment opened up into a small hallway that led to a large living room with a sofa, two easy chairs and an oversized TV.
‘Hello!’ Harper called. ‘Maintenance guy. Anyone home?’
The place was silent apart from the hum of the refrigerator.
Harper moved from room to room. The apartment was empty. He crossed to the window, pulled one of the drapes closed and then opened it again. A signal to Lucas which said ‘Get your ass up here’.
The rooms were immaculate with not a coaster out of place. The cushions were puffed up on the sofa and the kitchen work surfaces were clean. Harper opened the refrigerator, it was empty. He opened the cupboards to find rows of matching crockery but no food. He stepped on the pedal bin to reveal a black plastic bag with nothing in it.
The front door edged open and Lucas bustled into the apartment. He closed the door and placed a clipboard on the table in the hall. Harper tossed him a pair of blue surgical gloves.
‘It’s empty. I don’t think anyone lives here,’ Harper said in hushed tones.
Lucas moved into the bedroom and opened up the closet, a row of empty hangers dangled from the rail. He looked behind the bedside table.
‘As we thought, the lights are on timers,’ he said spotting the timing device plugged in the socket.
‘So is the TV,’ Harper replied. ‘Vickers doesn’t live here, or if he does he cleared the place out before a long vacation.’
They checked the drawers but found nothing.
‘It’s as clean as the day he first took the keys.’
‘It is, but take a look at the dust. It’s undisturbed, no one has moved a thing in this place for some time.’
Harper lifted the corner of a magazine on the coffee table to see the outline imprinted on the surface below.
‘He might be the tidiest guy in San Diego but he should sack his cleaner. I checked the mailbox downstairs, there were takeaway food flyers sticking out, but nothing else.’
‘Why would you go to this much trouble to make the place look lived in?’ Lucas said opening the cutlery drawer.
‘Maybe he’s on vacation?’
‘I suppose he could be. He might be the nervous type who goes overboard to make it look as though the apartment is occupied.’
The toilet flushed.
Lucas ducked against the bedroom wall putting his finger up to his lips. Harper drew his gun. He motioned to Lucas who crossed the living room to the bathroom. He put his ear to the door. All he could hear was the sound of water filling the tank.
Lucas wrapped his hand around the handle and counted down with the fingers of his other hand– three, two, one.
He threw open the door and Harper charged inside, his weapon levelled at head height. It was empty.
Harper lowered his gun and the two men looked around.
The bathroom was in the same condition as the rest of the apartment, with one notable exception. The top of the toilet was missing and a small solenoid valve was connected to the plunger. Two wires ran from the top of the valve to a socket on the wall. In the socket was the same make of timer used in the bedroom.
‘Not seen one of these before,’ Lucas said, allowing his heart rate to die down.
‘Putting your lights on automatic is one thing but wiring up your toilet is extreme. Why would you do that?’
Lucas rubbed his chin. ‘It solves the problem of whether or not he’s on vacation.’
‘How come?’
‘This tells us he’s not on vacation.’
‘How are you so sure?’
‘He’s done this to use water,’ Lucas said. ‘He doesn’t live here so the water usage would be zero. This way he consumes water and it shows up on his utility bills.’
Harper looked at the timer. ‘It’s set to go off every two hours. Vickers might not be businessman of the year but he sure as hell is a clever bastard.’
‘He’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to make people think he lives here, but unfortunately for us the place is clean, there is nothing here.’
‘What next?’
There was a knock on the door and the sound of a key in the lock.
‘Shit!’ Lucas said as he rushed from bathroom, just in time to hear the front door open.
‘Hello … hello!’ bellowed a gravelly voice from the hallway.
Lucas came into view.
‘Who are you?’ said an elderly man dressed in a tracksuit, sporting five days of growth on his chin and a trilby hat. ‘Max said you were here to fix the lock?’
‘Max?’ Lucas was stumped.
Harper emerged from the bathroom closing the door behind him.
‘No, sir, that’s me. I’m the one fixing the lock. I guess Max is the neighbour in the running gear.’
‘Yeah that’s right, he said there was something wrong with the lock. First I heard about it.’
‘The person who owns the apartment called us direct. This is my supervisor.’ Harper pointed at Lucas. ‘For some reason he thinks it’s necessary to check up on me from time to time.’
Lucas acknowledged the old man with a nod of his head then picked up the clipboard and lifted the front sheet.
‘Yeah, very funny.’ Lucas gave Harper a sideways look. ‘We got a call from Mr Vickers saying his lock was sticking and could we take a look.’
‘I’m the janitor and I don’t know nothing about it.’
‘Well, as I said, Mr Vickers called us direct. We didn’t think to check with you first,’ Lucas said.
‘Oh, okay, I suppose,’ said the old man, ‘but I don’t see how he would know that.’
Lucas and Harper flashed a glance at each other.
‘Don’t see how he’d know what?’ replied Lucas.
‘That the lock was sticking.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Because he hasn’t been here in months. How he’d know it needed mending is beyond me.’
Lucas shrugged his shoulders. ‘He called the office and asked us to sort it out.’ Lucas consulted the blank clipboard again hoping the old man didn’t ask to see it. ‘He told me to put the invoice into his mailbox downstairs, so he must pick up his mail sometimes?’
‘He gets his mail okay.’
‘That’s good, would hate for him to miss it. So Mr Vickers comes to collect it?’
‘No, some kid does it for him, comes in every Wednesday morning and takes it away. The kid must have a forwarding address.’
‘We are about done here, sorry if we’ve caused any inconvenience,’ said Harper picking up his toolbox and making for the door.
Lucas thanked the old man and headed out, with Harper in hot pursuit. They needed to revise their plan. It was 9.20am and today was Wednesday.
16
Lucas sat in the reception of Maple Cre
scent. He had persuaded the janitor to allow him to wait until the mail was picked up to ensure the invoice went to the right place. A thin excuse for loitering with intent but it worked all the same.
The reception was decorated with minimalist flair, with a bank of silver-fronted mailboxes built into the wall opposite, each with a gold number and a lock. Number forty-six had a bunch of takeaway menus poking out of the top, as did the majority of them. Lucas read the free newspaper and drank his coffee.
Harper had gone back to the apartment to change, not wanting to spend the rest of the day dressed as a comedy maintenance man. He stood outside the entrance, leaning against the wall, also reading a newspaper. It was 10am.
For Lucas the passage of time was slow. The three clocks mounted on the wall behind the desk telling the time in London, New York and Paris ticked in unison, marking every second as it rolled by. For Harper the passing of time was a far more pleasurable experience. He had long since stopped reading his paper and was happily admiring the view. The women in San Diego sure knew how to dress for work.
At 10.35 a kid, who must have been about fourteen, stopped at the doors to the apartment block. He bent down and fiddled with the laces on his sneakers, then rummaged through a bag slung across his body, then went back to attend to his laces. Lucas saw him. Harper saw him.
A man in a blue suit came out of the elevator and hit the exit button. The door released and he strode out onto the sidewalk. The boy straightened up and caught the door as it began to close. He stepped inside. The same door dodge as Harper had used hours earlier, perfectly executed.
Lucas made eye contact with Harper over the top of his newspaper.
The boy stood in front of the mailboxes with his back to Lucas. He was doing something with his hands and stuffing paper into his bag. Lucas moved forward.
‘Hey son, do you have a minute?’
The boy swivelled round and stared at Lucas with a look of horror on his face. He snapped his bag shut and darted for the doors. He struck the green button and squeezed himself through the gap as they started to open.
The boy ran up the street closely followed by Harper. Lucas no longer walked with a stick but a brisk stroll was all he could manage, so he quickly gave up the chase. Harper wasn’t faring much better. In a race between a fourteen-year-old boy scared for his life and a fifty-seven-year-old alcoholic, there was only going to be one winner. Harper was fine over the first thirty yards, then his body yelled stop. He was panting like a porn star and about to be reacquainted with his breakfast when he stumbled into the road. A yellow cab screeched to a halt. The driver wound down his window.
‘Hey, buddy, you gonna get yourself killed.’
Harper opened the door and fell into the back seat, a much better option than falling in the gutter.
‘That kid stole my wallet.’ Harper gasped for breath.
‘Which one?’ the driver yelled over his shoulder.
Harper was trying not to have a heart attack.
‘That one, the boy running,’ he said between gulps of air. ‘The dirt bag stole my wallet.’
‘Punks are ruining the neighbourhood and the cops are nowhere to be seen when you need them.’
As an ex-cop Harper bristled at the slight on his profession but was too grateful to retaliate.
The driver sped away, continuing his rant. ‘One of them lifted my wallet last month, cash, credit cards, driving licence, the full shebang. Took me ages to sort out. And where were the cops then? Nowhere, that’s where. But when my buddy ran a red light, oh boy they came down on him like a ton of bricks.’
Harper nodded, not wanting to waste precious air on trying to speak. He could see the boy darting between the other people on the sidewalk. The boy swung his head around, slowed, and came to a stop, convinced no one was after him.
The driver pulled the cab over to the roadside and shouted through the passenger window.
‘I know you, you little shit.’
The boy’s head jerked around as if God was talking to him. Harper opened the door but the boy spotted him. He ran off again, weaving his way up the sidewalk. Harper shut the door and the driver gunned the engine.
The boy changed direction and cut across the road between the traffic and darted down an alley.
‘Damn!’ Harper exploded. ‘We lost him.’
‘The fuck we have.’ The driver put his foot down and the cab lurched forward. About a hundred yards further on he made a sharp right and slammed on the brakes.
‘Chances are the punk is running this way,’ he said looking in his rear-view mirror. ‘You gonna be alright, man?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Harper said throwing ten bucks from his pocket onto the front seat. ‘I’ll be just fine.’
‘No need, man.’ The cabbie held up the note for Harper to take back. ‘Give him one from me.’
‘No, you take it, buy a new wallet.’
Harper bailed out of the back. He was at the head of a T-junction, with the street the boy was travelling along running right to left in front of him. He pressed his back to the wall and risked a peek around the corner. Sure enough the boy was walking towards him with his head down. Harper gave the driver a thumbs up and he reversed the cab back up the road to join the main drag.
The boy drew level.
Harper grabbed his arm and swung him into the wall. He jammed his right forearm across the boy’s chest pinning him to the brickwork. He let out a shriek.
‘Why did you run?’ Harper said into the boy’s face.
‘I don’t know, let me go.’ The boy kicked his legs but Harper held him firm.
‘You were picking up mail, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Let me go.’
‘What do you do with it?’
‘I stick it in a dumpster.’
‘And when does it get collected?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Which dumpster?’
‘It’s up there, let me go.’ The boy nodded up the street.
‘Show me.’ Harper released him and gripped his upper arm.
‘Shit man, you’re in dead trouble for this,’ he hissed, trying to pull free.
‘Yeah, I’m sure I am. Now where is it?’
The boy pointed to a group of industrial trash bins set off to one side.
‘Show me what you do.’
‘What?’
‘Which one, show me which bin.’
‘Any one of them, man, I take the flyers from my bag and put them in the trash.’
‘What flyers?’ Harper screwed his face up.
‘These flyers.’ The boy shook his arm free and unclipped the flap on his bag. He reached inside and pulled out a fistful of takeaway menus.
‘Where is the mail?’
‘What mail, there is no mail. I clear out the flyers from the mailboxes.’
‘What?’
‘I take these from the boxes.’ The boy thrust a fistful of menus into Harper’s chest. There were Chinese and Mexican takeaway menus and pizza delivery flyers. ‘I take these out of the mailboxes and put them in the trash.’
‘Why do you do that?’
‘So when Mr Milano puts his pizza menu in their mail they will buy from him and not these.’ The boy threw the flyers in the air to emphasise his point.
Harper gawked at the glossy paper as it fell around him. The boy saw his chance and bolted. Harper could see the white flashes on the underside of his trainers as he sprinted away. He was making one-fingered gestures over his shoulder and shouting something about Harper being a dead man. Which, given his unexpected bout of vigorous exercise, he very nearly was.
Lucas was enjoying a leisurely walk in the sun. He had returned to Maple Crescent when he lost the boy. His pathetic attempt to catch him ensured he only had a short walk back. From the description he gave, the janitor didn’t recognise the kid who’d picked up the mail. So, in the absence of being able to help Harper, he stayed put. A strategy which paid off.
Ten minutes later Lucas was sitting i
n his usual place in reception when a different boy turned up. He headed over to the mailboxes and Lucas could hear the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and the rustling of paper. Then Lucas had his first piece of luck of the day – the boy dropped the mail. When he bent down to pick it up, Lucas could see the door to number forty-six flapping open. Proof positive, this is what they had been waiting for. The boy locked the box and put the envelopes into his backpack.
Lucas didn’t fancy his chances with another foot race so decided against a direct approach. The boy left the building, and Lucas filed in behind, following him at a safe distance.
They sauntered down the street and the boy hung a right into the park. He found a bench and sat down, removing the mail from his bag. Lucas stopped at the park entrance and pretended to wait for someone. There were three letters which the kid laid out on the seat, along with a large brown envelope. He placed the letters inside and sealed the flap. Lucas noticed the stamp on the top right-hand corner.
The boy took a pen from his bag and wrote on the envelope. Lucas had to get closer to have any chance of reading what was written. He strolled over, but after four strides the boy got up and walked back to the park entrance.
Lucas stared straight ahead and the boy passed to his right, pulling a set of earphones from his bag.
Lucas allowed the boy to leave the park, and then doubled back and followed him along the street. The boy’s head was bopping to the music in his head.
Then Lucas saw it.
A slate grey USPS mailbox about fifteen feet ahead and directly in the boy’s path. He was heading straight for it. Lucas quickened his pace and was closing on the boy.
Fifteen feet, ten feet, but the kid was getting closer.
Eight feet, five feet, the box was almost in reach, and he had his hand out clutching the brown envelope.
Lucas called to the boy to stop, but he couldn’t hear above the beat in his ears.
Three feet, two feet.
Lucas lunged at the letter and slapped it out of the boy’s grasp.