Never Going Back

by Sam Wiebe

  Dean didn’t need that fear to focus. When he said he’d do something, it got done.

  So where was he now?

  After waiting for another hour, I phoned a taxi and left the prison. I had a bag with some clothes and a book Dean had given me. My wallet was nearly empty. I barely had enough money to pay for the ride to Dean’s place.

  The front door to Kidd’s was locked. The big neon sign was dark. A SORRY—WE’RE CLOSED sign sat in the window.

  Closed? This wasn’t a holiday. Maybe Dean had taken the night off to spend time with me. Even so, he had other employees who could have covered his shift. Why was the restaurant closed?

  Dean still lived in the apartment above Kidd’s. The door was around back, up a flight of stairs. A tall locked gate blocked the bottom of the staircase. On the gate was a sign that said NO TRESPASSING—PRIVATE.

  When had he put up the gate? That hadn’t been there before. Was he worried about someone trying to break in?

  I examined the lock on the gate. With the right tools I could have picked it. But I didn’t have those tools, and I didn’t want them. I reminded myself I was retired from the thief business.

  Retired or not, I was still worried about my brother. I set my bag down near the gate, out of the rain. I jumped and grabbed hold of the top of the gate. The metal was slippery, but I pulled myself up and swung my right leg over.

  I hadn’t done this in a while. I’d meant to let myself down slowly, but my shoes had no grip. I dropped down hard on the other side of the gate.

  Up the staircase. I knocked on Dean’s door. No answer. His blinds were shut.

  Dean had always kept his spare key under the door mat. I lifted up a corner of the mat. No key.

  Should I break in? I could crack a window or force the door. If Dean was in trouble, I needed to know.

  I decided I wouldn’t break in. Thieves break in. I wasn’t a thief anymore. I’d have to find another way.

  On the railing at the top of the stairs was a planter box. Dean was growing herbs. Rosemary and thyme. Maybe he’d moved the key? I lifted the box.

  No key.

  As I set it down my fingers felt something metallic stuck to the bottom of the box. I pried it off with my fingernail. Dean had taped his spare key to the bottom.

  I unlocked the door and went inside.

  Dean’s home was small. The heat was off. The bed was unmade, and a pile of cooking books covered the couch. On the wall was a picture of Aunt Jessie, Dean and me. Happier times.

  The bedroom and living room looked the same as always. Only the kitchen looked different. It was small but crammed full of old and new appliances. A blender, food processor, pressure cooker, slow cooker and pasta machine covered the counter. Dean still had Aunt Jessie’s old toaster, the kind with the sides that open like butterfly wings.

  Everything was clean. Nothing looked like it had been used recently. His fridge was nearly empty, and his freezer held only a loaf of bread. Dean hadn’t been here in at least a few days.

  There was no desk or computer in the apartment. That didn’t surprise me. Dean conducted all his business from the office at the back of the restaurant. If I wanted to learn what he’d been doing before he disappeared, I’d have to get in there.

  I locked up and replaced the key. It was still raining heavily. I thought about the promise I’d made to Dean and to myself.

  You don’t have to be a thief if you don’t want to, Ali, I told myself.

  I didn’t want to. But I needed to find my brother.

  The front door of Kidd’s had a strong double lock and a good security system. I’d installed it myself. I could have picked the lock if I’d had the tools, but it would have taken at least fifteen minutes. Even on a rainy night, that was a long time to be standing in the street. Anyone could come along.

  I climbed back over the gate at the bottom of the staircase. It was a little easier the second time. I could have opened it from the inside, I guess. But to be honest, climbing felt pretty good.

  I rescued my bag, then moved along to the back entrance of Kidd’s. The double doors were used for deliveries. The lock was good but nothing special. I could have opened it with a simple pick and tension tool.

  Near the door were three aluminum trash cans. Empty, which was another sign the restaurant hadn’t been open today. The cans were old, and the edges on the lids were ragged.

  I twisted off a small piece of metal and began shaping it into a pick. Aluminum wasn’t a good material—too bendy—but it would work for a single use.

  That’s all this is, I told myself. A single use. I just need to get into the restaurant. Just because I’m picking my way in it doesn’t mean I’m going back to my old ways.

  I found a small scrap of metal I could use as a tension tool. The metal was sharp. I took a pair of socks from my bag and wrapped my hands to protect them as I shaped the metal.

  I heard a splash in the alley, like a foot stepping in a puddle. I didn’t see anyone. I slowly counted to three hundred, listening. No other noises. I was alone. I approached the back door and told myself what I was going to do was necessary.

  The second my hands touched the door, a powerful white light snapped on, aimed right at me and throwing my shadow across the door.

  “Freeze right there,” a voice said.

  The light was directed away from my eyes. From the shadows a tall man approached. He was wearing a police uniform. My heart sank as I realized the trouble I was in.

  THREE

  “STEP AWAY FROM the door,” the officer said. I did as I was told. But as I did, I slipped the two pieces of metal down the neck of the sock and let it drop to the ground behind me. I approached with my hands up.

  The officer didn’t have a weapon in his hand. Just the flashlight. Up close I could see that his face was handsome, clean-shaven and familiar.

  He recognized me too. “Ali Kidd?”

  “Hi, Phil. Just making your rounds?”

  Phil Kushida smiled. “I thought I saw someone about to break in,” he said.

  “Nope. Just me. I’m looking for Dean.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Phil said. “He hasn’t been in the restaurant for days. I’ve been asking around. No one seems to know where he is.”

  That wasn’t like Dean. If something had happened to him—

  I put the thought out of my mind.

  “Now that you’re out, we should talk things over,” Phil said. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “I could use one,” I said. “Sounds good.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  Phil started down the alley, then stopped. He pointed at the ground near my feet.

  “Looks like you dropped something,” he said. A smile crossed his face. “A sock, it looks like. Don’t want to lose one of those.”

  Phil and I were friends. We’d seen a lot of each other at the restaurant, and once or twice he’d questioned me about my other line of work. He was good at his job, fair and, best of all, had never caught me.

  Well, the one time. But I’d been set up, and that shouldn’t count.

  At an all-night coffee shop down the street from Kidd’s, Phil ordered coffee for us and a grilled cheese sandwich for himself. I was too nervous to think about food. The coffee was warm. I dried my hair with some napkins.

  “You just got out today?” Phil asked.

  “Somehow I think you already know the answer to that,” I said. “Dean was supposed to pick me up.”

  “I was in the restaurant three days ago. Dean wasn’t there. The staff hadn’t seen him. They were worried.”

  “So am I.”

  “Ali,” Phil said, “did Dean talk to you about any problems he might be having? Anything financial?”

  “Nothing like that, no.” Dean hadn’t mentioned any trouble at the restaurant or with his finances. He’d seemed a little nervous the last time he visited, but prison always made him nervous.

  “Last week I stopped by Kidd’s for breakfast,
” Phil said. “I wanted to say hi to Dean. To ask him when you were getting out.”

  “Checking up on me, huh?”

  Phil blushed. He hid his face by biting into his sandwich. Still chewing, he said, “Dean was on the phone, talking to someone. He looked worried. I waited till he was finished and asked him what was up. ’Trouble with the bank,’ he said.”

  “That’s not possible. Dean is good with his money. He pays his taxes early, for crying out loud.” My voice was getting louder, and I couldn’t hide the worry I was feeling.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me either,” Phil said. “Unless maybe he was lying.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t trust you,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t he? We’re friends.”

  That was true. Dean had always liked Phil. When some neighborhood kids had broken windows and spray-painted the restaurant, Phil had found them and warned them not to do it again. Since then Kidd’s had been graffiti-free.

  “There’s no reason for Dean not to trust me,” Phil said.

  “You did put me in jail,” I said.

  Phil scowled. “I didn’t know I was going to find anything when I searched the restaurant.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Phil put his sandwich down and looked at me seriously. “If you ever want to do something about the person who set you up—if you ever want to tell me your side of the story—”

  “I appreciate it, Phil, but there’s nothing to tell.”

  “So Lisa Wan goes free,” he said.

  “I don’t want anything more to do with Lisa Wan. I’m done with her. Retired.”

  “Very glad to hear that,” Phil said. “I’ll keep asking around about your brother. If you don’t hear from him in twenty-four hours, let me know and I’ll file a report. In the meantime, Ali, do you have somewhere to stay?”

  “Dean left me a key to his apartment,” I said. It wasn’t a total lie.

  “Good. Stay there, and I’ll call if I learn anything. Promise?”

  I didn’t respond right away.

  “Ali,” Phil said, “the worst thing you can do right now is get yourself jammed up all over again. You just got out today. You don’t want to go back, do you?”

  “I’m never going back,” I said.

  “I really hope that’s true, Ali.” Phil smiled. He patted my hand. “I promise you I’ll do everything I can to find Dean.”

  “Thanks,” I said. But his comments only made me worry more. If the police couldn’t find Dean, then where could my brother be?

  Phil insisted on walking me back to Kidd’s. Thankfully, he didn’t stick around to make sure I got inside. I didn’t want to have to explain why I was climbing over the gate.

  Inside Dean’s apartment, I put two pieces of frozen bread into the toaster and searched through the kitchen and living room. There were a few bank statements in the trash, along with some junk mail. Nothing suspicious. It looked like the restaurant was making a profit, and Dean was paying his bills on time.

  I had toast and jam and continued looking around. Dean had wrapped the toaster’s cord with electrical tape. Aunt Jessie would have been happy that the machine was still getting used. She liked to repair things rather than throw them out. Dean was like that too.

  There was nothing hidden beneath Dean’s bed. I looked through his clothing. Nothing told me where he’d disappeared to or why. The problem was simple, I thought. I was looking in the wrong place.

  The apartment might have been Dean’s home, but he spent most of his life in the restaurant below. That was where I should be looking. I still had the makeshift lockpicks rolled up in my sock.

  I’d promised Phil I’d leave it alone. But what Phil didn’t know wouldn’t bother him. And besides, Kidd’s was Dean’s real home. I was in the same building already. All I was doing was going downstairs.

  Picking a lock is like painting a picture from memory. Instead of a brush you have a pick and a tension tool, sometimes called a wrench. Instead of using your eyes, you rely on feel. The pick goes inside the chamber and lifts up these little things called pins. They’re often on springs, so once you raise one with the pick, you have to keep it up while you work on the others. There are all sorts of tricks and surprises to a good lock. When you’ve got all the pins up, you turn the wrench, which turns the chamber and opens the lock.

  I guess that sounds nothing like painting, does it?

  What I mean is that both are about trusting your instincts. To do that you have to practice. How do you paint a face? Or a landscape? By painting each part a thousand times. Whether it’s eyes and a nose or trees and clouds, you practice each little part, from every possible direction. That way when you have to paint an entire picture, your brain treats it as a bunch of little problems to solve rather than one big impossible problem.

  I can’t paint at all. My faces look like scrambled eggs on a plate, and my landscapes look like a child drew them. Hands and cows defeat me every time. But before I went to prison, I could open a lock, any lock, even a tough one and even with bad tools like these.

  It’s a gift. I’m good at it, and I practice.

  It took fifteen minutes, and I nearly broke the pick, but the lock on the back door finally, finally yielded. I walked into Kidd’s for the first time in a year.

  The kitchen and storeroom were neat. Dean insisted on a good cleaning before anyone went home. Nothing looked out of place. In the restaurant the chairs were piled on top of tables. The till was empty. Opening it brought back memories.

  When Phil Kushida had opened the till on the day he found the necklace, I’d confessed to him right away. I had to. If I didn’t, Dean might have taken some of the blame. Lisa Wan had counted on that. She’d known I would protect my brother by confessing. What had happened to me wasn’t fair, but I’d deserved it more than my brother did.

  Dean had never done anything to anyone. All he cared about was Kidd’s. And me, I suppose. He wouldn’t leave me, and he definitely wouldn’t leave the restaurant, without saying something.

  His office door was locked. I had it open in seven minutes. The skills were coming back. I didn’t know how to feel about that—happy, worried or both.

  Inside the office I saw papers piled high on Dean’s desk. The small room wasn’t messy, but it was too full to be comfortable. His old computer was turned off. A stack of new menus covered the chair.

  In the center of his desk was his cell phone. Dean used it for deliveries, for working out payroll. He’d never leave it behind.

  Not unless someone forced him to.

  FOUR

  THE LOCK SCREEN on my brother’s cell phone asked for a four-digit code. I tried his birthday, forward and back. Both times the screen flashed red. One attempt remaining, it told me.

  People usually reach into their own lives for codes, so a birthday or some other important occasion is a good place to start. Parents often use something connected to their children. Pet owners will use the names of a dog or cat.

  Dean had no children or pets. He wasn’t married. All he had was his work.

  I sat down at his desk and looked around. Dean was probably in the restaurant when he set his passcode. That meant everything I needed to figure it out was probably here.

  Four numbers. Maybe the date he opened Kidd’s? No, because he’d taken it over from Aunt Jessie. Before that he’d worked in the kitchen. Dean didn’t have as sharp a memory of our parents as I did. He didn’t remember much of our life before coming to live with our aunt. For him, it was like he’d always been here.

  So not the day he started or the day he took it over. Not a phone number—too many digits. A page in a favorite recipe book? A temperature or cooking time? I was getting desperate.

  I looked at the menus. The cover image was a black-and-white drawing of the restaurant’s front window. Below that were the telephone number, the address and which credit cards they accepted (all major ones).

  The address—778 East Fifth Street.

  I punched in 7785
. The screen lit up and flashed to the home screen. I was in.

  The past few weeks of Dean’s life were in his phone. Shift schedules for work, to-do lists, recipes he wanted to try, along with short notes on their results. Needs more punch—maybe leeks instead of green onions?

  He’d received three calls from a company called Ajax Credit. I searched the name and found they specialized in debts and finance. Flexible rates and options, said the website.

  I opened Dean’s banking app, using the same numbers. Dean had a line of credit with a $10,000 limit. The amount owed was currently at $400, with a payment scheduled for the end of the month. My brother owed nothing.

  I phoned Ajax Credit. After five rings a smooth male voice said, “How may I help you?”

  “I’m phoning on behalf of Dean Kidd,” I said. “I’m wondering why you called him last week.”

  “What is your relationship to Mr. Kidd?” the voice asked.

  “Sister. I work with him too. I mean, I will be.”

  “Apologies, ma’am,” the smooth voice said. “We don’t give out the information of our clients without their approval.”

  “So Dean is a client?” I said.

  The voice seemed slightly flustered. “I can’t help you, ma’am. Don’t call back. Goodbye.”

  Of course I called right back.

  “Ma’am—” he began.

  “My brother is missing,” I said. “If he is in trouble, if he owes someone money, I need to know. Please help me.”

  “We have a policy, ma’am.”

  “Well, good for you.” I hung up on him.

  After checking the rest of the information stored on the phone, I turned it off. I looked around the office. Even with all the junk, the place seemed empty. Like a car missing its engine or a body without a heart, Kidd’s was nothing without Dean.

  There was something off about Ajax Credit, something strange about the voice on the phone. Their address for Ajax was in the financial district, on the second floor above a currency exchange. The office would be closed by the time I got there.