by Sam Wiebe
The passcode for the elevator was 1212. Not very creative. I hoped the same code would work for the door of the photo room.
Inside the apartment, the hall light came on before I could touch the switch. Motion-activated, I guessed. The rest of the rooms were dark. The place smelled of perfume and was still humid from the shower.
I crossed to the photo room. The numbers on the keypad glowed. I entered 1212 and waited.
Nothing.
It was different from the elevator code. Okay, I could figure it out. I tried the obvious—2121. Nothing. Then 0001. Nothing. Then 1234. Then my old friend 0000.
Nothing.
Frustrated, I put down the case. The code might be written in Ty Collins’s files. Often installers will do that, even though they’re not supposed to. Sometimes customers will write it down on the service contract or the warranty.
I hadn’t seen a file cabinet during my interview with Ty. I looked in the bedroom, the study and another room that might have been an office but where every surface was covered with clothes. A heavy aroma of Chanel No. 5 hung in the air. Becky had used this room to get ready.
Underneath a bathrobe there was a file cabinet. It was locked. In a few seconds it wasn’t. I put the bent safety pin back in my pocket and looked through the files.
Tax documents. Contracts. Warranties and service plans for dishwashers and cars. Nothing on the security system.
I looked in the study. Ty’s trophies caught my eye. Maybe the four-digit code was his first year of playing professional hockey? Or the year he won his first MVP trophy? I went back to the door and tried them both, forward and reversed. Nothing.
I could break down the door. Or take it off its hinges. Or break the faceplate and try to work open the lock’s mechanism. All of these choices would leave evidence that I had been here.
There was one more thing to try. I walked into the bedroom and scanned the walls. A mirror was hanging over the dresser. I moved it, uncovering a fuse box. I opened it and flipped the breakers, one, two, three, four.
An electronic lock needs power. When the electricity is cut off, some models will open automatically. Some will lock and stay locked until the company opens it. Others have battery backup. I couldn’t tell which model Ty Collins had. This was a chance I had to take.
I walked back through the apartment. Lights blinked from the kitchen. The clocks now read 00:01. I’d have to reset them before I left.
I tried the handle of the door to the photo room. It opened toward me. I was inside, alone with the Jane Brick photos.
I took one off the wall and examined the frame. It was difficult to open. It had to be laid flat and the backing eased up. The glass was easy to remove. Then the matte border. Finally I had the photograph.
I plugged in the scanner and carefully fed the photo into the tray, watching as it disappeared into the machine.
While the scanner worked, I took the glass from the frame to the kitchen table. I gently set down the pane of glass I’d brought with me, careful to touch only the edges. I laid the frame glass on top and traced around it. Then I used my glass cutter to cut out a perfect matching rectangle.
I put this new piece of glass in the frame. I’ll explain why later.
The scanner was finished. It had printed out a perfect copy of Jane Brick’s image. I placed the matte around it and put the frame back together.
It had taken me eleven minutes, but most of that time had been spent measuring and cutting glass. The next photograph took seven minutes. The third took five and a half. At this rate I would be done all ten in an hour. Maybe in forty-five minutes.
Exactly twelve minutes later, I heard the first sirens.
TEN
THE WINDOW IN the living room was open a crack. Sound from the street carried up. Looking down, I saw flashing blue and red lights. Beyond them, the beach and the dark ocean.
The sirens probably had nothing to do with me. But, just in case, I’d go soon.
I finished scanning the fourth photo, put it in the pocket of the nylon case and set the copy in the frame. Once it was back on the wall, I packed up. The pane of glass had been cut into even rectangles. I packed the leftovers into the bag, along with the glass from the frames, and the scanner. Lastly, I reset the clocks on the stove and microwave.
A buzzer went off, loud in the quiet apartment. A doorbell, I guessed. The monitor on the wall glowed. On the screen two police officers stared at the camera and into the front entrance of the building. One of them was Phil Kushida. I made sure to stand to the side, away from the camera’s eye.
“Mr. Collins?” Phil said. “We’re with the police. We believe someone is planning on robbing you. Would you let us in?”
I had planned to walk out the front entrance of the building and drive away, but that was impossible now. I needed a new exit. I was glad I hadn’t left anything important in the van.
Maybe the back or side entrance? It was a large building. There was always the parking garage, two floors below ground, but it required a different key and an electronic gate opener. If I couldn’t pick the lock before the police found me, I’d be trapped.
I pushed open the living room window. It was four feet tall and almost too narrow to crawl through. Almost. Looking up, the roof was eight feet above me. The surface between here and there was glass. I had a small amount of rope, but nothing to tie it to.
Looking down made me sick. I stopped looking down.
There was movement on the monitor. Phil and the other officer were stepping through the entrance. Maybe another tenant had buzzed them in, or they’d talked to the landlord or the security company. However they’d done it, they were on their way. I had to move faster.
If the window had faced east instead of west, I could have tried to climb to the roof of the building next door. It was close and about the same size. But there was nothing outside and no way to swing around.
I slung the bag across my shoulder. Climbing up onto the windowsill, I opened the window as far as it would go. The breeze hit me like a cold wave. I could smell salt water from the ocean.
Don’t look down, I told myself. Just don’t.
As the window swung open, I held on to the top edge and stepped onto the handle. I climbed up the piece of glass so that my feet were balanced on its edge. The window swung out above the street. Above my head was the edge of the roof.
Like standing on a wire, I thought. The glass swung closed a little bit. I didn’t breathe.
As careful as a bomb technician, I raised my hands over my head. The edge was just above my fingers. I’d have one shot at this. I would count to three.
One.
Don’t look down.
Two.
Loud knocking from the door to the apartment. The doorknob rattled.
The lock turned.
Had I left anything inside? No way.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything.
Concentrate.
Don’t look down.
Three.
I jumped.
It was a small jump, but I was able to grab on to the rough surface of the roof, and with all my might I pulled, pulled, crawled my way up. The window swung closed. I rolled away from the edge.
I looked up at a full yellow moon, just out of reach, and a million bright stars. Nothing had ever looked better.
When I had recovered, I walked to the other end of the roof. The building next to this one was older. A fire escape hung down the side, a maze of ladders and stairs. I slung the bag across my shoulder and made my second risky jump of the night.
I climbed quickly down the zigzag of stairs. At the bottom of the fire escape I jumped to the alley. A short, simple jump, but I felt a jolt of pain in my left leg.
In the alley I took off the uniform and threw it away. Then I headed to the pawnshop to meet Lisa. I had only four of the ten photos. It would have to be enough.
ELEVEN
I STEPPED OFF the bus a block from Lisa’s pawnshop. All the stor
es were closed for the night. The streets were empty. Some of the streetlights had burned out. I knew how they felt.
It was dark inside the Silver Lode. I knocked on the door. There was no movement inside. I waited and knocked again.
Behind me I heard the purr of an engine. Lisa was sitting behind the wheel of an expensive-looking truck with black windows.
“Change of venue,” she said. “Let’s do this at Kidd’s.”
I climbed into the passenger seat and set my bag on the floor behind me. “Nice car,” I said.
“It beats riding the bus, doesn’t it?”
“I like the bus.”
Lisa laughed. “Of course you do, Ali. You’ve always been cheap. You could’ve made so much more money if you’d treated yourself better.”
“I treat myself fine, Lisa. And there’s always a cost for nice things.”
“Whatever. Do you have the photos?”
“Some of them.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Still in their cases.”
“So you didn’t complete the job.”
“You never expected me to,” I said.
Lisa stared straight ahead, but a smile crept over the corners of her mouth. “What could you possibly mean?” she said.
“I mean the police showed up. And I don’t know if you sent them there or if they were onto the job some other way. I wasn’t in the place that long before they were.”
“But you got away,” Lisa said. “How did you do it? It’s impossible to climb out of there, isn’t it?”
“I never reveal my secrets,” I said.
Lisa parked behind the restaurant. It was almost closing time. There were only a few customers inside. One of them was Max. A cup and an empty pot of coffee sat on the counter in front of him.
“He’s been here for three hours,” Dean said to me. “Coffee only. He didn’t even order dessert.”
“He hasn’t done anything, has he?”
“Just sat there,” Dean said.
I hugged Dean and told him it was good to see him. “I need to talk to Lisa in the back. After that I’ll help you clean up, okay?”
Dean nodded and went back to wiping down the counter.
In the office I put the case down on the desk. Lisa pushed me aside. She opened it and took out the photos, which were sitting at the very top of the case.
“Excellent work,” she said, holding them up to the light to make sure they were real. “This might even be better than having all ten. The art gallery will want the full set. They’ll probably pay a fortune for these.”
“Why did the police get to Collins’s place so quickly?” I asked.
“They knew I wanted the photos,” Lisa said, still staring at them. “Max tried to get them for me once before. The building security thought he was just a hockey fan who wanted an autograph. But that cop Kushida, he knows Max works for me.”
“You didn’t tell me the police were watching,” I said.
“You didn’t need to know that, Ali.”
I changed into a white kitchen smock and put a white cap on my head. Lisa zipped up the case.
“We had a deal,” I said. “You leave Dean and me alone. Right?”
“Ali, I would never hurt your brother. And I’d never ask you to do something you didn’t secretly want to. Admit it. You enjoyed this, didn’t you?”
I said nothing. My leg hurt, I felt beyond tired, and I was still worried that Phil had caught a glimpse of me in the apartment on the security camera at Ty’s apartment. But I did feel alive. I hated to admit that she was right.
“I won’t need to bother you again,” Lisa said. “You’ll come to me. You can put on all the kitchen whites you want, Ali, but you’re a born thief. You’ll always be a thief. And you’ll always need someone like me.”
She left. I helped Dean mop the floor and clean the grill. As I did I wondered how right Lisa was. Could I really give up something I was so good at, something I enjoyed?
I guessed I’d have to find out.
An hour after closing, the restaurant was spotless. Dean was adding up the day’s receipts in his office. I put away the last load of dishes. There was a knock on the door so loud that it nearly made me break a plate.
I fixed my hair under the cap before unlocking the door.
“Any chance of a last-minute coffee?” Phil Kushida asked.
I poured what was left into a takeaway cup. “Busy night?”
“Pretty busy, yeah. A few hours ago someone broke into the home of Ty Collins. He’s a hockey player.”
“I don’t watch much hockey,” I said.
“Ty collects photos. Have you heard of Jane Brick? He owns some rare photos of hers. They’re worth a lot of money.”
“How can a photo be worth money?” I asked. “Can’t you just make another one with the…what do you call it? The negative?”
“If you have the negative,” Phil said. “These are one of a kind. Probably worth at least a million.”
I whistled. “That’s a lot.”
“Someone tried to steal them tonight.”
“Tried to?” I said.
“Looks like we got there in time. The thief ran away. Climbed away, more like it. You won’t believe it. He or she climbed from the thirtieth floor to the roof.”
“Crazy,” I said. “Did you catch him?”
Phil looked closely at me. “I have an idea who he is. Or she. The security footage at the door shows someone dressed as a window-repair person. A witness says she saw a woman in the alley next door.”
My heartbeat had tripled. I tried to look casual and kept putting away cups and plates.
“The witness only caught a glimpse of our thief,” Phil said. “She says the person has silver hair. Do you know anyone like that? A woman with silver hair who could climb a building like that? Or maybe a woman with hair dyed silver?”
I stopped. He was going to ask me to take off the kitchen cap. He’d see my hair. That would be it.
Phil pointed at my shirt and cap. “That uniform,” he said. “It’s a good fit on you.”
“Thanks,” I said, stunned.
“Thank you for the coffee, Ali. Stay out of trouble.”
“You too,” I said. But the door was already closing. Phil waved goodbye.
TWELVE
THREE WEEKS LATER I saw Phil again. He came to the restaurant at five in the morning, before we opened. Salmon was on the dinner menu, and Dean was showing me how to fillet the fish.
“It’s just like this,” he said, holding the tail and gently running his knife along the fish, under the skin. A silver ribbon peeled off, leaving red meat with white marbles running through it. Five quick cuts and the fish was in equal portions. “Simple, right? Now you try, Ali.”
By the time I was finished, my fish looked more like spaghetti. I had scales on my hands and arms, even on my cheeks.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right. We can do fish stew tomorrow.”
That was when I heard the knocking. I quickly washed my hands and opened the door to Phil. I’d dyed my hair back to its natural color and destroyed all the evidence of what I’d done. But I still felt slightly nervous, talking with a cop. Even a friendly cop.
“Not causing anyone trouble, I hope?” he asked.
“That depends on if you ask any fish.”
He sat down. “I have some news that might interest you. Remember when I said someone tried to steal photos from Ty Collins?”
“Sure.”
“Well, it turns out they did steal some. Four of them turned out to be fakes.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“We know who did it too.”
I waited.
“The thief thought she was smart,” Phil said. “But they all make mistakes. It’s the little details that catch up to you eventually.”
“To me?” I asked.
“I mean to anyone. In the case of our thief, it was fingerprints. She thought she had been careful,
but when we dusted the glass inside the frames of the photos, we found her prints.”
“Maybe she just visited the apartment,” I said. “As a guest. Maybe she looked at the photos.”
“Not possible,” Phil said. “The fingerprints were on the inside surface of the glass, in the frame.”
“Damn.”
“Damn is right. From there we got a warrant for her home and her place of business.”
“So why are you here?” I asked.
“I just needed a coffee,” Phil said. “We spent all night searching Lisa Wan’s pawnshop, her house, even her car. We found the photos in the pawnshop safe. On the counter was a printer-scanner thing that was probably used to make the copies. And under the seat of her car we found a key to Ty Collins’s door. She says she doesn’t know how it got there. Is there any chance, Ali?”
“Any chance of what?” I asked.
“Any chance of that coffee.”
I smiled at him. “I’ll put some on,” I said.
As the coffee brewed, Phil told me that Lisa was claiming to be innocent, but the police had found enough stolen goods in the pawnshop to get another warrant. She would probably be going away for a long time.
“Her associate, Max Smith. He’ll be going away too. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen them together,” I said.
“A lot of people close to Lisa Wan have gone to jail. Not her though. Not till now.”
“Guess everyone’s luck runs out,” I said.
The coffee was ready. I poured two cups, then added cream and sugar to Phil’s.
“I have to ask this, Ali. If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”
“Go ahead.”
“Lisa says she was framed. Do you think there’s any truth to that?”
“How could there be?” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
I looked at my cup, then back at Phil. His expression was gentle. Patient.
“Think about it logically,” I said. “You know Lisa deals in stolen stuff. You told me her prints were inside the glass of the forgeries in Ty’s apartment. And you found the photos in her safe.”
