Matthew Dicks

by Something Missing (v5)

  “Yes,” Martin answered, trying to think of a means of ending this interrogation.

  “How about an anonymous tip? A phone call or note?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. But do cops pay attention to that kind of thing?”

  “When I was on the job, we would get tips all the time. Some were real. Most were bogus. But we followed up on each and every one. I used to tell the young guys that it’s the tips you ignore that will bite you in the ass one day.”

  “But what if there’s no evidence against this man?” Martin asked. “Just my anonymous word against his. What if he hasn’t left any evidence inside the house? Won’t the police just tip him off and point him at another victim?”

  “Two things, son. First, if that man was in your friend’s house, they will find evidence. There is always evidence. No one is that careful. If he jimmied the door or picked the lock, there are guys on the job who can tell. If there are traffic cameras in the area, they might be able to spot him casing the house. There’s skin and hair and footprints. All kinds of DNA evidence. Trust me. There’s always physical evidence to be found. Second, even if the cops tip this guy off, the worst you’ve done is protected your friend. Maybe saved her life. If this guy can’t stop himself, he’s a whack job. He’ll do it again unless he’s locked up, but now the police will have his name. His address. If he isn’t caught, he will probably move to another part of the country and try again. But your friend will be safe regardless.”

  Martin didn’t like any of these statements. First, he didn’t believe his father when he said that physical evidence would undoubtedly be left behind. Though his father had been a police officer for twenty years, the last dozen or so as a detective, Martin didn’t believe that all criminals were stupid. He was confident that he had never left a trace of physical evidence behind in the Pearls’ home, and if Darrow was as clever as Martin suspected, he would have left nothing behind either. From what Martin had already seen, the man was smart.

  And if his father was right and there was physical evidence left behind, some type that Martin had yet to consider, then the police would most certainly find evidence of his own presence in the house as well, and this would not be good.

  Finally, if Darrow was tipped off by the police, his father was right: Sophie Pearl might be spared, but the next woman whom Darrow targeted might not be so lucky. The prospect of saving one woman while damning another did not appeal to Martin. He had come to believe that he was supposed to help Sophie Pearl, even more than Cindy Clayton or Justine Ashley. But he wasn’t supposed to simply redirect the bullet that was aimed at her. He had been placed outside the Pearls’ house so that he could stop that bullet cold.

  “What about some kind of sting operation?” Martin asked. “Catch him in the act?”

  “A possibility,” his father answered. “But unlikely. Too dangerous for your friend, and it requires too much manpower. Too much time. If you send in a tip, the cops will probably pick this guy up immediately. Try to get him to confess. That’s what I would’ve done.”

  “And if he doesn’t confess?”

  “They can usually get a guy to confess to something, and being a two-strike guy, it won’t take much to put him away for life.”

  Martin doubted that Clive Darrow would confess unless shown evidence that directly implicated him in the break-in of the Pearls’ home. He feared that his father had put away too many stupid criminals over the years and never realized how many clever ones had slipped through his grasp.

  Clever people like himself.

  “Anything else?” Martin asked, still in search of a better solution.

  “Not really, son. Send in the tip and let the cops do their job.”

  “All right. Thanks, Dad.”

  “My pleasure, son. You know, we should do this more often. Except next time, maybe we can talk about the Sox. Or have some lunch together.”

  “Yeah, we should,” Martin answered, fearing that his father didn’t mean what he had said. His father now knew that his son was engaged in illegal activity, and he probably had a good idea of what that activity was. Why would he want a criminal visiting his apartment, even if it was his son?

  “Martin, I mean it. I’d like to see you again. I know that things have been rotten between us, and there ain’t much we can do about the rot but try to brush it away and start over. No use in shining up a piece of shit, right? You just toss it away and try to find some gold.”

  “That sounds good, Dad,” Martin said with sincerity. “A fresh start.”

  “You were right, son. I’ve always loved you. I just did a piss-poor job of it.”

  “I know.” Martin stood up to leave, but his father reached across the table and pulled him back down by the arm.

  “And Martin, you’ll send in that tip to the police today? Right? I’ve seen a lot of girls get hurt and it ain’t pretty.”

  “I will, Dad. Today. As soon as I get home.”

  And with that, Martin’s fresh start with his father began with a lie.

  Before Martin tipped off the police, he wanted evidence, or at least the location of the evidence, so that Darrow could be put in prison for life. With that in mind, there was only one thing that he could do.

  As he turned onto the on-ramp for Route 84, heading back in the direction of West Hartford, he glanced at the clock in the dashboard display. 5:30. The Pearls would be home in fifteen minutes, if they weren’t already.

  Martin drove into the capital city and took a downtown Hartford exit, winding his way past the train station and through traffic along Farmington Avenue until turning into a gas station on the Hartford–West Hartford border. This particular gas station had a pay phone, a disappearing fixture on the American landscape, and no traffic cameras, ATM machines, or security cameras within view of it. It was a phone that Martin had used before when calling a client to verify that no one was home.

  Martin had never called the Pearls’ before (he rarely called a client to ascertain their location), but their phone number, along with those of the rest of his clients, was located on a sheet of computer paper inside the same first-aid kit that contained his clients’ keys. The phone numbers were coded, of course, and the code necessary for deciphering each phone number was different.

  Cracking the first code would yield you the first number, but that same code could not be applied to the rest of the phone numbers on the page. A separate code was needed to identify each specific number, and Martin had memorized the means of deciphering each one. All of this had taken a great deal of time and research on Martin’s part, including the reading of several code books in a variety of Connecticut libraries, but the result was a highly complex series of letters and numbers that Martin could decode in minutes.

  Placing gloves on his hands, Martin put a quarter in the pay phone and dialed the Pearls’ home. Mrs. Pearl picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello. May I please speak to Sherman Pearl?”

  “One moment please. May I ask whose calling?”

  “I’m sorry,” Martin said, moving the phone away from his mouth and garbling his voice. “What did you say?”

  “May I ask who is calling,” Sophie Pearl repeated, slower and louder this time.

  Martin moved the receiver more than a foot away from his mouth and said, “I’m sorry. It seems … bad connection. Call back …”

  Then he hung up.

  A moment later Martin dialed a second number but was informed by the ubiquitous female voice inhabiting every telephone system when a number was no longer in service. Disappointed, he returned the receiver to its cradle and headed back to the Subaru.

  Clive Darrow’s phone was no longer working.

  Back in his car, Martin removed his gloves and placed them in the concealed area beneath his dashboard and breathed a sigh of relief. Sherman Pearl was home, so Sophie Pearl was safe for at least another night. Darrow wouldn’t dare risk a home invasion with a potential combatant and eyewi
tness at home.

  Turning back onto Farmington Avenue, Martin pointed the Subaru in the direction of West Hartford. With his client safe, it was time to put the second part of his plan into action.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Martin was turning onto Ascension Street, driving slowly enough so that as he cruised by Clive Darrow’s home for the second time today, he could take in as many details as possible. The garage in the rear of the property was closed and the lights inside the house appeared to be off. There was still enough daylight to explain this, however, so Martin couldn’t take it as a sign that the man wasn’t home. The house appeared to have two entrances, a side door that likely opened into a kitchen and a front door that probably opened into a living room or hallway. The side door was the one that was probably used more often, and would therefore have the easier lock to pick.

  Martin continued up Ascension Street, turned his car at the next intersection, and then made his way back down the street, passing by the house one more time, hoping to spot anything else that might help him decide on his next course of action.

  He saw nothing.

  At the end of Ascension, Martin turned right and traveled four blocks north and then east, parking the Subaru in the lot at Smith Elementary School. There he donned a hat, sweatshirt, and running shoes from the backseat and placed his pick gun, surgical gloves, rubber moccasins, and a hairnet into a small backpack that he strapped to his back. Once ready, he began his walk back in the direction of Clive Darrow’s home.

  Martin had decided that, in order to guarantee Darrow’s incarceration, he would need to locate evidence that implicated the man in the stalking, break-in, and planned attack on Sophie Pearl. He knew that the police officers’ hands were often tied when it came to obtaining search warrants, so he thought that if he could specifically identify evidence in Darrow’s home in his tip to the police, that might be enough to secure them a legal search of the premises.

  Entering Clive Darrow’s home would be dangerous, Martin knew. First, he didn’t have much information on the man, so he had no knowledge of the type of schedule he kept. Because Martin had seen him exiting the Pearls’ home this morning, he reasoned that Darrow was either unemployed or worked odd hours, perhaps the night shift. If Martin could be certain that the house was empty, he might be willing to risk entry, even though he wouldn’t be sure when Darrow might return home. Sophie Pearl’s life could be at stake, and if not Sophie’s, then that of the next woman. For this, he was willing to take the risk.

  In addition, Martin had little to fear from police intervention in the event that he was caught by Darrow inside the home. In the planning stages of a violent crime, Darrow would be unlikely to seek police attention, so he would be more inclined to deal with the situation on his own. This might mean Martin’s own life would be in danger, but that was a risk he was willing to take. If he was careful and planned his escape carefully, Martin was confident that he could exit the house safely, even if detected.

  Martin’s plan was to maintain surveillance on Darrow’s home until he could determine if the man was home. Walking up and down Ascension Street and the side streets that made up the block that Darrow lived on, Martin would watch for lights to come on or other signs of life until he felt confident in his assessment of the situation. If it became clear that Darrow was occupying the premises, he would head home, pack an overnight bag, and park in the lot close enough to the Pearls’ home so that he could maintain surveillance on their rear door. Sacrificing a good night’s sleep would be problematic considering that the Ashleys’ party was tomorrow, but he would have to manage. This was serious business. If Sherman Pearl left the house for an early round of golf or a morning of boating and fishing, Sophie would be alone and Darrow might attempt to strike. This was especially true since tomorrow was Saturday and it was likely that Noah Blake would be home, asleep, without an alibi. Once Sophie and Sherman Pearl had left their home for the day and Martin was certain that Sophie was not home alone, he would return to Darrow’s home, looking for an opportunity to gain entry.

  Hopefully all this could be accomplished before the party.

  Martin began his walk, wondering how many times he might round the block before he could determine if Clive Darrow was home. Realizing the number might be high, he slowed his pace and steeled himself for a long evening.

  Despite his high level of physical fitness, Martin felt uncommonly tired as he turned the corner and headed back up Ascension Street, this time on foot. Though the sun was still blazing on the horizon and it was not yet dinnertime, it had been a long day. The investigation into Clive Darrow, his impromptu lunch with Laura, and his visit with his father had been more excitement in one day than Martin was accustomed to, and he felt both physically and emotionally drained. Nevertheless, he was also feeling hopeful and optimistic. The visit with his father had gone better than he ever could have expected, and he chided himself for not making the effort sooner. It was remarkable how a fear of the truth and an unwillingness to be honest had kept the two men apart for so long. Regardless of the awkwardness that might still exist between them, Martin vowed to call his father soon and plan for another meeting.

  Remarkably, he found himself looking forward to it.

  Martin had been walking the block for more than an hour in the dimming light when he spotted the blue pickup coming down Ascension Street toward him. He was standing at the corner of Ascension and Quaker, ready to approach Darrow’s home for the tenth time when the truck, with Darrow at the wheel, came to a stop less than five feet away. Martin watched as the man looked left and right, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and then turned right onto Quaker Lane. Had Martin’s car been close by, he would have tailed the man to his destination, but since the Subaru was more than four blocks away, this was impossible. Instead, Martin turned up Ascension Street, walking briskly toward Darrow’s home while transferring the pick gun from his backpack to the waistband of his sweatpants. Though he couldn’t be sure how long the man was going to be gone, Martin knew that this might be the best chance he had of gaining entry to the house.

  He had to try.

  As he approached 414 Ascension Street, he liked what he saw. Though the neighbors’ homes were situated uncomfortably close to Darrow’s house, the lights in all three were out and there appeared to be no cars in the driveways. Across the street stood a row of two-family homes, and though lights were on in some of the units, Martin always preferred renters to homeowners when it came to his clients’ neighbors. Renters never cared about the neighborhood to the degree that someone who actually owned a home did, and therefore they were less likely to be suspicious of a stranger approaching a neighbor’s home. Besides, Martin had an inkling that Clive Darrow was not the friendliest of neighbors and had probably made few allies on his block during the past couple of years.

  Moving with as much confidence as he could muster, he then turned up the driveway and climbed the five steps to the concrete landing on the side of the house as if he owned the place. The door was made of wood with a pane of glass filling the top half, but maroon curtains concealed the space behind. There were two locks on the door, a locking mechanism in the doorknob and a dead bolt. By quickly examining the crack between the door and the frame, Martin could see that the dead bolt was not engaged.

  More good news.

  After slipping on the surgical gloves, rubber moccasins, and hairnet, Martin reached out and rang the doorbell three times, waiting for the sound of a barking dog but hearing none. He tested the knob and found the lock to be engaged. Taking one final glance and finding no one within sight, he removed the pick gun from his waistband, inserted it into the lock, and turned it on. In less than ten seconds, the lock was disengaged. Martin took one final look behind him and entered Clive Darrow’s home.

  For a man who had been living in the home for almost two years, it was apparent that Clive Darrow had no interest in decorating. The kitchen in which Martin found himself standing was nearly empty. A single wooden c
hair was pushed up against an open TV tray, with the remains of a Taco Bell dinner covering the wooden surface. The countertops were nearly bare except for a pair of salt and pepper shakers and a dirty frying pan, and nothing hung on any of the three bare walls. Before exploring any of the rooms in more detail, Martin moved from the kitchen, through a wide archway, into a carpeted, nearly unfurnished living room. A single sofa chair resided in one corner, and flanking it was a rack of wooden TV trays, two slots vacant. Otherwise the room was startlingly empty.

  On the far end of the room, opposite the stairway to the second floor, stood the front door to the home. Martin checked the locks on this door and was surprised to find both disengaged. Preparing for the possibility of a quick exit, he opened the front door slightly so that a quick pull, rather than a turn of the knob, would gain him access to the front yard and street. He then moved past the door and into the adjoining room, presumably meant to be a dining room, now empty, and into a hall that connected the kitchen with the bathroom and another room at the end of the house. This room was also empty save for a stack of empty boxes, another TV tray stacked with mail, and an upright, rotating fan.

  Martin moved back down the hallway toward the kitchen, opening a closed door opposite the bathroom and finding an empty closet, leaving him to assume that the house was built on a slab and had no basement. More important, there was also no other exit to the outside. If Clive Darrow arrived home, it was the front door that Martin would use for his escape.

  With the layout of the first floor set in his mind, Martin ascended the stairs to the second floor, where he found two empty bedrooms and a small, unused bathroom. No beds, no bureaus, no clothing of any kind.

  As he returned to the first floor, Martin grew concerned. Though town records indicated that Clive Darrow had lived in this house for almost two years, the house was barely furnished, with no living room furniture, no television, and no telephone to be found. Other than a room full of cardboard boxes and a couple of TV trays, the house was nearly empty, as if someone had broken in and stolen everything of value from the place.