He lit a match from a booklet he’d picked up at a convenience store miles and miles away, and flicked it into the back. There was a whoosh as flames instantly engulfed the storage space. He moved around to the broken window, lit a second match, and tossed it inside. He slipped the booklet back into his pocket, then climbed into the BMW.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Their work that evening was far from done.
After Jake knocked on Berit’s door and received no answer, he checked the carport and saw that her car wasn’t there.
Definitely on duty, he decided.
He quickly dismissed the idea of going back to his apartment. He’d go crazy sitting there alone with only his thoughts. Better to be out doing anything else.
To kill time, he drove around for a while. When he got tired of that, he returned to her place, parked, then went for a walk.
19
The staging area for the second part of the evening was a parking lot behind a sporting goods store that had closed an hour earlier. It took them forty-five minutes to get the BMW, Officer Davies’ Charger, and the sedan Durrie had been driving all together there. The car Larson had obtained before meeting up with Durrie at the observation point, they abandoned. It, like the vehicle Larson had left in the impound yard’s visitor lot earlier in the day, would only lead to an owner who would be happy to get it back.
Durrie and Larson parked the BMW and the Charger in the darkest part of the lot, then took Durrie’s sedan to Davies’s townhome complex. To complete the scenario Durrie had mapped out, they would need to pack several of the woman’s things into her own luggage and take them away.
It was the classic leaving town in a hurry ruse. Some ops agents went overboard, creating complicated backstories to explain a person’s disappearance, but in Durrie’s experience, the less the better. If you seeded some basic information and took the right things from the person’s home, then people would jump to their own conclusions.
As for the seeded information, that had been dealt with by another call to Peter, who, though not without displeasure, said he would handle it. It was now up to Durrie to make the woman’s departure look legitimate.
They parked on the street a half-block away, then walked into the complex. The buildings were structurally identical, but the numbers for each unit were clearly displayed, and it was only a matter of minutes before they found the one that matched the address on the woman’s driver’s license.
Durrie’s biggest concern was that it would turn out she had a roommate. That would present a whole new set of problems, ones he had solutions for, but would rather not employ. He took it as a good sign that there were no lights on in any of the windows. He then stepped to the door, and turned so that his ear was hovering right beside it. No sound of a TV, no one talking on a phone, nothing. Still, that wasn’t conclusive proof no one was inside. A roommate could be reading a book or even asleep.
He shot Larson a look, telling him to be ready, then he rang the doorbell. Somewhere inside he could hear a faint double ding, but thirty seconds later, the house remained quiet, and the porch light off.
Durrie pushed the button again. He could feel Larson getting impatient behind him, but it was best to be sure. When there was still no response, he donned a pair of gloves, then pulled out his lock-pick set and made quick work of the deadbolt and knob lock.
They paused just inside, allowing their eyes to adjust to the diminished light. It appeared that they had entered directly into the living room. Immediately to their left was an open doorway that led into a kitchen, and against the right wall was a set of stairs leading up to the second floor.
Durrie motioned for Larson to remain by the door, then indicated he was going to go upstairs and do a quick sweep. As soon as Larson nodded, Durrie eased into the living room, stepping carefully over to the stairs. Since the construction was still relatively new, the stairs barely even acknowledged his presence as he went up.
When he reached the second floor, he found himself in a short hallway with three open doors leading off it. The first door was for the bathroom, the second the master bedroom, and the third a second bedroom. But this room was being used as an office, not someplace to sleep.
No roommate. He activated the mic to his comm gear. “We’re clear.”
By the time Larson joined him in the master bedroom, Durrie had already located a worn-looking suitcase in the walk-in closet and set it on the bed. He wasn’t worried about disturbing the bedspread. That would actually make things seem more believable, underlining the sense that she’d left in a hurry.
The important thing now was to not randomly throw clothes into the bag. They had to be the right clothes, clothes she would definitely need and take with her.
Turning their flashlights on, but keeping them on the floor so their beams wouldn’t be seen through the windows, Durrie directed Larson on what items to take from the dresser: bras, underwear, tank tops, sweats, T-shirts, and two of the most well-worn-looking pairs of jeans. Durrie then made a survey of the closet, choosing several tops, a single business suit, but leaving all except one of the dresses behind. The dress he did take was a simple black one that could be used for a variety of reasons.
Shoes were next. He went for practical over fashion, assuming a woman cop would know to leave the stilettos in preference of the flats, but made sure to include one pair of dressier shoes with a slightly raised heel. He also grabbed a pair of everyday tennis shoes, and what appeared to be the woman’s workout shoes. He put all these in a canvas bag that had also been in the closet, then carried the bag into the master bathroom. There he gathered up make-up, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, clippers, and a few other items he was sure would look odd if left behind. When he was done, he returned to the bedroom.
Now the hard part.
“Take these downstairs,” he told Larson, indicating the canvas bag and the suitcase. “Wait for me by the door.”
Larson, apparently in obedient mode, did so without protest.
Durrie conducted a new search of the room, his eye out for more personal items: papers, photographs, birth control pills, and the like. As he came across things he thought she wouldn’t leave behind, he piled them on the bed.
It was a lockbox in the back of her closet that made him pause. Inside were the normal things you’d expect: a passport, insurance papers, title to her car, info on her townhouse — which she apparently owned outright — and a small stash of emergency cash. But there was also something else.
In a worn manila envelope, folded over and wrapped with a rubber band, he found a will, a photo and a letter. The photo was of a man and a woman, taken maybe ten or fifteen years earlier. The letter was from an attorney.
Berit,
At the risk of repeating myself, I am so sorry for your loss. Your parents were not only my clients, they were also my friends. There is no way to explain the tragedy of their deaths, so I won’t even attempt to do so. I just want you to know if you need anything, you can always count on me. As you requested, enclosed is your parents’ last will and testament. We have kept a copy for our records in case anything comes up in the future, but there is no reason to think anything will.