He saw the mail truck pull up to his box. Even though he’d never receive anything but flyers and contest come-ons at this address, he’d introduced himself to the mailman, whose name was Phil. He waved and Phil waved back.
After the mail truck moved on, Theodore slipped into the backyard and stood behind the big rhododendron next to the post-and-rail fence that divided his property from the Robinsons’. The bush shielded him from the street. Once he was sure no one was in line of sight, he climbed over the fence. In the old days he would have hopped it, but he wasn’t as spry or as flexible as he used to be.
He hurried to their back door. When helping Mr. Robinson transplant a spirea on Saturday, he’d noted that the back door lock was a Schlage. He inserted a Schlage bump key, gave it a twist as he tapped it with a little rubber hammer, and he was in. He’d seen no evidence of an alarm system on his introductory visit, so no worry about disarming that.
He hurried upstairs and had no problem locating Chelsea Robinson’s room – pink wallpaper, posters of the latest boy group. He went to her dresser and found her underwear drawer. He removed a pair of panties – pink, of course – and stuffed them into his pocket.
Then he was on his way down the stairs, out the way he’d come in – making sure to lock the door behind him – and back over the fence.
Five minutes from leaving his yard to returning. And no one the wiser.
Now that he had the panties, he could pick which photos of Chelsea to print out.
*
He watched the Rashid house until all was dark except for the glow of a TV from the master bedroom. He’d printed out half a dozen photos of Chelsea – close ups of her face, and crops centered on her flat chest and her little rump. With these trapped under his shirt, and the panties in his pocket, he stole across the street and into the Rashids’ backyard. On Sunday he’d helped carry bags of wood-chip mulch from the van to the rear, and had made note that the backdoor to their garage was secured by another Schlage. No surprise. Development builders invariably used the same hardware on their houses.
A tap and a twist of the bump key and he was in. He opened the rear passenger door of Mr. Rashid’s Volvo sedan and placed the photos and the panties on the floor where the pink could not fail to catch Mr. Robinson’s eye. Then he would see the photos beneath.
Theodore pulled out a penlight and snooped around until he came upon an expensive-looking socket wrench set. He tucked that under his arm and slipped back outside, locking the door behind him.
Before heading for the Longwell house, he detoured to the Fabrinis’ front yard where he pulled up every geranium Mr. Fabrini had planted over the weekend and scattered them across the front lawn.
He strolled the starlit street to the other end of the block where he slipped into the back of the Longwells’ corner lot and hid the wrench set under the deck.
Back home, he slung ice cubes at Daisy’s doghouse until Mr. McCuin screamed again from his window.
After making his daily entry in the ledger, he went to bed.
Wednesday, April 28
Theodore had set his alarm to be sure he’d be awake to see Mr. Rashid pick up Mr. Robinson. He’d given himself enough time to make coffee first.
So now, steaming cup in hand, he sat by his front picture window to wait and watch.
Right on time, Mr. Rashid pulled out of his garage and backed into the street. Equally punctual, Mr. Robinson strode from his front door to the Rashid sedan. He opened the rear door . . .
. . . now the good part . . .
. . . and placed his briefcase in the rear . . .
. . . here we go . . .
. . . then slammed the door and slipped into the passenger seat. Mr. Rashid gunned the car and off they went.
Theodore found himself on his feet, staring through the window. How could Robinson have missed the panties and the pictures? Impossible. Unless . . .
Unless they weren’t there.
He focused on the yard next to the Rashids where he’d pulled all the geraniums last night . . . where the lawn should have been littered with dead or dying plants.
But wasn’t. At least it didn’t appear so from here.
He threw on some clothes and hurried outside, slowing as he reached the sidewalk. Had to be calm. Had to appear to be going for a morning stroll, a constitutional, as they used to say back in the day.
But his inner pace was anything but leisurely as he passed the Fabrini yard and saw that each and every geranium he’d torn out last night had been replanted. He might have convinced himself that he’d dreamed what he’d done but for the orange petals and scattered clumps of potting dirt here and there on the lawn.
He heard a garage door rolling and saw Mr. Fabrini smiling and waving as he backed out of his driveway.
“Good morning!” he called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it.”
Theodore nodded. “Yes. Beautiful.”
Another wave, another smile – “Have a good one!” – and Mr. Fabrini was on his way, acting nothing at all like a man who’d been forced to spend his first waking hours repairing mindless vandalism. Theodore had been all set to tell him that he’d glanced out his window last night and thought he’d seen the McCuin boy in the front yard, but no point now.
Someone was on to him.
Hard to see how that was possible. He knew no one in town, especially on this block, and no one knew him.
Or was he wrong about that?
He supposed it was possible. In fact, statistically it might even be inevitable that after all these years he would run into someone from a previous distribution point.
But he was always so careful, so circumspect. How could someone connect him with the unfortunate incidents that occurred during his brief stays?
He couldn’t avoid the possibility that someone had. Judging from the missing porn magazines, the replanted geraniums, and what he had to assume were the missing panties and photos, the possibility looked more like a certainty.
Someone was undoing his work. And that meant someone was following him around, watching his every move.
But who?
He was sure he would have noticed.
It had to be someone with good tracking skills – and other skills as well. Theodore had locked the Rashids’ garage door behind him. To remove the panties and photos, the one shadowing him would have to be adept at lock picking.
Who, damn it?
He took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. He prided himself on never becoming upset, never emotionally involved. This was a job, and he a professional.
And a professional could always out think an amateur.
He spent the rest of the day planning and making a few purchases. Mid afternoon he placed one call using his untraceable ATT Go Phone.
“Mrs. Woolbright?” he said when she answered, dropping his voice an octave. “Sorry to bother you. This is Harold Mapleton with the Suffolk County parole board.”
“Parole board? I have nothing to do with the parole board.”
“Of course you don’t, Mrs. Woolbright. But your neighbor, Cletus Longwell, does. I’m his parole officer.”
“What? He’s on parole? For what?”
“Grand theft. But he won’t be on parole much longer. His three years will be up next month and I’m just calling to see what kind of neighbor he’s been. Any reported thefts around the neighborhood? Anything missing from your premises?”