CHAPTER 10
We returned to Cleveland on the back roads. Jack dropped me off a half mile from Aldrich’s place as he went to switch cars, renting another from a different agency, under a different name.
Aldrich was already home, his truck under the carport. It was past eight, getting dark, and I was able to slip into another carport across the road, where a few days worth of flyers in the mailbox told me the owners weren’t home. I had my tactical earpiece, but mostly what I picked up was conversations from the surrounding houses. I had binoculars, too, but I saw Aldrich pass a window only once.
An hour later a whispered, “Going okay?” had me scattering Skittles on the drive.
“Could you please warn me before you do that? Particularly when I’m wearing this?” I took the amplifier out and winced.
“Don’t need that shit. Dangerous.” He motioned at the bag of candy. “Found those?”
“Yes, and thank you.” They’d been in his equipment rucksack. “Although you might regret buying them for me now.” I bent to pick them up. “I can just see the headlines: ‘Professional Killer Leaves Behind Nothing but Skittles.’”
He chuckled and took a few from the bag.
“You don’t want these?” I held out the dirty ones. “Destroy the evidence?”
“You dropped them. You eat them.”
I pocketed the Skittles, wiped my hand on my jeans, and gave Jack an update.
He checked his watch. “Still early. You wanna come back? Break in later? Take a look around?”
That might seem risky, but searching for evidence of other crimes after we made Aldrich disappear would be riskier.
“Works for me.”
“Got a few hours then. Come on. Parked over—”
He stopped as a car drove past slowly.
“That same one went by a minute ago,” I said.
The car—a nondescript silver sedan—reached Aldrich’s drive and the brake lights flashed solid, as if the driver just found the place. He turned in, parked, and got out.
He was around Aldrich’s age. Average build. Dark haired with a beard and mustache, and dressed in jeans, a light jacket, and a ball cap. I could make out the Cleveland Indians emblem on the back of his coat, and when I looked through the binoculars, I could see it on his hat, too.
I didn’t manage to get the camera up before he turned away, but I snapped a few shots of him from the rear. I got a couple of his car, too, and the plate.
He was carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of pretzels. A buddy coming over to knock back a few on a Friday night. I lowered the camera, but I put my earpiece back in. I left it out slightly, motioning for Jack to listen. He nodded and leaned in, his hip brushing mine, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back.
The man reached the door and rapped. Aldrich answered.
“Hey, bud,” the visitor said. “Got your call. Sounded like you could use a little company. I brought friends.” He lifted the six-pack.
A chuckle from Aldrich. “Come on in.”
The door closed behind them, taking the conversation with it.
“Can you get around back?” Jack whispered.
I nodded.
“Do that. I’ll cover you. Follow if I can.”
It took me a while to get around to Aldrich’s small rear yard. It took Jack even longer to join me.
“Nothing,” I whispered when he found me, crouched between the garden shed and the back deck. “They went downstairs.” I gestured to a dimly lit basement window. “Wherever they are, there isn’t a window, and they’ve shut the door. All I can pick up is the TV. Baseball, I think. So now what?”
“Your call.”
“I’d like to wait. See if he starts talking about his day.”
Jack nodded and we settled in.
The game ended. The volume on the TV dropped enough for me to hear what sounded like preparations to leave. We decided I’d slip around front and see if I could get any photos of the friend.
I got to a hiding place as the friend was coming out the front door. He held it for a second, calling back, “Give me a call tomorrow. No, wait— Sunday would be better. Got the kids coming by tomorrow.” A short laugh. “Val would kill me if I forgot that.”
A pause as Aldrich must have replied.
“Sure, I’ll do that. Call me Sunday then. Have a good night.”
I took my photos as he headed to his car. When he drove off, I returned to Jack.
“The TV is still on,” I said as I picked up the sound from the house. “Can you tell where Aldrich is?”
“Downstairs again, seems like.”
“Okay, so . . . should we come back later or wait it out?”
“No need to wait.”
“Break in while he’s watching TV?”
Jack shrugged. “Room doesn’t have windows. Door seems closed.”
There are gadgets for detecting typical home security systems and even Jack uses one. Aldrich’s townhouse wasn’t armed. We had lock picks, too, but the rear door was unlocked, the faint smell of burgers suggesting he’d cooked dinner on the grill, then gone inside forgetting to relock the patio door.
I’d argue that the biggest security challenge isn’t alarms or locks—it’s pets. Even cats can be a pain in the ass. Once during recon a cat yowled for my attention so loudly that I’d taken off before the neighbors decided someone was being murdered. Neither Jack nor I picked up the scent of pets, but we scanned the kitchen for bowls, just in case. There were none.
Aldrich was the kind of housekeeper that gives bachelors a bad name, with a kitchen counter piled with dishes and takeout boxes, and clothing draped everywhere. Even surveying the mess made me twitch, the urge to tidy almost overwhelming.
While Jack was prowling, I headed upstairs. I wanted to look for souvenirs of past crimes. Many sex offenders keep them, and the most obvious place to find them is in the bedroom, which was the advantage to breaking in before Aldrich retired for the night.
At the top of the stairs, I found an office. Compared to the rest of the place, it was surprisingly tidy. Drawers were closed, paper stacked neatly—
A stair creaked. I was backing farther into the office when Jack whispered, “It’s me.”
He crested the steps. “Just thinking. Someone should watch Aldrich. You want it?”
I nodded and went down to the main level. The basement door was cracked open, the light on. The stairs came out in the laundry room where there was, unsurprisingly, no laundry—it was draped over everything upstairs. The area extended across the back of the house. Along the inside wall were three doors. The middle one was open an inch, and through it, I could see the faint blue glow of the television.
The earpiece meant I could pick up any sound from inside that room, but all I heard was the TV. Aldrich was settled in, maybe even asleep. If I could be sure he was sleeping, I could go back upstairs and help Jack search.
I moved as close to the door as I dared, then strained to listen when the TV chatter paused. But even with the earpiece, I heard only silence. That meant he was probably awake—his breathing too shallow for me to catch.
I could make out the TV screen now. There seemed to be a pinkish blob on it. I pulled out my binoculars. It took some adjusting, trying to magnify something less than ten feet away, but after a moment, the nickel-size blob came into view. It looked like . . .
It couldn’t be. I started to retreat. Then I stopped. I took a deep breath . . . and crept right to the opening, so close that I could see that blob and the tiny spots spattered over the beige carpet.
I pulled out my gun, put my gloved fingertips against the door, and pushed, braced for a cry of alarm. None came. I reached into my rucksack and took out a small mirror. Fingers trembling, I held it to the gap, adjusted the angle, and then . . .