After Midnight

10
THE THIRD KEY

SHIT!
I had to go back again.
Almost nobody tapes their own telephone conversations, but damn near everyone has a redial button.
After our talk, Tony’d had no time to make another call. He’d probably dropped everything, grabbed his gun, rushed out to his car and sped over to guard me.
So a touch of the redial button on his phone would place a call to Serena’s phone.
Unless the cops were very stupid or careless, they’d pay me a visit within hours of finding Tony’s body.
I had to take care of the redial.
I turned around and headed back.
This is crazy!
But what choice did I have?
When you kill someone, you’ve got to clean up afterward. Not just the body and gore, but the rest of the pieces, too. Tripometers, telephone messages, redials, the whole nine yards.
It sucks big.
If you don’t take care of every detail, you go down.
Not me.
When I was about to cross the last intersection before Tony’s building, a car turned onto the road a block to my right. I lurched backward fast, heart slamming. Before the car even got close, I found a good place to hide behind a clump of bushes. I crouched there, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down my face and trickling down the nape of my neck. Tony’s shirt clung to my back and sides. The seat of his jeans felt damp against my butt.
Waiting for the car to pass, I picked up the front of the shirt and wiped my face.
And wished I were back home so I could jump into the swimming pool.
That suddenly made me picture the prowler in it, drifting on his back, and how the moonlight glinted on his body.
His gorgeous body.
Stop that! I told myself. He’s a disgusting pervert! And this is all his fault. If he hadn’t come along, Tony would still be alive. I wouldn’t be here in the bushes, hot and miserable and hiding like a criminal. And I wouldn’t need to break into Tony’s apartment in the middle of the night.
The car passed me and kept on going.
I stayed hidden for a while.
Cars have rearview mirrors.
When it was out of sight, I stood up, plucked the clinging clothes away from my skin, and returned to the street corner.
I stared at Tony’s building.
Talk about pressing your luck.
I felt like running away.
But the details had to be taken care of, or I’d be sunk.
I started to cross the street.
What’ll I do when I’m inside?
1. Find Tony’s telephones. (Remember, he might have more than one.)
2. Make a few random calls on any phones I find to make absolutely sure redial won’t give away Serena’s number. (Also, if the cops manage to check Tony’s phone records, there’ll be calls originating from his place after the one to Serena. That should help.)
3. Check around to make sure there’s no tape recording of his call. If there is, take it. But there won’t be.
4. How about leaving his wallet and keys in his room? That way…
No, I’d better keep them. No telling where my fingerprints might be. And what if I should need his keys again, later on? Keep that stuff and get rid of it later.
Anything else while I’m in his room?
Just be careful about fingerprints and stuff.
And don’t get caught.
What if he has a roommate?
That idea gave me a scare, but only for a few seconds. Tony was twenty-eight years old. Apparently, he’d just moved into the new place because of Judy. He’d loved her so badly. They’d spent so much time together at his old place that he just couldn’t stand to be there without her.
A guy like that doesn’t have a roommate.
Probably.
The danger would be from tenants of other apartments who might notice me in the building’s entryway and corridors.
Nobody’ll see me. Not at this hour of the night.
What about security cameras?
As I approached the front stairs, I spread the collar of my shirt and lifted it, pulling the shirt up to hide most of my face.
You didn’t do this in the parking lot, stupid.
Fear slammed through me again.
Had there been security cameras in the parking lot?
I didn’t know.
I hadn’t noticed any, but I hadn’t been looking, either.
Instead of climbing the stairs to the front doors, I made a third trip to the parking lot. This time, I searched high and low for video cameras.
I was awfully damn shaken up.
What the hell would I do if I found cameras?
I didn’t have the slightest idea, but I’d probably be sunk. There I’d be on video tape somewhere, delivering Tony’s car in the middle of the night—even wiping it for prints!
I felt sick inside just thinking about it.
Thank God, there didn’t seem to be any video equipment down there.
As you might’ve already noticed, the parking lot didn’t have a gated entrance, either. Anyone could’ve driven or walked in, as I proved. Frankly, the lot had no security whatsoever.
Nor did the rest of the building, as I soon found out.
This might surprise some of you. You might even think I’m lying. Because if you live in a place like Los Angeles or New York City, you probably think every apartment house in the world has security measures like a Wells Fargo bank.
But you’re wrong.
In Chester, we did have plenty of buildings designed to foil criminals. But we also had some that were wide open—ungated, unguarded, uncameraed, and virtually unlocked. They were usually older places that didn’t charge you a fortune in rent.
They aren’t only in Chester, either.
I’d lived in a few of them, myself, before coming to town and moving in over Serena and Charlie’s garage. They weren’t so bad. You had to worry about prowlers, but at least you had your freedom. You weren’t locked in a cage, and your every move wasn’t caught on video tape. There’s a lot to be said for that.
Even if you aren’t doing something bad.
If you are up to no good, a lack of security is splendid.
After finishing my search for video cameras, I didn’t even bother going back outside. I just trotted up a stairway near the front of the parking lot, came to an unlocked door, opened it and found myself inside the foyer.
The foyer and corridor were dimly lighted.
I saw no one.
Nor did I hear any sounds from the rooms as I sneaked down the corridor looking for apartment 12.
Everyone’s asleep, I thought.
God, I hope so.
I felt like a wreck. My mouth was dry, my heart slamming, my whole body dripping with sweat. I was panting for air like a worn-out dog. And shaking like crazy.
The nasty green carpet silenced my footfalls.
But every so often, a board creaked.
What if somebody hears me?
What if a door suddenly opens?
A door wouldn’t even have to open—each had a peephole. Someone might look out at me and I’d never even know.
I felt sick with fear.
If anybody sees me, it blows the whole deal.
What’ll I do?
Pray it doesn’t happen.
At last, I came to number 12. As quietly as possible, I reached into the right front pocket of my cut-offs and pulled out Tony’s key case. I unsnapped it.
Of the six keys, two belonged to Tony’s car.
Four to pick from, but one of them didn’t really look like a room key. It might go to a padlock, or something.
So I selected a key from the remaining three.
You can’t fool around with a bunch of keys and not make some noise. They clinked and jingled, sounding awfully loud in the silence.
When I finally had the key pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I couldn’t hold it still. My hand shook so badly that the tip kept scraping around on the face of the lock, and wouldn’t go in the hole.
At last, it went in.
But just the point of it. I tried to force it in the rest of the way, but it wouldn’t go.
When that sort of thing happens, sometimes you’ve got the key upside down. So I turned it over and tried again.
No luck.
Wrong key.
With more clinking and jingling, I fumbled about for key number two.
By the time I had it ready, my hand was shaking worse than ever. The key bumped and scratched against the lock, and kept missing the hole. I used my left hand to hold my right hand steady. That didn’t help a lot, but it helped some. Enough.
I made it to the hole.
This time, the key slid in all the way.
Yes!
But I couldn’t turn it.
Shit!
No matter how hard I twisted the key, all it did was rattle deep inside the lock somewhere. It wouldn’t turn. The damn thing seemed to be frozen in an upright position.
Letting the bunch of keys dangle, I looked at my hand. I had a red imprint on my thumb and forefinger.
I wiped my hand dry on the front of my shirt, then tried again. This time, I twisted the key so hard that I started to worry about breaking it.
So I quit and let go again.
What the hell is wrong? I wondered. The key fit. It had gone in all the way. Why wouldn’t it turn?
Maybe it’s the wrong damn key.
But it fit!
Sure. Okay. It’s the right size to go in the hole, but not completely right.
Obviously not right enough to unlock the door.
I jerked it out, turned it over, then tried to stick it back in.
This time, it would only go halfway in.
I muttered, “Shit,” yanked it out, then fumbled for the third key. And dropped the whole case. It landed on the carpet in front of the door with a quiet thump and a loud jangle.
I crouched and grabbed it.
Then stood again, holding my breath and glancing up and down the corridor.
Nothing happened.
I took a deep breath, sighed with relief, and got back to work.
Having dropped the case, I’d lost track of the third key.
All three “door” keys—including the two failures—looked pretty much alike.
So I picked one at random.
As I aimed it for the lock hole, the door swung open in front of my face.