The gate lock takes me ten seconds to pick, allowing me into the small, secluded entranceway, littered with old running shoes and a can of sand filled with cigarette butts. A flawed and idiotic set up in home design. You’re just giving people like me cover while they spend the extra time to pick your dead bolt and get into your house. Of course, a dead bolt isn’t child’s play. It would cause issues for a local thug looking to lift a TV or cash, but it’s not going to stop a guy like me, who was picking locks for fun long before I had any real reason to.
I’m inside in another thirty seconds, securing the door quietly behind me. I stop to listen for creaks and voices, the cold metal of my Beretta pressed against my leg, ready to be pulled out of my boot if necessary. I’m ninety-five percent certain that no one else is here. The guy who jumped into an airport taxi this morning with a suitcase was clearly leaving, and there were no signs of anyone else here after the girl left for the shop.
Ned Marshall was an avowed bachelor, that much is obvious. A few mismatched chairs are scattered throughout the living room, a four-person glass-and-brass table with tall-backed white kitchen chairs—the ones from the eighties, with the trademark blue, green, and pink patterned cushions—fill the dining room. My parents had those when I was growing up.
The walls are a faded mint green, probably painted by the previous owner, or maybe an ex-wife, and empty save for a few Zeppelin and Willie Nelson posters. In my initial scan, I see nothing of value, other than the fifty-inch flat-screen hanging on the wall and the corner cabinet of liquor bottles.
But there may be something of worth within these walls. Something that will destroy all the good work that Alliance has done if it gets into the wrong hands.
I slip on my gloves and begin my search.
This is what happens when you put a bullet in a guy’s head before you get the fucking information that you need out of him.
I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead with my forearm, my frustration settling uncomfortably on my nerves. I’ve searched under every piece of furniture, in and behind every drawer. I even crawled through the narrow attic.
There’s no videotape.
If it’s not in this bedroom, then it’s not in this house.
I check my watch, keenly aware of the time and how long I’ve been here. Hours. It’s six now. I’m guessing that the girl doesn’t often come home to eat, given that a look inside the fridge revealed nothing but soda cans and ketchup. Still, I’ve mapped my escape route. The window in the back bedroom, which lets out above a small shed in the prison-cell-size concrete backyard, will work if I need it.
Strolling over to the unmade mattress that sits on the carpet, I crouch down to lift red lace panties lying haphazardly on top. This is obviously the girl’s room. It feels like it would be her room. Chaotic. Clothes are scattered all over the floor, overflowing from the open suitcase that lies there. That’s probably been sitting there since she landed in San Francisco seven months ago.
With only a two-drawer chest and a small closet for her clothes, she could use the lack of storage space as an excuse. With a recent death in her family, she could use the excuse of being in mourning. But my five-minute read of her today told me she’s the type that just doesn’t give a shit about order on any given day.
I, on the other hand, thrive on order.