Zipper Fall (2 page)

Stop now. Go back. Take a trip out of town.

“What’s his place like?” my mouth asked Reyna while I sat aghast in my body, along for the ride.

M
Y
TWISTED
sense of curiosity led me to spy on my new target at his Shadyside address within a day after I found out about his impending absence. Then, after keeping an eye on his third-floor apartment over the weekend, I was gratified to see him—the bane of my best friend’s existence—exit the front door with an overnight bag in his hand. I shifted from foot to foot, thinking about having to use the bathroom exactly as my stomach began to squeak for lunch. Just about then he got into his taxi and left.

When somebody gets into a taxi with a piece of luggage, it generally means they’ll be gone for a while, but relying on this truism is unwise. It is always prudent to call before breaking in. And once you approach the residence, it’s imperative to ring the doorbell. This prevents the burglar’s unexpected contact with dogs, house sitters, irate spouses—and the local police department. I took a deep breath and went home to eat lunch. As I walked away, I began to formulate a plan. I knew what I would wear and what I would bring along, as well as how long it would be safe to stay. And, of course, I had to call his home number first to make sure he was really gone.

Jack Azurri’s apartment was in a turn-of-last-century apartment building lush with neo-classical embellishments chiseled into its stone façade by long-dead Slovak immigrants who made Pittsburgh their home. Typical for this part of town, it was five stories high, with wide parapets connecting the adjacent windows along each floor. Its façade was covered with a vining Art Nouveau floral motif, and its chased-brass-and-glass door pointed to the importance of its residents. In my professional career as a burglar, I have learned to assess the inner characteristics of buildings by examining their external architectural elements. Just looking from across the street, for instance, I could already see the ceilings would be tall. That could be both good and bad—it meant a longer rappel off the roof and a possible lack of an elevator. It could also indicate a resident population flush with cash and collections of small, easy-to-fence
objets d’art
they would never realize were missing. I’d take just enough to feel Reyna was properly avenged, and my profit would contribute extra funds to our best-friends tropical vacation.

T
HAT
afternoon, nervous yet excited, I called the number for Mr. Azz-hole’s residence. Nobody picked up. If you want to break into a place, your best bet is to do it during the day while wearing a service uniform. People will remember the uniform, not your face. As for me, looking like a computer-repair tech with a messenger bag full of tools lent an air of verisimilitude to my disguise. The plan was to just walk up to the door and knock. If anybody opened, I would just pretend I’d gotten out on the wrong floor.

My dark blond locks and tendrils were temporarily tamed under a dark, microfiber skullcap. The repairman hat I wore over it had a sewn-in half wig with short, dark hair attached around the perimeter. My blue-striped shirt sported a tag embroidered with the name
Lloyd
and a logo for my supposed employer, WTF Service. Clad in navy chinos and black, crepe-soled shoes for a quiet approach and a fast getaway, I sauntered in, striving to look tired. Three in the afternoon on a Saturday, and to all uninitiated observers, I was stuck working.

The building’s doorman sat behind a chest-high marble counter, trying to follow a ball game on a portable television.

“Hey. What’s the score?” I asked, pitching my voice a bit deeper than usual.

He uncoiled his long body, carded his stringy black hair with his fingers, and spared me a glance. “Three-two, bottom of the sixth, bases loaded.”

“Oh man.” I let out an exasperated moan. “I coulda been at that game. Had to give the tickets away—just when the Pirates might actually win!”

“No shit?” The doorman, a Mr. Haus according to his name tag, turned toward me.

“Yeah. Then a client called. Wants to have a virus removed off his system and new RAM installed. Can’t get a thing done now. Poor jackass.” I blew out some hot air. “Sucks working Saturdays, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“Yeah.” Haus’s eyes flicked back toward the game. “Strikeout! Shit!”

“Wow, damn. That coulda been sweet. Three more innings, though.”

Haus glanced my way. “They shouldn’t have benched Gonzalez. Here, you sign in here. Where’re you goin’?”

I signed my fake name and time of entry. “Mr. Azurri. Third floor.”

“He’s gone.”

“Yeah. He told me in no uncertain terms he wants the system running like a Swiss watch by the time he’s back, too. Loud bastard. He gave me a key.”

“He sure is a loud bastard.” Haus nodded with a sneer, his eyes on the game again. I peeled away from the counter and headed toward the elevator. Nobody attempted to stop me.

Azurri’s door had a regular lock and two dead bolts, which told me he knew a bit about not putting all his eggs in one basket. I knocked on the door and rang the doorbell with the knuckle of my finger, mostly for the benefit of his neighbors. Nobody opened the door to see who was in the hallway. I snapped on latex gloves and reached for the picks in the bottom of my tool bag. The regular lock was butter soft and turned almost on command. The deadbolts took a bit more convincing. After a bit of patience, I felt rather than heard a sharp metallic sound, and a tendril of thrill ran up my spine as the tumblers turned and aligned, and the mechanism yielded to my desires.

A
S
SOON
as I was in, I locked the door again so nobody would disturb me. Then I did a quick walk-through. The apartment had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge dining room, and a living room separated into what at first glance seemed to be a junkyard jammed with yard-sale goods with only a small, modern oasis of order with a flat-screen TV.

I’ve said before that I can judge the character of a person by the way they keep their dwelling and belongings. Looking around, I’d have guessed Mr. Azz-hole suffered from a split personality disorder. His kitchen was immaculate. His freezer contained not only five gourmet frozen dinners but also the fairly common stash of cash. Lots of people hid their emergency funds in the back of their freezer, thinking it was so clever and original.

Frozen assets: about five grand.

Not much for a successful stockbroker. I palmed the icy Ziploc bag and slipped it into my cargo pocket. The act of theft sent familiar, spine-tingling warmth across my shoulder blades, wrapping me like a warm hug. I was focused and my hearing sharpened to a point where I filtered out even my own heartbeat and the hum of the refrigerator. I froze for a second, halted by the sound of the elevator opening and closing again. A few moments of stillness passed before I dared to exhale and examine my surroundings with a keener eye.

One of the bedrooms was right over Bellefonte Avenue. The room’s dark, elegant furniture was complemented by several Tokugawa-era Japanese prints. The nightstands, the bureau—all clean. Azurri’s personal effects must have been minimal. How surprising, then, that the second bedroom—the one with a window onto the alley and the fire escape—was cluttered with boxes piled on top of one another, with full bags of material ensnaring my feet. I didn’t even bother wading in because I didn’t care for bruising my shins on odd pieces of furniture. I felt a brief sense of relief that I chose not to enter via the fire escape. Had I tried to climb in through the window on the other end of all that junk and make my way across in the dark, I’d have sounded like two raccoons fighting in a garbage can.

The bathrooms were both clean. The first was empty of towels and toiletries altogether; the other held personal items and first-aid supplies. A plush, black cotton terry robe hung on the door, waiting to wrap its owner in warm comfort. Its pockets were free of diamonds, cash, or contraband. So were all other potential hiding places in both bathrooms: the toilet tanks held only water, there was nothing terribly valuable in the cabinets, and the plumbing access contained only pipes and a dead spider.

The dining room, on the other hand, had every single surface covered with collectible objects of various sizes. There were four half-opened cardboard boxes on the floor.

How did this seemingly neat and tidy individual amass such a wealth of knick-knacks? I walked through, not spending much time. Only a few items caught my attention. There were four English silver candy dishes, circa 1820s, and since their design and quality varied, I picked one of medium value; the nicest one would have been the first to be missed. I found a fabulous carving of a tiger, probably an antique ivory piece with ruby eyes, but the way it was displayed told me its absence would be noted, so I left it.

Thirty minutes had passed and I knew I had to get out soon. Computer maintenance wasn’t all that complicated these days, and the guy downstairs might start to get suspicious. I looked around, frantic to find the magical third secret treasure to satisfy me. One more thing… just one more little thing.

My eyes fell on a midsize painting centered over the dining-room sideboard. The subject matter was neo-classical, but the quality… awful. I peered a little closer. A decent frame was being wasted on a cheap print with a paint-like acrylic layer on top. Mr. Azurri might have been an asshole, but judging from his other decorations, he was a man of taste when it came to art, so why would he display such fake trash in such a prominent location?

The frame seemed a tad thick. I jostled it with a gentle hand and almost jumped when it swung to the side on a column of piano hinges and revealed a small wall safe.

Bingo!

Safecracking was something of a hobby of mine, and my fingers itched with the desire to turn the dial and make the mechanism sing for me. Time, however, was not on my side. I closed the painting. There would have to be another visit.

T
WO
days passed since my illicit adventure. Tuesday at work paled in comparison with the thrill of the untouched safe in the wall, and I was aching to get out of the office. My venture had earned $5,380, mostly in hundreds—enough for a Caribbean getaway for both Reyna and me. The antique candy dish of wrought silver sat on my dining table, where I could admire its fine workmanship.

As I sipped my tea that night and ate chocolate-dipped orange peel out of my newly acquired and soon-to-be-fenced silver candy dish, I thought back to the apartment. I could never get in the same way again. And next time, it would have to be a night job. The summer was pleasantly warm, and it wasn’t unusual for people to leave their windows open. I had eased the locks of the old-world type casement window frames in the bedroom just so I could push my way in later tonight.

E
LEVEN
o’clock could never come soon enough as the far-away wall safe kept crooning its siren song. I barely resisted biting my nails. My microwave clock showed I still had ten minutes to go before departure when, impatient, I pulled on my lightweight, dark green jacket and a baseball cap, hoisted my black backpack, and headed out the door. I walked, using the next twenty minutes to calm down and control my adrenaline levels. I still could back out. I didn’t have to go through with it. The idea died young: it was like paying the entry fee to a public swimming pool and then talking myself out of getting into the water. There was no way I wasn’t getting inside that apartment tonight.

Two blocks away from Azurri’s apartment, I ducked inside an entryway and stuffed my jacket and baseball cap inside the bag. I caught my hair up in my black skullcap, hiding every single strand by feel alone. The black hood of my sweatshirt covered my head as I continued to my target area.

The windows in the corner of the third floor were dark. I dialed the number on my cell phone anyway, but nobody picked up. I sucked in a deep breath.

Shit.
I was really going in. I did my phone-check routine, making sure it was on vibrate and the camera flash was off. I also set it on redial, just in case someone was home and I had to distract them—even though that never happened. As a last step, I covered the phone’s screen with three strips of electrical tape. That way, if I had to use it in the dark, I wouldn’t make a target out of myself.

The service entrance in the alley wasn’t equipped with an alarm, and the lock wasn’t hard. Somebody must have miscalculated, thinking there was no point protecting a self-closing door next to a Dumpster. I slipped in like a shadow and took the service elevator all the way up. There was a narrow staircase from the fifth floor to the roof. I took it to an unlocked door. It creaked only a little as I pushed it open, but even that little sound almost made my heart stop. I scanned the flat, asphalt roof and the vents and chimneys to my left. The edge of the roof was to my right. Working fast, I reached inside my backpack and slipped a climbing harness over my black cargo fatigues. I slid my silenced phone into a secure side pocket. The other pocket held my flashlight. I pulled a coil of climbing rope out of the backpack and fastened it to a sturdy chimney. Before I knew it, my feet were anchored on the rim of the ledge and, with the rope wound behind my butt and through my self-belay device, I leaned back over the abyss.

I grinned as the thrill of being suspended over a street threatened to overcome my senses— alone in the dark, unseen. Slowly, I slipped my soft black shoes down the side of the building in careful steps as I fed extra rope through my harness. The soles of my feet felt every contour of the vines and flowers carved into the acid-rain roughened stone, giving me extra purchase. I descended past the glowing fifth-floor window and the dark fourth-floor window, and I had just started to breathe a bit harder when, finally, the third-floor window appeared. I stood on the generous parapet and unclipped myself and let the rope hang by my side. Slowly, I pushed in the glass panes.