Steve Martini - The Jury

“I thought about that. I tried calling Frank’s house earlier. There was no answer.”

“You think he’s done something to them?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping maybe Doris took the kids and went somewhere. At the moment, Frank seems to be on a flat trajectory, single-minded. I think his sights right now are fixed on Tash. In his mind, he’s racing against time. I’ll check on Doris as soon as we’re done here.”

“That could be dicey,” says Harry.

“I know. I can drop you somewhere before I go over there.”

“Fat chance,” says Harry. “Just so long as you understand I’m not blocking any bullets for you.”

I smile at him. “Let’s see if we can find Tash.”

As Harry and I open the doors to the car we can hear the crash of surf on the other side of the development. The condos back up on the cliffs overlooking the beach. We check the numbers on the mailboxes. They are clustered in groups, by address, with unit numbers assigned to each box.

We find Tash’s mailbox, unit 312.

“Third floor. Up top,” says Harry. We head up the walkway toward the door. When we get there, it’s locked.

“We could wait until somebody comes out,” says Harry.

On the wall next to the door is a speaker for an intercom system, with buttons lining the wall, names penciled on placards next to them.

I press one of the numbers on the second floor and wait a moment. Nobody answers. I try another. A voice comes over the intercom.

“Yeah.”

I look at another name, this time from the first floor hoping they won’t know each other. “This is Mr. Symington in one-oh-eight. I left my key in the lock to my apartment. I wonder, could you let me in?”

Whoever it is doesn’t respond, but a second later there is a quick buzz and the lock snaps open on the front door. Harry yanks on it, and we’re in. We move quickly up the stairs before the guy on two can check to see who came in.

By the time we get to the top floor, both Harry and I are sucking wind. He’s holding the back of his head like it’s going to come apart. I’m feeling like some NFL linebacker tattooed me in the chest with his helmet. We lean against the wall, catching our breath.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Gotta start jogging again,” he say.

“When did you ever jog?”

“When I was a kid,” he says. Harry winks at me.

I look at the number on the door across from the top of the stairs. Tash’s unit is to the right. We work our way down the hall, trying not to make the floor squeak as we walk. We pass four doors, two on each side of the hall, until we come to 312. Tash’s place is on the back side, an ocean view.

There’s a peephole in the center of the door at about eye height. I lean down and take a look. Shielding the light from around the lens, I try to peer through it backwards. All I can make out is light and dark, what appears to be an absence of any movement inside. A couple of points, specks of brightness, bleed rays of light. These, I assume, are lamps that have been left on.

“See anything?”

I shake my head. I put an ear next to the door and listen. Nothing.

“We could just knock,” Harry whispers.

I hold my hand up, shake my head.

Farther to the right there are two more apartment doors. Beyond that the hallway widens and forms a T. Quietly I move toward the intersection in the hall. On one side, in the intersecting hallway toward the front of the building, are two elevator doors. In the other direction, toward the ocean, is a sliding door leading out onto a veranda.

I head toward the sliding door. Harry follows. I flip the catch lock on the door’s handle, slide it open and step out onto the balcony. There is a brisk breeze off the Pacific, rising as it hits the cliffs below us. I slide the door closed, and Harry and I can talk.

“What do we do?” he says.

I’m looking toward the balcony outside of Tash’s unit. It’s about thirty feet away. I can see from here that the sliding door to the unit is partway open.

“I want to take a look inside that condo.”

“How?”

I look toward the balcony next to the one Harry and I are standing on. There’s a span of about six feet between metal railings, a three-story drop and jagged cliffs below that, white surf crashing on the rocks. I would have to negotiate two of these spans to make it to Tash’s balcony. It’s not a long reach. It’s just the fall if you miss.

“You’re crazy,” he says.

“Do you know any other way to get in there?”

“We could ring the buzzer. Knock on the door.”

“And what if Boyd is in there? He’ll kill Tash in an instant. Cut his throat and throw him off the balcony.” As I’m talking to Harry, I’m sliding the belt out of the loops in my pants. Leather, about an inch and a half wide.

“Give me your belt,” I tell him.

“I’m not going over there.”

“No, you’re not. I’m going alone.”

“As long as we have that settled.” Harry whips his belt out of the loops of his suit pants and hands it to me. I string the two belts together, putting the tip of one belt through the buckle of the other, the tongue through the first hole, and pull on them making sure they will support my weight. Then I loop the belt over the steel railing and buckle the ends together. I adjust it for length, and look at Harry.

“Wish me luck.” I ease myself over the railing, my feet through the wrought-iron spindles so that my toes are supported by the concrete deck of the veranda. Harry has me by one arm looking at me like I’m crazy. He is no doubt right.

I slip my right foot into the loop made by the belts and use it to swing out just a little at first, testing it. I can feel the pain in my chest pulling where Boyd nailed me.

Then, with my foot in the belt supporting my weight, one hand on the railing near Harry, I swing out once, come back; swing out twice. On the third try I catch the far railing, plant my foot through the spindles and in less than two seconds I’m over the railing.

I signal to Harry to uncouple the belts, and carefully he tosses them to me. I set up the arrangement on the far railing nearest to Tash’s apartment. I avoid looking down, though it’s hard to ignore the sound of the crashing surf below me.

I swing out. This time I catch the railing on the second try, put my free foot through the spindles and ease myself over the railing. Now the belts are behind me, left on the other balcony. The only way out is through the door in Tash’s apartment.

The slider is open about four inches. The vertical blinds are pitched so that I can see everything in one direction, the right side of the room. To the left, visibility is more obscured by the canted blinds that dance and clatter in the breeze from the open door.

There is no other movement in the living room. Two lamps are on. I slip my shoes off and step to the other side of the balcony. From here I can see slivers of the kitchen, visible through the openings as the blinds waft back and forth. Though I can’t see it all, there are no shadows being cast, and the kitchen lights are all on. If there was an energy crisis, you wouldn’t know it from Tash’s condo.

There’s a smaller window a few feet over from the sliding door. This looks into the bedroom. While the lights are off in this room, I have no difficulty seeing in, reflected light streaming down the hallway. The bed is neatly made. I can see the door to the master bath. There’s no one home.

I signal to Harry, shaking my head. He hangs by the railing, watching. I motion that I’m going in. He nods.

I pick up my shoes and quietly slide open the door, stepping through the vertical blinds.

I am focused to the front, the hallway off to my right, the kitchen to the left, sock toes buried in the deep pile of Tash’s carpeted living room, wondering what I’m doing breaking and entering, stealing across some stranger’s living room with my shoes in my hand.