Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

The first barrier was a piece of shit that could be flipped with a flick of a credit card. The second was a dead bolt, a little more challenging but nothing that couldn’t be taken care of with a good set of lock picks. The last obstacle was a chain-a snap once he finished off the dead bolt. He could have cracked the locks sooner except that the policia had nothing better to do than to search the rear area, shining their flashlights over the backyard. On a brick patio was a barbecue and a set of patio furniture-table and stackable chairs. If he had more time and a bigger truck, he would have helped himself to the set, but he had a job to do.

The first time the policia had come in the back, he’d been caught off guard. Didn’t even hear them until they were almost on top of him. He’d been one kissed cholo because he’d been kneeling, rifling through his bags to get his tools. He was dressed in black, too, making him hard to see. And he’d been extra lucky because he had just taken out the lightbulb over the back door. Even the cops said something about it, that the light must have gone out. But the two fat asses had been too lazy to investigate. They looked around for a minute and then went back to their cruiser, sitting on their butts, probably stuffing their ugly faces with coffee and doughnuts.

He had to work quickly in case they returned a second time. His only illumination came from a penlight. Couldn’t see too well, but that was okay. Most of the work was done by feel. The scratching of the tools seemed to make more noise than usual, and he was a little worried about that because the neighborhood was quiet. Maybe the dude heard something. But now, the apartment seemed dark and still. All was right.

As he worked, he thought about how far he had come. He was a fucking pro now, not some shitty, dime-bag drug runner for some other little fuck who was a step higher on the ladder. No more of that shit: he was one of the big boys. And like all pros, he had done his homework, scoping the layout of the place and checking the mark. The gringo was protected and that was a pain in the ass, but he had taken down bigger marks. Being closer to the top meant he had to deliver. The fuck if he was gonna let a few dumb cops stop him.

So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

When he was sure that all was clear, he tiptoed into his spot at the back door and pulled out his lock picks: a set of sixteen manufactured in the highest quality of stainless steel. He liked the feel of the sharp points and the heft of the handles.

He sandwiched the penlight between his chin and his chest, trying to aim the beam at the keyhole.

There was enough light for him to see the sweet spot and with a single swoop, he inserted two picks inside the keyhole. Jiggling them around, he tried to feel the click of the tumblers.

He jiggled and jiggled and jiggled. But nothing happened.

Huh!

Well, maybe it was going to be a little harder than he thought.

He let the picks dangle from the keyhole and shut off the penlight. Then he worked by his sense of touch only. It was smart to be in darkness anyway. With the sky being black with no moon out tonight, a penlight could give him away as easily as a spotlight. After a few minutes, he decided that he needed a different set of picks. He carefully chose another set of steel points and put the first two picks in the leather holder.

Scratching and scratching inside the keyhole, trying to feel the tumblers. Yeah, this time, things were working better. He heard the first click of a tumbler falling into place, then the second, and finally the third. As the dead bolt gave, he slowly opened the door.

The chain was connected, but getting that puppy off was no big deal. You insert the tool, move the door until it was just about closed, then slide the lock over the…

His ears perked up.

Someone was talking…a woman with a couple of guys.

He heard the beep of a walkie-talkie.

It was cop talk.

He didn’t like that at all.

Hurry up, hurry up.

For the first time tonight, he began to sweat. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He always had a plan, and he usually had time.

His hands began to shake.

Concentrate, motherfucker, concentrate!

Sliding the lock past…hearing the chain drop. Not the most elegant of jobs but it was over. Within seconds, he had slipped inside.

He flipped the dead bolt back into place and replaced the chain.

The cops could talk as much as they wanted now. He was safe inside-exactly where he wanted to be.

THIS WASN’T A dream.

The scratching sounds were real. The smell was real-sweat and fear from a man.

Harriman knew he was in trouble.

As perspiration poured down his face and back, he sat up, his hands shaking as he reached over to his nightstand and groped for his cell phone. In the process, he knocked over the remote control to the TV. It fell to the ground with a muffled thud.

Did he hear it? Hopefully not. Thank God for carpets.

More fumbling until there it was in his hot, wet hands, the metal feeling cool and sleek. Depressing the button to turn it on. The man was getting bolder, walking around, not even bothering to tiptoe, his footsteps easily perceived.

He heard the phone’s jingle as he turned it on. It seemed to take forever. He spoke into the autodial.

911.

A moment later, the voice on the telephone.

911, what’s your emergency?

Talking as calmly and clearly as he could, but his voice sounded foreign to his ears.

Someone’s broken into my condo.

What is the address, sir?

His mind went momentarily blank.

What was his address?

One breath, two breaths…ah, yes.

He told the lovely 911 lady his address.

Someone will be out right away.

Hurry, please! I’m blind!

When he hung up, he remembered the cops in front of his unit. Then how did this happen? Were they asleep? Did Decker lie and pull them off the job without telling him?

How the fuck did this break-in happen?

Do something, you wimp!

Think, think!

He kept his phone in his hand and silently eased himself out of bed, dropping to the floor and sliding under his bed. He was naked and shivering, but it wasn’t from cold. He was sandwiched between the carpet and the mattress so he was warm enough, but he couldn’t get rid of the internal chill of dread. He tried to concentrate on what was happening inside his condo, but his breathing was so loud it was as if he was listening with cotton in his ears.

Steady, steady.

Concentrate.

The enemy was in the kitchen. Harriman could hear him clicking the light switch on and off. The bastard wouldn’t get any help there. Harriman never bothered to put any bulbs in the ceiling fixtures.

Why pay for electricity that you’re never going to use?

THE BEAMS FROM the flashlights crisscrossed the yard.

“I still don’t understand why you had to come down.” It was Bud Rangler talking. “Why not just call us up?”

He was clearly miffed, but so was Marge. The man was giving her attitude that she didn’t need at 12:30 in the night. Rangler was a punching bag on legs-a big barrel chest with short, muscular limbs. In his late twenties, he’d been on the force for five years. He seemed to regard Marge’s personal appearance as an affront to his competence.

“When the boss says go, I go.” Marge added, “Not a bad thing to remember, Officer.”

The second uniform on watch, Mark Breslau, was the older of the two and more seasoned. He was an eleven-year vet, and time had mellowed his machismo. “You’re the boss, Sergeant. I think Bud just wanted you to know that we’re doing our job. We’ve been checking out the back every couple of hours.”

“You can see for yourself, Sergeant,” Rangler said. “Nothing’s been disturbed.”