Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

He repeated the process on both the west and north cameras, throwing a virtual blanket over any occurrence in the parking lot for the next quarter hour. He pulled the radio from his pocket and thumbed the talk button three times.

Sam Dreyfus was painfully thin but for a small beer gut that hung over his crocodile belt. He was dressed in a pair of tan chinos and a white oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His matching Crocs loafers completed an ensemble not worn by most thieves. His brown hair was parted to the side and had yet to see the onset of gray, while his eyes were bloodshot and tired, a fact currently hidden behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses.

At forty-nine, Sam felt at once young and yet painfully old. Living life without a care, running off and doing as he pleased had been his habit, had been his reputation since he was a teenager, but it was a reputation in conflict with how he felt.

The shadow cast by his brother, Paul, was enormous. Most people forgot Sam’s name, referring to him only as Paul’s brother. He would grow particularly angry when people said, “Oh, I didn’t know the Dreyfuses had two sons.”

From a young age, Sam didn’t measure up-in their parents’ eyes or in those of the public-so he chose to run in the opposite direction of his brother.

Sam slipped in with a bad crowd and found drugs and alcohol, fighting and mischief to be more his speed. He enjoyed the high, the rebellious pleasure of the moment.

At the age of seventeen, Sam ran off to Canada, not so much because he was afraid of going to war but because he knew it would piss off his father. He became the proverbial black sheep, something that, at last, gave him his own identity.

Over the years, he dabbled in various business ventures-real estate, finance, marketing-always looking to be the man at the top but never lasting more than a year at the bottom. He knew he was smart, he was just never given a chance.

But despite his failings, Paul had always looked out for him. He gave him a job when he needed it. Kept him on the payroll in perpetuity. Even gave him a piece of the company so he had something to leave his kids. Paul never spoke a word about his mistakes. Despite the vitriol and disappointment from his father, Paul had never passed judgment on him.

And then, about a year ago, Sam had faced reality. Sam’s house, Sam’s life existed by the sheer grace of his brother. He finally admitted to himself what he had known all along: He was nothing more than a charity case. Paul had felt sorry for him and had looked out for him as a result of pity.

And it angered Sam, it enraged him, it focused him.

He called Paul, told him he wanted to work, truly work, and took a real job at his brother’s company. He showed up every day, worked a full eight hours, pulled in business, and for once actually accomplished something. He found himself tired, more tired than he had ever been, but it came with a sense of accomplishment.

And his drive continued for over six months, at which point Paul rewarded him. And this time, it was not out of pity but out of gratitude, out of pride for his accomplishments. Sam became more integrated in the company, his brother looking at him as a full partner, providing him with full access to the security company’s jobs, technologies, and strategies.

It was on a Wednesday evening in January, in the dark days of winter. Alone in his office after seven, he was educating himself, reading through the secure files, when he came upon the name of Shamus Hennicot, a name renowned for its wealth and generosity, a man whose worth was well into the billions of dollars.

Paul handled the account personally and not just on a relationship, transactional basis. He actually did the installation, designing the high-tech security system himself, something he usually left to underlings. And that piqued Sam’s curiosity. He dug deeper into Paul’s files, learning of the unique access systems, alarms, and surveillance designs that had created a vaultlike environment for Hennicot’s prized art collection.

With an even more focused eye, Sam uncovered the inventory of Hennicot’s minimuseum. Antique weapons, jewels, paintings, sculptures, with appraised values noted for each item, from the hundreds of thousands to the tens of millions. Paul had designed display cases for the antique weapons, humidity-controlled rooms for the artwork, pressure-sensitive stands for the sculptures, and a special octagonal key for the main vault door.

But what stopped Sam cold was the special box built personally by Paul in his home. Unlike every other security item in the secure sanctuary, this one had no plans, no specs. It simply said Mahogany Box. Size: two feet square, one foot high. Contents: personal & confidential. There was a special safe purchased for it, a special hidden room constructed for it, all without any indication of its contents.

Sam’s curiosity went through the roof. He searched every file, every cabinet, every drawer of his brother’s office until he finally came upon the handwritten note in Paul’s private shop. It was a crumpled-up five-by-seven piece of lined paper in his tool box. It wasn’t detailed. It seemed cryptic if one didn’t know what one was looking at.

And as Sam read the handwritten note, he found something that could change his life, that would give him the wealth, the power, but most of all, the respect he so desired to emerge from Paul’s shadow.

The case was designed to guard the family secrets, the knowledge that had been passed down from father to son to grandson.

Sam finally smiled, for he knew what was in the box.

Over the next four months, Sam secured copies of the floor plans and the camera positions. He found the special codes needed for obtaining keys and pass cards. He procured combinations and access codes, most of which were in Paul’s personal file, a file that Paul gave him access to, a file whose access he said was only worthy of a brother, of a partner.

After scoping out the property, Sam found the perfect inside man at the Byram Hills Police Department. Greedy and already corrupted, he would provide the manpower and knowledge to keep his law enforcement brethren at bay. The pieces had come together nicely. It was and would be his greatest accomplishment.

Sam actually thought of the undertaking as a victimless crime. The loss would be less than half a percent of the Hennicot family fortune, something earned back in just a few weeks of simple interest if not recouped from the insurance claim.

And the contents of the box… well, Sam thought, there was no way to put a price on it. Ideas weren’t insurable, secrets weren’t insurable. Without an heir, Shamus had no one to leave the box to, so why not let it reside with someone else for the future, why not let it reside with another family, with someone whose aspirations were greater than family trusts and security companies?

Sam would finally achieve success on his own terms. He would finally emerge from the shadow that had hung over him his entire life.

Within ten seconds of Sam’s thumbing the walkie-talkie, a green Taurus drove in and parked in the back lot of Washington House, followed by a white Chrysler Sebring. Dance stepped from the driver’s seat of the Taurus while Randall and Johnny Arilio emerged from the Chrysler.

Arilio was a ten-year veteran, outgoing, with a big smile. He thought himself to be the most popular person in the police department, never realizing he just came off as obnoxious. At thirty-two, his long dark hair made him look like someone who couldn’t let go of his childhood. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, though he had actually hoped to find someone to settle down with. Unfortunately, with his champagne tastes and beer wallet, he never had the income to support the women he was attracted to.