Dirt

Chapter 7

The young man stood behind the stone wall that separated Central Park from Fifth Avenue and watched the front door of the apartment building from across the street through a pair of pocket binoculars. It was just before 2:00 A.M., and a couple were being deposited at the curb by a hired limousine.

The night doorman got the car door, then rushed ahead to open the building door for them. The young man watched him see the couple onto the elevator, then return to the lobby. The doorman picked up a clipboard, made some sort of mark, probably next to the couple’s name, then tossed the clipboard onto a desk, tipped his uniform hat back on his head, stretched and yawned, then sat down at the desk and rested his head on his arms. He had obviously checked in the last people for the night – all present or accounted for – and now there would be no one to disturb his sleep until the early birds went for their jogs.

The young man waited for another twenty minutes, checking the doorman frequently through the binoculars; finally, the man was clearly deeply asleep. The young man set a paper bag on top of the wall, placed his hands on the wall, and vaulted lightly over it. He picked up the paper bag and crossed Fifth Avenue. Traffic was very light at this hour. He checked his watch: just past 2:30 A.M.

He approached the door of the building without stealth, as if he were about to enter, then stopped and again checked the doorman, who was still sleeping soundly. He looked at the lobby floor: marble. Then he stepped into the shadows beside the door of the building, shucked off his sneakers, pulled out a pair of soft leather-soled bedroom slippers, put them on, then put the sneakers into the bag. He couldn’t afford squeaking noises from rubber soles on the marble floor. He checked the doorman again, then walked silently across the lobby to the elevator, which he already knew was very quiet, and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. The young man already knew a lot about the building and the apartment he was about to enter.

He stepped out of the elevator car and into a private vestibule. Only one apartment to a floor in this building. The door took nearly two minutes – a very good lock – and when he heard the bolt slide back he stopped, put away his lockpicks, took a stopwatch from his pocket, and pressed the start button. He had forty-five seconds, and he didn’t want to use more than thirty, if he could help it.

He opened the door, closed it behind him, and sprinted down a hall, across a large living room, and into the study. He knew that the occupants were away and that the maid’s room was all the way at the rear of the apartment, behind the kitchen. In the study, he opened a closet door, switched on the light, found the burglar alarm central control box, and fixed the stopwatch to it with a magnet glued to its back. Twelve seconds gone.

He opened the control box and began the process of disconnecting first the telephone line to the box, then the wire to the siren. This was necessary because he didn’t know the disarming code sequence. He looked at the watch; thirty-two seconds had passed. Not bad. The alarm would go off in thirteen seconds, and since he had done all he could, he would just have to wait and see what happened. At forty-five seconds there was an audible click and the sound of tone dialing from the central computer unit. No siren, and, since the telephone line had been disconnected, no phone call to the central security station of the alarm company. There was the possibility, though, that the disconnecting of the phone line had sent some sort of code to central security, so he would not dally.

The safe was conveniently located in the same closet as the alarm control box; he had examined it briefly on his previous visit. It was sturdy and electronically operated, requiring a four-digit code and a key to open the door. The key was absent, but the lock would not be a problem. He retrieved a small screwdriver from his tool kit and removed the battery access panel from the front of the safe, then took a palmtop computer from a jacket pocket. A wire attached to tiny alligator clips ran from the computer, and he attached the clips to the safe’s battery terminals. He had written a simple program for the computer that would start at the lowest possible four-digit number, then go to the highest possible four-digit number and back and forth until the safe clicked open. The process would be shortened by the fact that most of these electronic safe keypads would not allow the repetition of a number in the code, so there would be fewer codes to try. He had test-run the program, and he knew that it required nine minutes and eighteen seconds to try all the possible codes. He tapped the instructions into the small keyboard, and the program began to run. He set the computer on top of the alarm control panel and settled in to wait. Four minutes and nine seconds into the program, he heard a click from the safe, and the program stopped.

Quickly, in case there was a time limit, he picked the safe’s conventional lock, and the door swung open. Inside were two delightful surprises. The first was three thick stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills, with a rubber band around each, and another stack of fifties. The bills looked well used, and a cursory inspection revealed that the serial numbers were not consecutive. He estimated that they totaled approximately thirty-five thousand dollars, but this was no time to start counting; he stuffed them into one of his jacket’s large pockets. The other surprise in the safe was a small, nickel-plated automatic pistol, with, of all things, a silencer! He stuffed that into a pocket, then opened a jewelry box, which was full of a lot of junk that didn’t interest him, except for a Cartier watch with a gold bracelet. That he kept; he loved watches.

He had just closed the safe door and was putting away his equipment when from a distance he heard a noise like the front door opening, followed by voices. No time to reconnect the alarm system; he closed the cabinet door, switched off the light, and left the closet, closing the door behind him. While he was doing all this he wondered if he had somehow caused this to happen. His heart was racing; he loved it. The voices came closer, and he dove into the kneehole of the desk, pulling his knees up to squeeze in.

“We got a disconnect signal,” a voice said. The lights came on in the study. “If somebody cuts the phone line or disconnects it, we get a signal. Usually means a burglar has visited.”

“Do you really need a gun?” another voice asked, sounding nervous.

“There might be somebody in the apartment right now,” the other voice replied. “If there is, I’m going to be ready.”

The voices were muffled slightly, and the young man thought they were probably in the closet by now.

“See right here?” the first voice asked. “The phone line was disconnected.”

Time to go, the young man thought. He peered around the corner of the desk and saw the backs of the two men.

“He’s probably had a shot at the safe,” the first voice said. “Electronic job.”

The young man crawled quickly, silently toward the door of the study; in doing so, he had to move past the closet. As he made the door, the first voice spoke again.

“You stay here,” the voice said, and there was the sound of the action of an automatic pistol being worked. “I’m going to have a look around. You might use the phone on the desk over there to call nine-one-one and tell them there’s been a break-in.”

“Right,” the other man replied.

The young man sprinted nearly soundlessly through the living room, his soft slippers making only tiny noises on the carpeting. He made it down the hall to the front door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway. The elevator and the front door seemed like a bad idea; if there was already a cop car on the block when the 911 call went in, he might meet them going out the door. The elevator door stood open. He stepped inside, pushed in the EMERGENCY button to activate the car, pressed the button for the ground floor, and stepped out of the car just as the doors closed. The elevator started down, and he made for the stairs. Holding his paper bag of tools, he bounded down flight after flight, past the lobby floor to the basement. There had to be a back door for service purposes.

He emerged into a dimly lit hallway that seemed to have a row of doors leading to storage rooms. He raced past them, made a turn at the end of the hallway, and came up against a door. He put his ear to it, and could hear the sound of a garbage truck outside. Carefully, he opened the door, and as he did, a loud bell began to ring. Coolly, he put his head out and looked around. He was in a sort of concrete pit, with steps leading up to the side street. He closed the door behind him, but the bell continued to ring, both inside and outside the building. Worse, a red light over his head was flashing relentlessly. Now he began to panic. He charged up the steps and ran head-on into a garbage collector holding two empty cans.

The two went down together, the garbage man hollering, the cans bouncing around the sidewalk.

“Hey, get that guy!” somebody yelled.

The young man got to his feet, grabbed his paper bag, and sprinted down the block toward Fifth Avenue, pursued by the garbage men. He ran straight across Fifth, nearly being run down by a police car, its lights flashing. Funny, he hadn’t heard the siren until now. He heard the car doors opening, and somebody shout, “Stop! Police! Stop!”

Only one choice here, he thought. He ran straight at the park wall, throwing his paper bag ahead of him, vaulted over the wall, hit the ground on the other side, grabbed the paper bag, and was gone into the brush. They’d never get him now. Cops were too fat to run far. He emerged onto a walkway and ran down it toward Central Park South. The sound of police sirens faded into the distance.

He had gotten away with it again.