The Midnight Lock

59

I am through the Andersen door lock and the EverStrong deadbolt in twenty-seven seconds. The door opens and closes with a click.

Five, four, three, two, one...

The wireless alarm, a sophisticated one, is under the spell of my RF box. The panel continues to emit its calming green light, oblivious to the intrusion.

I look around me. The apartment is magnificent. The blinds are now closed but I know the view is breathtaking; I’ve seen it in the day thanks to a video blog the owner has posted.

The door click troubles me some, so I pad fast to the bedroom.

The woman is all trundled and bundled, mouth open.

Her face is not beautiful, not like, say, Annabelle Talese’s.

But that has never been important to me. A woman asleep is a woman asleep.

And being inside their abodes is what I really care about.

Being inside...

I return to the living room and survey the sumptuous place.

Original art is on the walls, sensuous marble sculptures sit on black lacquer tables that are polished to dark mirrors. There are leather couches and chairs. A bank of extraterrestrial orchids sits against the window, their colors pink, white, blue.

I silently walk to the windows and, just as silently, draw the curtains.

Tonight is different.

Tonight is not like the Visits in February or March, where I intruded and moved things around and destroyed the tenants’ spiritual connection with their abodes.

Tonight I’m arriving where I belong.

I lift the brass knife from my pocket and open it with a click, just like the opening of a deadbolt.

Until now I’ve been fine opening doors.

Tonight I’ll use this brass key to open what I’m meant to open, explore what I was born to explore.

The lock of flesh.

I step to the kitchen pass-through to unplug the landline. It would be quite the coincidence for her to get a call at this hour. But the organized offender, the tension-bar-and-rake-picker within me, is taking no chances.

I freeze. I believe I’ve heard a noise behind me.

Then: a loud pop and an agonizing burst of pain and my vision is filled with yellow light, perhaps what a Los Zetas victim sees in the moment before there is no light.

The Taser barb has buried itself just above my kidneys. I drop to the floor as the searing pain rises through my chest and finally finds a home in my jaw and my world goes black.

From the floor where I’m sitting, my hands bound behind me — tied tight — I understand that she was faking sleep the whole while.

She’d heard me enter, I suppose. Goddamn click. Then she’d grabbed a Taser from the bedside table and slipped from the bed as soon as I stepped to the landline.

In the minutes I was out she’d changed clothing. I can see pink pajamas on the floor in the bedroom. She is now in black slacks and white blouse. She emptied the contents of my wallet and pockets on the kitchen counter and is photographing them and then, it seems, uploading or texting the images somewhere. On the island next to her is the Taser. Something else: A pistol. A semiautomatic kind.

She seems to be in no hurry to call 911.

And she’s wearing blue latex gloves.

Both of which mean that I’m fucked.

Slipping the pistol into her back pocket and picking up the Taser, she returns to where I’m sitting on the floor. The pain from the electric jolt remains.

The woman is large and formidable. Her gaze is focused and cold.

She looks me over clinically. “First. Anyone else?”

“Here? Tonight?” It’s never occurred to me to make a Visit with a partner. It’s an odd thought. “No.”

“Downstairs, anywhere?”

I repeat the word.

“Who’re you with?”

“With?”

She snaps: “Work for, your employer?”

“Nobody.”

The woman aims the Taser at my groin.

“Wait!”

“Who?”

“No one! Really. I swear.” The pain was astonishing. I don’t want it to happen again.

She considers. And after a moment she seems to decide to believe me.

“The agenda? Burglary? Rape?”

I remain mum.

Her look conveys impatience and I suppose there’s no point in being coy.

“It’s what I do. I break into homes.”

“Obviously. I asked why.”

There’s a question for you. “Because I need to.”

Picking up my brass knife, she studies it. Her unattractive, though magnetic, face is intrigued. She puts the knife down.

“Why here? Why me? Give me answers or you’re dead.”

“Because of who you are: Verum, the conspiracy poster.”

She blinks in utter shock. “You know that?”

I nod.

“And you came here to kill me.”

I debate and, after a moment, tell her the truth. “That’s right.”

Curiously, she smiles. She taps my wallet. “Your name, it’s unusual.”

“I just go by Greg.”

“Nice to meet you, Greg,” she said with a chill, wry smile. “My name’s Joanna Whittaker.”

60

This young man was, it seemed, a content moderator for a video upload platform, one that Joanna used regularly for the Verum posts, ViewNow.

It was a poor man’s YouTube.

“So you’re the one who deletes them, right?”

He winced and gave her a perplexed look. “Your posts’re lies, conspiracy theories, nonsense. The Hidden want to start a new civil war? They’re infiltrating the schools, they’re subverting religion, the voting process. You slander politicians and celebrities and CEOs. ‘Say your prayers and stay prepared’? You don’t think some bad things could come from posting that? They breach our community standards.”

“But deleting them wasn’t enough for you. They offended you and you wanted to kill me.”

Now he laughed. “Those are my company’s standards. Personally? I couldn’t care less what you say.”

“Then why?”

His thin shoulders rise and fall. “The challenge.”

“Explain.”

“You have an EverStrong deadbolt, SPC alarm. I’ve never cracked them before. And then there’s the precaution you took to keep from being recognized. It was like waving a red flag at me. You took down all the pictures from the walls when you posted. The videos are ninety-nine percent pixelated. You use voice distortion. I tracked through one proxy but got stalled in Bulgaria.”

“Then how?”

“You claim you’re in California — to lead people off, I’m sure.”

A nod.

“But in one of your early posts you left the curtain open. I got a screen shot of the view outside the window — the harbor. I could see the New Jersey waterfront. I checked out angles of sight. You had to be in Battery Park. I could also see the brass topper of a flagpole about even with your window. I wandered around the neighborhood and found it — on top of a government building two hundred feet in the air. That meant you were about on the twentieth floor. Only one building near here is that tall and has that view — this one.”

“But—”

“In one of your posts I saw a blue Coach backpack on the floor.”

Joanna glanced to where that very backpack, a present from her fiancé, now sat. She wasn’t happy at her lapse.

“I just waited in the lobby a couple of nights until I saw you with the backpack. Then I followed you up here. I was dressed like a repairman. You looked at me once and didn’t pay any attention.”

She thought back and had a vague recollection of someone — perhaps.

“I saw your locks and the sign: ‘Protected by SPS Security.’ That’s a bad idea, by the way.”

“That explains why you wanted to break in. Why did you want to kill me?”

He considered this for a lengthy moment. “I needed to,” he repeated.

“Where are the police on all of your... activities?”

“I’ve only done it a half-dozen times. I imagine some people’ve called nine one one, when they realize I’ve broken in. But I’m always very, very careful.” He held up his hands, encased in gloves, and Joanna noted the stocking cap.

“Does anyone know you’re here? Anyone on earth?” She asked this sternly, the tone that sent shivers down the spines of the interviewees when she was a reporter and now of her underlings at the Whittaker charity.

“No.”

“There’s a security camera downstairs.”

“Not the service entrance. Stupid in a building like this.”

She told Greg, “I could kill you and nobody would blink. Or I could call the police.”

“You could. Most people would.”

“But I think there’s another way to handle this, Greg. Something that’ll work for both of us. You’ll stay alive and out of prison.” She looked at him levelly. “But listen to me. I own you. If you don’t do what I tell you, exactly, if you say anything about what I’m going to tell you, there will be... consequences.”

For some reason, he blanched at the word.

“I’ve uploaded everything about you to a secure server and sent instructions to a third party.” She nodded to the wallet. “I’m a very wealthy woman and as Verum you know how many followers I have. They’re fiercely loyal and more than a little rabid. If anything were to happen to me, they will find you and kill you...” Her voice faded as she had another thought. “No, not kill.” She smiled coldly. “You live to pick locks? Well, betray me and you won’t be doing any more of that, with both your hands mangled, and a few fingers removed.”

His eyes widened in horror. He nodded.

“But get this thing for me right and you’ll be free to go on with your life.” She tilted her head and brushed the dark hair from her face. “However sick it is.” She considered. “I don’t need to sweeten the pot. But I will. You’ll get a half million dollars in cash. Because you’ll need to move out of the area afterward. Far out of the area.”

“And what is it that you want me to do?”

What indeed? she wondered.

Joanna walked to the bar. She poured a single malt — Lagavulin, very smoky — and taking the weapons in her other hand walked out onto the patio. She swiveled the rocker so she could see both the harbor and her prisoner.

Is it possible? Could this really work?

Joanna had been wrestling with the problem: the old bastard, Averell Whittaker, had been struck by conscience and was going to shut down the entire empire, which her father had worked himself to death building.

Joanna detested her uncle. His treatment of his family ranged from condescending to indifferent to cruel. When it was clear that Mary Whittaker, his wife, had only a day or two to live, he devoted every minute to negotiating the deal for the purchase of the TV station that would become the WMG channel.

Professionally Averell was no better: he seized a controlling interest of Whittaker Media from his brother, Joanna’s father, by leveraging Lawrence’s debts.

As for Joanna herself, when Averell took over, and began skewing the empire to male domination within the company, he booted her out of her reporter job on the Herald and put her in charge of what a “girl was best suited for”: the company’s charitable wing.

Which did have its advantages, since she made a good salary, had perks and because of the job she met Martin Kemp, who was good-looking and wealthy and marginally talented in bed. Oh, and who did everything she told him to. Also the charity wasn’t tightly overseen, which gave her a chance to siphon funds to what she truly loved — playing the role of Verum.

Joanna Whittaker had had what she believed to be an insight about journalism as a business. If the rag Daily Herald outsold the New York Times and The New Yorker, if the WMG channel garnered far more viewers than PBS, then what would happen if you abandoned truth altogether? If you served up a diet of conspiracies, secret movements, dark operatives, hate and fear and schadenfreude — who doesn’t just love others’ misfortunes?

She decided to try it and, in a moment of inspiration — laced with a dash of contempt for the viewership — dubbed herself Verum.

True...

And was hugely successful from day one.

Martin, who funded much of the operation, had asked her if she believed any of her posts.

“Did you really ask that?” she’d replied, put out. “Obviously it’s bullshit.”

But she believed in the money that poured in from contributions and subscriptions and advertising.

She believed in the power she wielded over her thousands of followers, ranks that continued to grow.

She enjoyed too the creative side of the blog: coming up with her fake news.

From time to time she thought of what she could do with the Verum business model and the resources of Whittaker Media.

The possibilities were endless.

But not if the old son of a bitch, with his change of heart, was dismantling the empire and giving it all away.

For a month she’d debated. If Averell died before the dissolution papers were signed next week, his fifty-one percent of the stock in the company would go to Joanna and Kitt, split evenly. But if something happened to both Kitt and Averell, all the stock would be hers. She could take the company wherever she wanted.

Hurt them?

Of course she couldn’t do it. Impossible.

And yet...

Hadn’t dear Uncle Averell stolen the company from her father? Hadn’t he destroyed her career as a journalist?

Hadn’t he himself killed that young intern because he bought and buried the Charlotte Miller story, and because of other fake stories, paralyzed one of the leaders of the Apollos and killed a teacher and student in the Virginia satanic cult disaster?

Those were reasons, of course, justifications for the death of her uncle.

The bigger question she had to confront was: Could she take a life?

That question sat, rocking slowly within her, like the moored yacht she was looking at now, rising and falling in the gentle current of the Hudson River.

And suddenly she realized she could. The idea of killing was not horrifying or exhilarating; it sparked no emotion whatsoever.

She was utterly numb to the idea.

What had made her that way? she wondered briefly. But the anesthesia within her apparently extended to the motivation to ask that question.

And so she discarded it.

She now wasn’t asking “if” but “how?”

Joanna now sipped more smoky liquor and studied Greg, as she told herself: You’ve been given a gift. What are you going to do with it exactly?

It was almost a sign. A lockpicker. Joanna remembered sitting with her father, drunk and tearfully muttering, “My own brother... he’s locked me out of my own company. Locked me out and thrown away the key.”

The idea now slowly emerged. She thought of it as a headline:

It could play...

Kitt, the story would go, was never the same after his mother’s death. In his search for some career, he’d learned lock picking and, recently, snapped. He’d break into apartments and leave a page from the Daily Herald. Then a moment of inspiration: it would be page 3 from the 2/17 edition; 3/2/17.

The day Mary Whittaker had died.

Joanna smiled.

He would leave several of these calling cards, and then, a grand finale, kill his father and himself.

Would it work?

What of Martin? That was a non-query. He’d do whatever he was told, even be a party to murder.

What of timing?

Kitt was flighty. He’d disappear for days, weeks sometimes. They’d need to make sure he stayed put. She and Martin Kemp could kidnap him and stash him on their boat until the climactic final act of the tragedy.

Joanna’s palms began to sweat and her heart beat in excitement.

For ten minutes, she thought of refinements, removing some elements, adding others. It was as much fun as creating a Verum post about some presidential conspiracy.

61

I watch Joanna walk back into the room.

It’s a very masculine stride.

She sits on the couch and looks down at me.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Greg.”

And she spins quite the tale.

I’m supposed to play the role of enraged son, furious at my father. (Well, that’s hardly a stretch, though she’s speaking of someone else’s dad, of course.) I’m going to break into two more apartments and leave a particular newspaper page.

I ask, “You have anybody in mind for the break-in?”

“No.”

“And do I...” My eyes stray to the knife, and I feel a pleasing warmth in my gut.

She frowns and her voice is threatening. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t hurt a soul. The point is to send a message: that the newspaper you’re going to leave is full of lies and fucks with people.”

I nod.

Joanna looks at my latex gloves and hat and when she speaks she sounds like a stern schoolmarm once more, condescending. “How do you pick your victims?”

“From what they do online. Women, who live alone. I study their posts: locks, the doors, windows, alarms, that there’re no dogs, no weapons. It’s good if they drink — makes them sleep sounder. Even better if I can see a package of sleep aids or prescriptions.”

“So they’re random.” She seems pleased at my forethought. Then the stern façade returns: “You have to be very, very careful. Nothing you do can lead back to me.”

I nod. I’m beginning to see where this is headed. “So I stalk two.”

I think immediately of an influencer, Annabelle, whom I’ve had my eye on for some time. Who else? There’s a woman who sells toys from her Upper East Side apartment. Several others come to mind.

I ask Joanna, “And what do I do then?”

“That will be it. You’ll have finished your obligation. I’ll handle the rest.”

So she’ll kill the third victim herself, as if I did. I wonder who she’s planning to murder? A husband, a lover, a business rival, someone who insulted her prominent nose?

I think of Lady Macbeth.

And the other question: Who is she setting up to take the fall for that murder?

“I want you to generate press. I need a splash.” Joanna continues: “Come up with a name for yourself. Write it at the scene — no, I know, write it on the newspaper pages you’re going to leave.”

I think for a moment “What about ‘Key Man’?”

“No,” she mutters. “That’s a business term.”

Was it? I’d never heard of that.

“You’ll be the ‘Locksmith.’ It’ll mean something to my father.”

I don’t know what that’s in reference to but I like the name.

“And add the word ‘reckoning.’”

No reason for this is offered either, but since it’s her circus, I say, “Okay. Oh, how about if I write it in the victims’ lipstick?”

Thinking, as I just was, of influencers.

“Perfect. Now, evidence.”

“I said I’m careful.”

“I don’t mean that,” the schoolmarm snapped. She explains she wants me to steal some underwear and knives from the two victims.

Of course, to plant at the third crime scene, the one with the body or bodies.

“And I want everyone in the city to know about you right away. Post a picture of the newspaper in the apartment. Include her address. Reporters on the police beat’ll see it and take up the story from there. Can you post anonymously?”

“I’ll use one of the image board chans. It’ll go viral from there.”

“Good. And I’m going to get you some car keys too. An Audi. You can use that to drive around. Just remember to wear gloves when you do. Or wipe it down.”

She disappears into the bedroom. This time when she returns she’s holding a thick envelope. “Two hundred thousand. A down payment.”

The cash isn’t as heavy as I would have guessed. Where to go? Silicon Valley, possibly. Huge need for content moderators there. Or maybe Manila. I could live like a king, and I suspect the police there are less than diligent about break-ins and eviscerated bodies.

Joanna helps me up. She cuts the string binding my wrists, and I sit on the very nice couch. Then she steps away and grips the pistol.

I hardly blame her for being careful. I was going to knife her to death, after all.

“Any questions?”

“Can I have that?”

I’m looking at a small red and black plastic object sitting in a metal basket filled with iPhone chargers, earbuds, pens, pencils, aspirin packets.

“The keychain?”

“Yes.”

It depicts the Tower of London and seems to be a cheap souvenir. I love the Tower.

She lifts it from the basket and sets it next to my wallet.

“Oh, and one other thing. Don’t delete any more of Verum’s posts from ViewNow.”

“I won’t.”

“You can leave.”

I gather up my brass knife and other possessions. Then down the long hall and out, closing the door to apartment 2019 behind me.