Authors: Matthew Dicks
Yet at the same time he had managed to help his second client, and within a week of the first. His risky, improbable plan had worked, reinforcing the feeling that he was doing the right thing.
Still, he had violated several rules to do so, and he feared that this would eventually catch up to him.
Despite this growing sense of dread, he couldn’t stop thinking about Laura. She had called him the evening after their date, and after some small talk, they had decided upon a place to meet about an hour before the Ashley party. They were going to stop for a drink at a local pub about a mile from the Water’s Edge and then head over to the party together. Martin had inquired
about what he should wear and was given an inadequate “whatever you want will be fine” answer. He had decided upon a collared shirt, cotton slacks, and sports jacket. He was still debating the tie.
Martin had even called Jim for advice, turning to his friend as he had many other times in his life when in need. Unlike Martin’s life, Jim’s had followed a more traditional trajectory complete with loving parents (still alive and married), four years of college, a well-paying job, a marriage, and children. Though he hadn’t suffered through the family difficulties and low-paying jobs that Martin had been forced to endure, Jim had sympathized with his friend to a degree that Martin had found amazing, and in many ways had done more to help him survive than his parents ever had. When Martin was twenty-three and unable to acquire a credit card, it was Jim who ordered a second card, adding Martin as an authorized user and allowing his friend to use it in case of an emergency. On his twenty-first birthday, Martin had been struck by a car in the parking lot of a Boston Market, and Jim had been the first one to arrive at the hospital, a full thirty minutes ahead of his parents. But in Martin’s mind, Jim’s most remarkable quality was his willingness and ability to forge friendships with the most diverse group of people imaginable. His Sunday afternoon picnics (one of Jim’s summertime staples) were populated with business executives and convenience store clerks, accountants and janitors, flag football teammates and Dungeons and Dragons aficionados. Though none of these people had become Martin’s friends, he had gotten to know a few of them through Jim and had found them to be warm, kind people for the most part. Jim was willing to befriend people from all walks of life, and Martin felt incredibly fortunate to have such a friend.
Unfortunately, Martin had been unable to turn their phone conversation in the direction of Laura, sidetracked by Jim’s concern
about his daughter’s recent bout with pneumonia. In truth, Martin wasn’t sure how to even begin talking to his friend about a girl. When he was younger, Jim had tried to set Martin up on several dates, but all had ended in awkward handshakes and the purposeful avoidance of eye contact. Probably sensing his friend’s frustration, Jim had eased off on the attempts to find Martin a girlfriend, and conversation on the subject of women had dried up entirely. Springing questions about Laura on Jim at this point therefore seemed impossible. As a result, Martin was on his own in regard to his plans on Saturday. He was flying blind and dreading every minute of it.
Since his date, Martin had made every effort to return to his normal routine, to bring some semblance and structure back to his life.
Even that had been difficult.
Though his work routines were falling back into place, Martin had not returned to the Quaker Diner since meeting Laura, unsure of how to handle his relationship with Jillian. Though he knew that the bond that he and Laura had was already more significant and meaningful than anything that he had with Jillian, he couldn’t bring himself to reenter the diner knowing that he might have to lie to the girl who had been serving him eggs and referring to him as “honey” for years. Part of him wanted to sit down on his stool and tell Jillian everything he knew about Laura, but he feared that such news would come as a devastating blow to the girl he still cared about a great deal.
Even more difficult, Martin had been forced to locate a new restaurant for breakfast and had yet to settle on a replacement (albeit temporary, he hoped) for the Quaker Diner. Though places like Mo’s Diner, Effie’s Place, and even Friendly’s had served decent meals, none had possessed the charm of the Quaker.
Thankfully, work routines had been easier to reestablish.
Martin had scheduled makeup visits for the clients that he’d missed while preserving the Ashley party, and he fell right back into his regular schedule with refreshing ease. A week of uneventful work leading up to the party was what he’d hoped for, but this hope was dashed this morning when he arrived at the home of Sophie and Sherman Pearl of Newington. It was just over a month ago that Martin had acquired the diamond earring from Sophie Pearl’s jewelry box, but a lot had happened since that day.
It seemed like ages ago.
Martin was jogging across the park adjacent to the Pearls’ backyard, closing in on the invisible line that separated the Pearls’ property from the park, when he saw something that caused him to stop in his tracks.
The rear door to the Pearls’ home was slightly ajar. Not enough for the casual passerby to notice, but Martin’s attention to detail was anything but casual. The door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t fully shut either.
Something was up.
Martin bent over, pretending to tie his troublesome shoe while reviewing a checklist in his mind. Before parking in the lot adjacent to the tennis courts, he had driven by the Pearls’ home and confirmed that there were no cars parked in the driveway. Though the Pearls owned a two-car garage, at least one car was usually parked in the driveway overnight. Though it was possible that the Pearls had accidentally left their back door unlatched, this would be the first time in their more than nine years as clients.
Unsure of what action to take, Martin chose to wait and watch. Entering the house on this day was now out of the question. Even if the door had been accidentally left open, any change in routine was enough reason to abort a visit. Still, Martin wasn’t ready to leave just yet. Instead, he limped about fifty
feet south to a set of benches and sat down, feigning a muscle pull. While rubbing his quadriceps, he never took his eyes off the Pearls’ home.
Martin’s patience was rewarded less than a minute later when he saw movement at the back door. A moment later a man emerged from the home, pulling the door shut behind him. Looking left and right, the man then began walking across the backyard and into the park, the same escape route that Martin would have taken had he entered the house. The man was moving with the speed of someone who wanted to move quickly but remain inconspicuous.
Martin knew that pace well.
For years, Martin had wondered if he would ever run into someone else in his line of work. He knew that they were out there, smash-and-grabbers for the most part, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was the only one who specialized in the business the way that he did. Being alone in his career choice, the only person on the planet operating as he did, was both an exhilarating and a lonely feeling. It allowed Martin to think of himself as an innovator, a unique, one-of-a-kind guy, but at the same time, the nature of his business forced him to remain silent on the matter.
Without colleagues of any kind.
Alone.
Perhaps.
Considering this man’s quiet and careful exit from the house and seeming empty-handedness (no flat screen television or laptops in his arms), it appeared as if Martin might have found someone in his line of work after all.
Intrigued, Martin decided to follow the stranger. He rationalized that knowing as much as possible about the intruder would be crucial to his continued success with the Pearls, but underneath the logic, the decision to follow the man was born
primarily from a desire to know if this intruder operated his business in a way similar to Martin.
Curiosity had its sticky grip on him like never before.
Of course, following the man would only be possible if he had parked his vehicle in the same lot as Martin had. If the man was parked on the other side of the baseball field, or in the shaded lot below the footbridge, there wouldn’t be much of a chance of following him. He’d be in his car and driving off before Martin could even find him.
But fortune was on Martin’s side. As the man crossed the field, less than a hundred feet from Martin’s position on the bench, he veered left toward the nearest parking lot, the same lot in which Martin had brought the Subaru to a halt less than ten minutes ago. As the man passed, Martin looked up from his crouch and stole a quick glance. He was a tall, bulky man in his late thirties or early forties, built with more muscle than fat, though a generous portion of both seemed evident. He was wearing a pair of black jeans, a long-sleeve, nondescript black T-shirt, and a baseball cap. His face was angular and featureless except for the nose, which appeared off-kilter, as if it had been broken one too many times.
Most notably, the man looked mean to Martin, the kind of guy you would want to avoid in an alley late at night. He was big and tough and had the type of face that projected anger at all times. He moved with a confidence that made Martin wonder if he himself had ever moved with as much self-assurance.
He doubted it very much.
Martin waited until the intruder was twenty paces from the parking lot before standing up and limping toward his car, ensuring that he was limping on the same leg as he had been moments ago. As he crossed the field, following the intruder’s footsteps through the morning dew, he noticed that the man was wearing gloves, not the latex kind that Martin wore while working,
but brown leather gloves. They seemed terribly out of place on this warm day but Martin knew that they would be just as effective as the latex variety that he wore. Daring a more careful examination of the man, he realized that the intruder’s shoes were covered with a white rubberlike material, similar to his latex moccasins. It didn’t take Martin more than a couple of seconds to realize that whatever it was around his shoes, it was worn by the man in order to avoid leaving footprints behind.
Martin was impressed. This man clearly knew what he was doing.
Martin watched the man climb into a dark blue pickup truck, start the engine, and pull out of the lot. Quickening his pace, he managed to reach his Subaru in time to see the pickup turning left out of the parking lot and heading up the short side-street that connected to a main road. Moments later, Martin was turning left as well, onto Audubon Avenue, less than two hundred feet behind his quarry.
The chase was on.
Though Martin had tailed clients before, his previous endeavors were always preplanned and carefully staged. Prior to tailing a client, Martin would locate the client’s home and probable place of employment (whenever possible), and then map the likely routes between the two, allowing him to follow with ease. Occasionally a client might make an unexpected stop or detour, but in these cases it wasn’t critical for Martin to maintain his tail. If he lost the client in traffic or if he feared detection, he could always call off the chase and try again the next day. But in this case, he had just one chance. If he lost the intruder or was detected before he could identify the man’s home address, it was unlikely that he would have a second chance at uncovering the truth. And without this information, he would surely have to cancel the Pearls as clients immediately and leave his burning curiosity unsatisfied.
At the end of Audubon Avenue the pickup turned right, heading up the road toward the center of Newington. Martin had parked the Subaru in the center many times (it was one of his random parking spots for the Pearls’ home) and knew the area well. He was relieved. There would be plenty of traffic in which to conceal his car, and only one or two traffic lights to potentially interrupt the chase. At the next intersection, the pickup turned left onto Main Street and began a three-mile trip out of Newington and into neighboring West Hartford. Martin waved on the driver of a red Toyota Corolla before pulling onto Main Street, effectively placing the Corolla between his car and the pickup. This three-car procession continued for the entire drive into West Hartford, breaking up only when the Corolla made a right onto New Britain Avenue, heading toward Hartford, and the pickup made a left, proceeding further into Martin’s hometown.
Without the cover of another car, Martin immediately grew more anxious. He had read about vehicle surveillance in several criminal investigation texts and understood how difficult it was to follow a suspect alone. In order to avoid detection, police manuals suggest multiple units should participate in the surveillance, traveling on routes that are parallel to the suspect so that the surveillance vehicles can rotate as the suspect changes directions. Alone, Martin knew, the likelihood of following the intruder very far would depend upon his ability to put traffic between him and the pickup truck without losing his visual of his suspect.
Less than half a mile north on New Britain Avenue, the pickup turned right onto Quaker Lane. As Martin approached the intersection, he noticed a dark sedan in the opposite lane, its directional indicating the desire to turn left onto the same road. Though Martin had the right of way, he waved the sedan on, placing it between himself and the pickup.
One of the dangers of this tactic is falling behind your quarry if the driver of the middle car fails to drive fast enough, which quickly became the case now as the pickup began gaining ground on Martin and the sedan over the next half mile. Martin surmised that if he didn’t pass the slower-moving sedan soon, he would lose visual contact with the pickup altogether. Fortunately, the traffic light ahead split Quaker Lane into two. Martin waited until the sedan chose the left lane before pulling right in preparation to pass it. Before he could arrive at the next intersection, however, the traffic light turned yellow. Martin watched as the pickup passed underneath it and knew that he would have to run the light or lose the intruder entirely. Steeling himself, he accelerated, searching for oncoming traffic from the west and east-bound lanes and seeing none. The light had been red for five full seconds when he passed through the intersection, but without any crossing traffic, he made it safely through.