Zipper Fall
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886
USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Zipper Fall
Copyright © 2013 by Kate Pavelle
Cover Art by Aaron Anderson
Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only
and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-62798-063-0
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-064-7
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
September 2013
To my family, especially to those members who will never read this book because it’s naughty but who love me enough to encourage my writing adventures anyway!
This book would not be in your hands without the enthusiastic words of support from my fans. My Beta Hit Squad offered their selfless help in making the manuscript ready to face the light of day, and P.D. Singer was very kind to correct my rock-climbing technical specifics. That being said, all errors are still mine.
M
Y
BEST
friend, Reyna, and I sat at the Barking Shark, celebrating Friday. Every week, like clockwork, we sat perched on tall barstools by one of the round tables in the corner, eating bar food for dinner and drinking beer. I had tucked my silk tie into my jacket pocket as I tried to keep stray bits of food off my starched dress shirt. I kept toying with the ends of my hair as I listened to her latest tale of woe.
“Azurri’s an asshole.” Reyna lifted her beer bottle and sipped, marking the top of the bottle with her red lipstick. “He’s a
fucking
asshole,” she elaborated somewhat, shook her head in disbelief, then patted her lips with a napkin. Her chestnut-brown eyes flashed in the dim light of the bar. “Of all the bosses I’ve ever had, he’s the rudest, nastiest, loudest sonovabitch I’ve ever worked for. He has absolutely no ability to delegate, he gives me the most boring grunt work imaginable, and then he complains over having to stay late.” I watched my best friend belch, covering her mouth delicately in discreet affectation. Her fingers, graceful and strong, hovered over a bowl full of complimentary nuts and pretzels. She stirred the contents with a long, red nail until she found a cashew, picked it out with precision, and ate it. She was crushing the nut between her teeth in an act of determined, stubborn catharsis. Her face was flushed, her scowl accentuated by severely plucked and angular eyebrows. I’ve always admired her waist-long, crimson hair that threatened to escape her ponytail and barely disguised a realistic tattoo of a life-size banana spider on the nape of her neck. It exemplified her “no guts, no glory” attitude I knew and loved back in college. If I weren’t into guys, I’d have asked her out on an official date a long time ago, but we’ve established that being best friends is our ideal relationship.
“Sorry, girlfriend.” I hummed, waving for another round of Belgian Lambic. “At least you have an interesting job description. You work with major accounts. What you do matters a bit more than just putting advertisements together.”
I pressed my lips into a tight line, suppressing a sigh. Two years out of college, I still cultivated the youthful air of innocent fun, every inch of me a bachelor, my sense of purpose still being somewhat fuzzy around the edges. My outward manner and appearance, which my critics described as “a mere air of civilized decency,” didn’t always correspond with my private endeavors—endeavors that were much aided by my five-foot-eight-inch athletic body. I am a creature of the night; when she was still alive, my mother used to say I should be wearing sunscreen because I tend to break out into wicked freckles. I am good at all kinds of things, but none of them seem to matter: I know climbing, lock-picking, and good beer. Aside from these important personal facts, I’d also like to share that my job is meaningless. After all, nobody gives a damn about advertising unless a video goes viral on YouTube. The product of my hard work becomes trash as soon as it’s removed from the mailbox, billboards get tuned out, flashy magazine ads are cut up for children’s school projects, and TV commercials get muted. My job is worse than watching moss grow.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy breaking into people’s houses so much.
Life can be incredibly boring at times, and in order to make it worth living, I need a bit of zing to spice up my dull routine. I’ve always been like that, and besides, I have always been able to talk my way out of anything. My mother used to say I’d make her go prematurely gray with my wild skateboarding antics. After a while, skateboarding wasn’t enough, and I started rock climbing. Small risks turned to bigger risks, except I didn’t want to endanger my climbing buddies by doing something really crazy on the rock face. Instead, I discovered the thrill of occasional and strictly recreational break-ins. Two years ago, I took my first souvenir. I knew it would be missed, which made the experience even more thrilling. Heightening the risk heightened the excitement. Last year, I wore a distinctive ring for a few days. I got away with it, which was almost disappointing, because it was a Superbowl ring. I ended up wiping my prints off and sending it to the local TV station, and its return made the news because anything having to do with the Steelers makes the news. I rode that high for almost a whole month.
I always prepare for my B&E with meticulous care. It has become a soothing ritual by now, and I don’t deviate from it, because without careful planning and execution, I wouldn’t be able to get away with my occasional adrenaline fix. I also have a strict code of conduct, and I adhere to it on every job:
Never take sentimental items (and keep them).
Steal only from the rich.
Don’t get caught.
I guess the last rule would be the most important one, and I’m pretty darn good at what I do, since I’ve been burgling for almost ten years and haven’t been caught yet. It all started in high school with my dog-walking job: I had been given the keys and unsupervised access to many a house in our Pittsburgh neighborhood. Taking the dogs out to do their business and burn off excess energy using a tennis ball and racket had given me unmitigated pleasure, along with much-needed extra cash. I’d been so good, so painfully responsible—until one time when I had forgotten to bring my client’s key. I had heard the dog whining by the door, his bladder full to bursting, but going back home would have taken at least half an hour. As luck would have it, I had been in the midst of reading Lawrence Block’s mysteries at the time. Since his protagonist is a burglar who moonlights as a soft-spoken bookseller during the day, I was no stranger to the
idea
of picking a lock. I had in fact been practicing at home using my sister’s hairpins, and my dog-walking predicament had seemed like a natural opportunity to try out my new, hard-won skills. If Bernie Rhoddenbar could do it, well….
I had chosen an awl from my Swiss army knife and my sister’s hairpins, which I carried around “just in case.” It had taken me ten long, focused minutes to make the simple lock click open. My muscles had trembled from exhaustion, but the thrill of victory had sent chemical happiness coursing through my veins. It had occurred to me at that moment I didn’t need a dog with a full bladder on the other side as an excuse to experience that heady, exhilarating feeling of victory again.
This formative experience allowed me to discover that there was no better way to get that awesome adrenaline rush than casing a place of residence, learning when it would be empty, and finding an illicit way of entry. Sometimes I just need to pick the lock to the front door. In other cases, more inventive means of breaching the fortress are necessary.
Another firm rule: No cat-burglar stuff. Cat burglars are people who break into homes while people are still there, preferably asleep. That’s not only creepy, it’s also dangerous. It’s a good way to get your chest ventilated with a pistol the resident inherited from his grandfather and still keeps around for sentimental reasons.
“…so he’ll be out of the office next week. Yay!” Reyna squinted at me. “Hey, Wyatt. Are you even listenin’? Azz-hole’s going on a vacation for a week, so he’ll be off my back.”
Vacation. A successful stockbroker’s going on a vacation.
Hmmm….
I knew I shouldn’t have even formulated the thought, but there it was: suddenly I was possessed with an overwhelming urge to break into Mr. Azz-hole’s chateau. Of course, that would break another rule: don’t steal from people you might know, even if only through other people.
“Maybe he’s just grumpy from his commute,” my mouth said, seemingly detached from my body.
“Nah,” Reyna said, tossing her head to get her long hair out of her eyes. “He walks to work. He lives right on the corner of Bellefonte and Espada Way—you know, right where that coffee shop is? I had to deliver some papers one day when he made me stay late, that jerk.”
Now, I knew better than to pursue this train of thought, but I have always had a curious fascination with knowing how other people work. Nothing gives me more insight into a person’s psyche than having a chance to walk through their private domain, to breathe the air they have breathed, and to rifle through their personal possessions. Just by looking through his drawers, I would be able to tell why Mr. Azz-hole is the way he is. His taste in books and clothing would most certainly be very different in private than in public. Much like my beloved literary protagonist, I also felt that extra frisson of excitement run through my body when I found the difference between my victim’s private self and the public persona they put on for our benefit.
I even know why I am so curious: my family and I aren’t terribly close anymore. I’m on my own, an adult child of a dysfunctional family, and peeking into the lives of strangers fills me with a sense of temporary satisfaction; it’s as though I
belong
again. My father won’t talk to me because I dated his arch-enemy’s son; my mother died on the operating table—under his arch-enemy’s scalpel—and my brother and sister are off in college.
No, I should stop.