Something Missing (31 page)

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Well, there’s got to be a reason you came here. What was it?”

“I dunno, Dad. I guess that you’re the only family I have left.”

“After twenty years, I’d hardly call us family. I certainly haven’t been much of a father.”

“You’re the only family I’ve got, Dad. You let me down, for sure, but I think I probably let you down too. Our relationship got messed up pretty badly, but it wasn’t because either of us wanted it to. We were just stupid. A couple of cowards without a brain between us.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” his father agreed.

“But we were never mean to each other, Dad. Never intentionally cruel. I’ve always loved you, Dad. I just did a lousy job loving you. And I’m guessing, maybe hoping, that it’s the same for you. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?”

Martin’s father took another sip of coffee, either to stall in case his son had more to add or to consider what had been said. When it was clear that Martin was finished, he placed the cup down and nodded. “Good enough, son. Someone had to say it, and you’re probably right. I was probably too stupid and afraid to be the one. You can trust me. Go ahead with your story.”

Martin nodded, took a deep breath and began. “I came into possession of some information today while doing something that’s not exactly legal. I wasn’t hurting anybody, and it has nothing to do with drugs or guns or anything like that, but it’s something that could land me in jail if I’m not careful.”

“Tax evasion?”

“Huh?”

“Tax evasion,” his father repeated. “Let’s think about your illegal activities as tax evasion. Okay? I can get behind that. Unless that don’t sit right with you.”

Martin thought for a moment and then answered. “Yes, tax evasion. That’s good. Okay, so while I was evading my taxes, I discovered that a registered sex offender is stalking someone I know. Not exactly a friend, but someone I care about. Someone who I don’t want to see get hurt.”

“How do you know he’s a sex offender?” his father asked, placing the mug down and leaning forward.

“After I saw him leave my friend’s house, I followed him to his home. Got his address, and from there, it was easy. He’s got two counts of assault, one sexual, and did fifteen years for it. He’s been out about two years and is living in West Hartford.”

Martin’s father leaned in even more, placing his glasses, which had previously been hanging by a cord around his neck, on his nose. “You saw this man inside your friend’s house?”

“I saw him leaving the house,” Martin answered.

“How do you know that your friend wasn’t home? How do you know she hasn’t already been assaulted?”

Martin had wanted to avoid this question, but he decided to answer it truthfully. “She wasn’t home. I’m sure of it.”

“So you were watching your friend’s house, even though she wasn’t home, and you saw this man leave the house, and you followed him. Correct?”

“Exactly,” Martin replied, but he didn’t like the way the old man seemed to be putting the pieces together so quickly.

“But you can’t tell your friend about this man because if you do, the IRS will find out about your tax evasion and lock you up, right?”

“Yes,” Martin answered, feeling a little ashamed. He had lost control of the conversation. His father seemed to already know too much.

“How do you know that this man isn’t one of many who live in the house that you followed him to? How do you know that he isn’t renting from the owner, who is the actual sex offender?”

“The sex offender registry includes a photo. It’s the guy, Dad.”

“Oh.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to lean forward. “So what should I do?”

“Listen, son. If you know that a convicted criminal is stalking anyone, you need to let the police know right away. But I’m
guessing that if you told the police, you might get prosecuted for tax evasion. Yes?”

“Yes,” Martin answered, trying to think of a means of ending this interrogation.

“How about an anonymous tip? A phone call or note?”

“That’s what I was thinking. But do cops pay attention to that kind of thing?”

“When I was on the job, we would get tips all the time. Some were real. Most were bogus. But we followed up on each and every one. I used to tell the young guys that it’s the tips you ignore that will bite you in the ass one day.”

“But what if there’s no evidence against this man?” Martin asked. “Just my anonymous word against his. What if he hasn’t left any evidence inside the house? Won’t the police just tip him off and point him at another victim?”

“Two things, son. First, if that man was in your friend’s house, they will find evidence. There is always evidence. No one is that careful. If he jimmied the door or picked the lock, there are guys on the job who can tell. If there are traffic cameras in the area, they might be able to spot him casing the house. There’s skin and hair and footprints. All kinds of DNA evidence. Trust me. There’s always physical evidence to be found. Second, even if the cops tip this guy off, the worst you’ve done is protected your friend. Maybe saved her life. If this guy can’t stop himself, he’s a whack job. He’ll do it again unless he’s locked up, but now the police will have his name. His address. If he isn’t caught, he will probably move to another part of the country and try again. But your friend will be safe regardless.”

Martin didn’t like any of these statements. First, he didn’t believe his father when he said that physical evidence would undoubtedly be left behind. Though his father had been a police officer for twenty years, the last dozen or so as a detective, Martin didn’t believe that all criminals were stupid. He was confident
that he had never left a trace of physical evidence behind in the Pearls’ home, and if Darrow was as clever as Martin suspected, he would have left nothing behind either. From what Martin had already seen, the man was smart.

And if his father was right and there was physical evidence left behind, some type that Martin had yet to consider, then the police would most certainly find evidence of his own presence in the house as well, and this would not be good.

Finally, if Darrow was tipped off by the police, his father was right: Sophie Pearl might be spared, but the next woman whom Darrow targeted might not be so lucky. The prospect of saving one woman while damning another did not appeal to Martin. He had come to believe that he was supposed to help Sophie Pearl, even more than Cindy Clayton or Justine Ashley. But he wasn’t supposed to simply redirect the bullet that was aimed at her. He had been placed outside the Pearls’ house so that he could stop that bullet cold.

“What about some kind of sting operation?” Martin asked. “Catch him in the act?”

“A possibility,” his father answered. “But unlikely. Too dangerous for your friend, and it requires too much manpower. Too much time. If you send in a tip, the cops will probably pick this guy up immediately. Try to get him to confess. That’s what I would’ve done.”

“And if he doesn’t confess?”

“They can usually get a guy to confess to something, and being a two-strike guy, it won’t take much to put him away for life.”

Martin doubted that Clive Darrow would confess unless shown evidence that directly implicated him in the break-in of the Pearls’ home. He feared that his father had put away too many stupid criminals over the years and never realized how many clever ones had slipped through his grasp.

Clever people like himself.

“Anything else?” Martin asked, still in search of a better solution.

“Not really, son. Send in the tip and let the cops do their job.”

“All right. Thanks, Dad.”

“My pleasure, son. You know, we should do this more often. Except next time, maybe we can talk about the Sox. Or have some lunch together.”

“Yeah, we should,” Martin answered, fearing that his father didn’t mean what he had said. His father now knew that his son was engaged in illegal activity, and he probably had a good idea of what that activity was. Why would he want a criminal visiting his apartment, even if it was his son?

“Martin, I mean it. I’d like to see you again. I know that things have been rotten between us, and there ain’t much we can do about the rot but try to brush it away and start over. No use in shining up a piece of shit, right? You just toss it away and try to find some gold.”

“That sounds good, Dad,” Martin said with sincerity. “A fresh start.”

“You were right, son. I’ve always loved you. I just did a piss-poor job of it.”

“I know.” Martin stood up to leave, but his father reached across the table and pulled him back down by the arm.

“And Martin, you’ll send in that tip to the police today? Right? I’ve seen a lot of girls get hurt and it ain’t pretty.”

“I will, Dad. Today. As soon as I get home.”

And with that, Martin’s fresh start with his father began with a lie.

Before Martin tipped off the police, he wanted evidence, or at least the location of the evidence, so that Darrow could be put in prison for life. With that in mind, there was only one thing that he could do.

As he turned onto the on-ramp for Route 84, heading back in the direction of West Hartford, he glanced at the clock in the dashboard display. 5:30. The Pearls would be home in fifteen minutes, if they weren’t already.

Martin drove into the capital city and took a downtown Hartford exit, winding his way past the train station and through traffic along Farmington Avenue until turning into a gas station on the Hartford–West Hartford border. This particular gas station had a pay phone, a disappearing fixture on the American landscape, and no traffic cameras, ATM machines, or security cameras within view of it. It was a phone that Martin had used before when calling a client to verify that no one was home.

Martin had never called the Pearls’ before (he rarely called a client to ascertain their location), but their phone number, along with those of the rest of his clients, was located on a sheet of computer paper inside the same first-aid kit that contained his clients’ keys. The phone numbers were coded, of course, and the code necessary for deciphering each phone number was different.

Cracking the first code would yield you the first number, but that same code could not be applied to the rest of the phone numbers on the page. A separate code was needed to identify each specific number, and Martin had memorized the means of deciphering each one. All of this had taken a great deal of time and research on Martin’s part, including the reading of several code books in a variety of Connecticut libraries, but the result was a highly complex series of letters and numbers that Martin could decode in minutes.

Placing gloves on his hands, Martin put a quarter in the pay phone and dialed the Pearls’ home. Mrs. Pearl picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. May I please speak to Sherman Pearl?”

“One moment please. May I ask whose calling?”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, moving the phone away from his mouth and garbling his voice. “What did you say?”

“May I ask who is calling,” Sophie Pearl repeated, slower and louder this time.

Martin moved the receiver more than a foot away from his mouth and said, “I’m sorry. It seems … bad connection. Call back …”

Then he hung up.

A moment later Martin dialed a second number but was informed by the ubiquitous female voice inhabiting every telephone system when a number was no longer in service. Disappointed, he returned the receiver to its cradle and headed back to the Subaru.

Clive Darrow’s phone was no longer working.

Back in his car, Martin removed his gloves and placed them in the concealed area beneath his dashboard and breathed a sigh of relief. Sherman Pearl was home, so Sophie Pearl was safe for
at least another night. Darrow wouldn’t dare risk a home invasion with a potential combatant and eyewitness at home.

Turning back onto Farmington Avenue, Martin pointed the Subaru in the direction of West Hartford. With his client safe, it was time to put the second part of his plan into action.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Martin was turning onto Ascension Street, driving slowly enough so that as he cruised by Clive Darrow’s home for the second time today, he could take in as many details as possible. The garage in the rear of the property was closed and the lights inside the house appeared to be off. There was still enough daylight to explain this, however, so Martin couldn’t take it as a sign that the man wasn’t home. The house appeared to have two entrances, a side door that likely opened into a kitchen and a front door that probably opened into a living room or hallway. The side door was the one that was probably used more often, and would therefore have the easier lock to pick.

Martin continued up Ascension Street, turned his car at the next intersection, and then made his way back down the street, passing by the house one more time, hoping to spot anything else that might help him decide on his next course of action.

He saw nothing.

At the end of Ascension, Martin turned right and traveled four blocks north and then east, parking the Subaru in the lot at Smith Elementary School. There he donned a hat, sweatshirt, and running shoes from the backseat and placed his pick gun, surgical gloves, rubber moccasins, and a hairnet into a small backpack that he strapped to his back. Once ready, he began his walk back in the direction of Clive Darrow’s home.