Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [108]
“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