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By Root 365 0

as he turned the corner and headed back up Ascension Street, this time on foot. Though the sun was still blazing on the horizon and it was not yet dinnertime, it had been a long day. The investigation into Clive Darrow, his impromptu lunch with Laura, and his visit with his father had been more excitement in one day than Martin was accustomed to, and he felt both physically and emotionally drained. Nevertheless, he was also feeling hopeful and optimistic. The visit with his father had gone better than he ever could have expected, and he chided himself for not making the effort sooner. It was remarkable how a fear of the truth and an unwillingness to be honest had kept the two men apart for so long. Regardless of the awkwardness that might still exist between them, Martin vowed to call his father soon and plan for another meeting.

Remarkably, he found himself looking forward to it.

Martin had been walking the block for more than an hour in the dimming light when he spotted the blue pickup coming down Ascension Street toward him. He was standing at the corner of Ascension and Quaker, ready to approach Darrow’s home for the tenth time when the truck, with Darrow at the wheel, came to a stop less than five feet away. Martin watched as the man looked left and right, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and then turned right onto Quaker Lane. Had Martin’s car been close by, he would have tailed the man to his destination, but since the Subaru was more than four blocks away, this was impossible. Instead, Martin turned up Ascension Street, walking briskly toward Darrow’s home while transferring the pick gun from his backpack to the waistband of his sweatpants. Though he couldn’t be sure how long the man was going to be gone, Martin knew that this might be the best chance he had of gaining entry to the house.

He had to try.

As he approached 414 Ascension Street, he liked what he saw. Though the neighbors’ homes were situated uncomfortably close to Darrow’s house, the lights in all three were out and there appeared to be no cars in the driveways. Across the street stood a row of two-family homes, and though lights were on in some of the units, Martin always preferred renters to homeowners when it came to his clients’ neighbors. Renters never cared about the neighborhood to the degree that someone who actually owned a home did, and therefore they were less likely to be suspicious of a stranger approaching a neighbor’s home. Besides, Martin had an inkling that Clive Darrow was not the friendliest of neighbors and had probably made few allies on his block during the past couple of years.

Moving with as much confidence as he could muster, he then turned up the driveway and climbed the five steps to the concrete landing on the side of the house as if he owned the place. The door was made of wood with a pane of glass filling the top half, but maroon curtains concealed the space behind. There were two locks on the door, a locking mechanism in the doorknob and a dead bolt. By quickly examining the crack between the door and the frame, Martin could see that the dead bolt was not engaged.

More good news.

After slipping on the surgical gloves, rubber moccasins, and hairnet, Martin reached out and rang the doorbell three times, waiting for the sound of a barking dog but hearing none. He tested the knob and found the lock to be engaged. Taking one final glance and finding no one within sight, he removed the pick gun from his waistband, inserted it into the lock, and turned it on. In less than ten seconds, the lock was disengaged. Martin took one final look behind him and entered Clive Darrow’s home.

For a man who had been living in the home for almost two years, it was apparent that Clive Darrow had no interest in decorating. The kitchen in which Martin found himself standing was nearly empty. A single wooden chair was pushed up against an open TV tray, with the remains of a Taco Bell dinner covering the wooden surface. The countertops were nearly bare except for a pair of salt and pepper shakers and a dirty frying pan, and nothing hung