Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [12]
Of course, all this depended upon Martin’s ability to gain initial entry to the home.
When he first went into business, he’d thought that this would prove to be his biggest challenge, but without much effort, Martin had found more than a dozen businesses that would sell him lock-picking tools and instructional manuals with virtually no questions asked. For example, the website where Martin had recently purchased his newest set of tools, lockpickpro.com, listed this disclaimer: “It is the responsibility of the buyer, and not Lock Pick Pro, to ascertain and obey all applicable local, state, and federal laws in regard to possession and use of any item ordered. Consult your local and state laws before ordering if you are in doubt.”
Other lock-picking sites declared that their instruction manuals were for “academic study only” and “were not intended for any use other than magical or escape artist purposes.”
Martin didn’t consider his purposes purely academic, and he wasn’t a professional magician or escape artist at the time (nor did he ever expect to be). And although he was fully aware of the local and state laws regarding his possession and use of lock picks, Martin purchased that first set anyway, making the payment with a Stop & Shop money order and having the lock picks shipped via UPS to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Marino, future clients of Martin’s who were vacationing in Tahiti for two weeks. Ordering over the phone had made Martin nervous enough, but to have the equipment shipped to his own home seemed ludicrous. It was just the type of information that the police might one day use to incriminate him. Instead, Maureen Marino had been the answer.
Mrs. Marino was a regular customer in the Starbucks where Martin worked part-time, and she was quite friendly with Martin’s manager, an earthy-crunchy tree-hugging twenty-something named Nadia who referred to everyone as “honey” except for Martin. Over the obscene screaming of the milk steamer, Martin had overheard the two ladies chatting about Mrs. Marino’s upcoming and absolutely fabulous vacation to the South Pacific. Later on, a check of the phone books of the surrounding towns found Mrs. Maureen Marino living at 13 Cranberry Circle in Martin’s hometown of West Hartford, a mere twelve minutes from his own house. A visual inspection of the home told Martin that the Marinos would suit him just fine. Set back away from the road, with plenty of distance between their house and the neighbors’, the Marino’s home was equipped with a wide front porch, capable of hiding any packages left by delivery persons.
Martin timed the placement of his order so that his package would arrive in the middle of the Marinos’ vacation, leaving plenty of room on either end for error. Prior to delivery, he also noted the time that the UPS truck typically made its rounds through the Marinos’ neighborhood, so that he could be prepared to receive his order upon delivery. By shipping through United Parcel Service, Martin had also managed to bypass the hold that the Marinos had presumably placed on their mail through the U.S. Postal Service. Martin simply watched the Marinos’ home from across the street for three days until the brown UPS truck stopped in front of their house, then watched as a man dressed to match his truck stepped onto the Marinos’ porch, knocked, and waited. After determining that no one was home, the driver, a middle-aged man who appeared to be going through the motions of life with little zeal, placed the package on the Marinos’ porch swing and left. Martin removed the package later that evening after the sun had gone down and the neighbors had gone to bed.
Thus, for an initial investment of just under $1,000, Martin had managed to purchase a top-of-the-line lock-pick kit, complete with instruction manuals in three different languages, half a dozen tension wrenches,