Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [62]
Less than thirty minutes after leaving the diner, Martin pulled onto Ridgewood Road in the quiet town of Southington and began scanning mailboxes for number 32. If the site visit didn’t eliminate the Hugh family as clients, his next step would be to research the couple thoroughly, a task from which Martin extracted great pleasure. The Hughs’ home turned out to be a large blue Colonial set more than fifty feet from the road and more than a hundred yards from any neighbor, bordered by trees at the rear of the lot. A relatively discreet location on a dead-end street with a probable backyard approach was an extremely good start.
Though Martin typically relished the process of vetting client referrals, he found his mind continually wandering to the last item on his list: Alan. He knew that the client referral needed to be addressed first, but he couldn’t help but look ahead to the afternoon, when his plan for Alan would be put into place. As he drove past the Hughs’ home a second time and prepared to stop, he forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. There would be plenty of time to address the Alan situation after his work was finished in Southington.
Martin brought the car to a halt alongside the Hughs’ front lawn and extracted a map from the glove compartment, opening it until it nearly filled the front seat. If anyone ever questioned him (and it had happened once about seven years ago), Martin would play the role of a lost motorist, in search of the road that he was on but in another town entirely.
“I’m looking for Locust Street. Is this the right street?” he had said to the police officer who had pulled up behind him, exited the cruiser, and approached his car. Martin had been parked on a residential cul-de-sac at the time, and no doubt the police officer (or more likely one of the neighbors) had become suspicious of a man sitting in his car in a neighborhood that received few visitors.
“This is Locust Street, sir,” the officer had said, continuing to look down upon Martin with grave suspicion. “What house number are you looking for?”
“This one,” Martin said, indicating the 566 on the mailbox. “Is there another Locust Street in Berlin?”
“This isn’t Berlin,” the officer chuckled, relaxing his face. “You’re in Cromwell, sir. You’re on the right street but in the wrong town.”
Martin had escaped the encounter (his only one with law enforcement while working) unscathed and had never returned to that neighborhood. More important, he was now secure in the knowledge that if questioned, his strategy would likely work again.
Looking through an irregular-shaped hole in the map about two inches in diameter, located at the junction of Interstates 84 and 684 (there were several of these holes, placed to make it appear that the map was old and worn, rather than deliberately altered), Martin began examining the home more closely. A two-car garage abutted the home, something Martin did not like since it would be impossible for him to tell if there were cars parked inside, but not something that he couldn’t work around. The lawn was well kept (a sign of orderliness), the curtains were drawn (always a plus when moving through a supposedly unoccupied home), and there was no blue octagonal sign warning of an alarm system. So far, Martin thought, this was looking good.
Initial inspection complete, Martin then doubled back onto the main road and parked the Subaru about two miles away in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. From here he would proceed on foot. Dressed in full jogging regalia (sweat suit, headband, headphones, strap-on water bottle, and pedometer), Martin made his way back to Ridgewood Road, carrying a broken dog leash in his left pocket and a supply of plastic bags used to retrieve dog