Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [72]
Martin ran through the plan in his mind, attempting to visualize his actions and the potential obstacles that he might face. The plan involved doing things that Martin had never done before, yet he had never been trapped in a home with two clients before either, and that situation had turned out exceptionally well. The plan also depended on several factors over which Martin had no control, but he felt that those factors would be determined early enough to allow him to abandon course and return to the Ashleys’ home to enact his contingency plan, if necessary. He attempted to estimate the amount of time it might take to complete his new plan, breaking each task down into pieces and adding up the minutes to determine if he might complete his plan (or fail) before seven o’clock, and if so, how much before that hour.
Martin spent more than ten minutes standing by the fuse box, his hand unconsciously holding the latch on the box’s door, visualizing, timing, assessing, and predicting.
Once his decision was made, he moved without hesitation.
Closing the fuse box, Martin headed back upstairs and toward the Ashleys’ office, located in a spare bedroom on the second floor. The first thing he would need was Laura’s full name and address, and he thought he knew where to find it.
The office was a study in dichotomy. Two identical desks dominated the west and east walls of the room, facing away from each other. The desk closest to Martin was used by Daniel Ashley, a tall, thin man who cared little for organization or appearance. Piles of paper littered the desktop and computer keyboard, with no attempt to neaten or even out the stacks. Junk mail and circulars were piled in one corner, moved only when the pile threatened to topple over. His computer hummed quietly, always turned on, with more than half a dozen programs open and running. Photographs of Justine Ashley, most of which featured her in an apron, armed with a spatula, or decked out in some other cooking accoutrement, were displayed across the top of the desk, curling rectangles propped against a stack of cookbooks, a soft-ball trophy, and a dish containing coins, cufflinks, and dozens of keys, none of which had ever moved from their round, yellow home. A two-drawer file cabinet stood beside the desk, unlocked as always, one drawer open, with file folders stacked inside. The drawers of the desk were filled with a mishmash of office supplies, birthday candles, golf tees, aging check registers, and more.
In opposition to this mess stood Justine Ashley’s desk on the far side of the room. Not a single item other than her small wireless keyboard and flat screen monitor occupied any space on the desktop. Along a shelf mounted above the desk were several framed photographs of Daniel Ashley looking perpetually distinguished despite his long, somewhat goofy face, along with smaller images of friends and relatives. A larger photo of the couple hung on the wall above the shelf, their difference in height (nearly two feet) painting a startling contrast. An identical file cabinet stood beside her desk, but this cabinet remained locked at all times. Martin had successfully picked the lock years ago (without the use of a pick gun, he was proud to recall) and had found it to be a study in organization. Files hung alphabetically in color-coded folders and everything seemed to have a place. Most of the material contained therein pertained to the finances of the business, but there were also files for recipes, vacation plans, and documents such as college transcripts and income tax returns. She even had a file set aside specifically for her birth certificate (something Martin had as well). The drawers to her desk were also neatly organized, containing many of the same types of office supplies that could be found in her husband’s desk, but with greater ease. Martin knew that Justine Ashley’s address book