Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Eighteen

If Clay did take the bait, John hoped it would be after dark. There weren't a lot of tall shrubs around here. Any of the neighbors could happen to glance out and catch him breaking into George Clay's house.

The afternoon sun rotated overhead, trying its best to creep under the low "eyebrow" on Clay's second story and into the upstairs windows, and it turned John's rental van into a miniature oven. John thumbed down the window in front and busied himself in the back with what he hoped were Clay's floor plans. An online search of Key West style houses had revealed a book of floor plans which, as it turned out, had been available in a book right down Broad at John's local Barnes and Noble. One house, the "Duval," was the spitting image of Clay's house, right down to the pale green paint, olive shutters, and gingerbread trim.

Looking the book up online had been a bitch. Porn ads kept popping up on his screen every ten minutes. His PC must have caught a virus, but he hadn't had time to deal with it. He'd tried to use Lizzie's laptop, but it had disappeared from its customary place on her desk.

At dusk, a pair of headlights snapped on in Clay's tiny, scrubby front yard, and the black Mustang once again hit the street. John followed slowly and at a distance, just long enough to confirm that Clay was, in fact, picking up a nicely dressed young woman and heading across the bridge at the eastern end of Mercury onto Fort Monroe. Time to get to work.

He'd scouted out the telephone box for Clay's neighborhood earlier. He drove back up First Street and hesitated. Was it better to cut the phone lines—disabling the security system this nearly million-dollar beach house surely must have—right now, and use every second of the two or so hours he figured he had? Or was it better to wait until it was pitch dark and then have to rush? John opted for the pitch black; better to avoid being seen. Cutting the phone line was easy and quick.

He hated the idea of parking across the street right in front of houses bigger and fancier than Clay's, but realistically he had no other option. If he parked in Clay's drive someone might write down his plate number.

He gathered his bag of stuff—a flashlight, wire cutters, lock picks, screwdrivers, cell phone, pliers, a wrecking bar, and the listening devices he had purchased. He pulled his gloves on and crossed the street. His heart pounded, and he even felt a little dizzy. He entered from the back; from the beach no one would see him but the baby blue crabs that scuttled along the beach at night.

An impressive rear deck greeted him—exactly like the one he'd looked up, a welcome sight. Short stilts lifted the house above the sand. A small patio snugged under the second-floor gallery with a spiral staircase to the right and a sunroom to the left. A big deck extended beachward from there, partially covered by a little roof on the left under which parked a bar and grill. Clay even had a small pool and a hot tub out there. Stairs descended to the beach.

The lock picks had been Pride's; the instruction in using them, also Pride's. John used them on the double doors to the sunroom, noting with satisfaction the home security sticker next to the doorknob.

The first order of business was to install a bug in every room that had a phone. John had brought three; the house had two phones. He checked behind him as he went from room to room for telltales—little threads lying anywhere in this showplace of a house, toothpicks that tumbled anywhere, or little pieces of clear tape bridging doors to doorjambs. Clay had a piece of tape on the sunroom door; John restuck it. He would go out a window instead.

He avoided placing bugs in the telephones. Today's phones could practically dial themselves; no doubt the electronics would be too complicated, and John wanted to catch cell phone calls, too, if he could. So, he opted for the electrical outlet closest to each phone, careful not to turn on any light a neighbor might notice from outside. The bugs would transmit to a voice activated recorder he would conceal down the street.