Stupid.
A trickle of sweat slid down my temple and I wiped it away.
No one was home, I finally decided, and stood up.
I inspected the door first and saw that the damage was light.Jackson’s deadbolt was a stubby half-inch and the mechanism was flimsy.The doorjamb itself was barely damaged.The door rattled a little when I jiggled it, but if Jackson wasn’t looking for it, he might not notice.
Once I finished with the door, I slowly walked through the house.It was a typical rancher-style house, just a box with rooms.I wandered through them, my hand still on the butt of my pistol, my heart racing.I had visions of all the homes and buildings I’d searched when I was a cop.I tried to recall old tactics as I moved through the rooms.
It was definitely a bachelor’s house.There were no signs of a woman’s touch anywhere.But it was neat and clean and surprisingly sparse.The furniture was nice but comfortably middleclass.There was no oak.The television was thirty inches and he had a DVD player and bookshelf stereo, but nothing fancy.
I walked into the bedroom.His bed looked like a queen and it was made.I halfexpected to see a pair of slippers sitting beside the night stand, but there was only a telephone and a digital alarm clock.RogerJackson was definitely a very orderly man.
The kitchen and bathroom were more of the same.I completed my circuit of the small house in less than five minutes and saw nothing out of the ordinary.The place was a little on the sterile side, all tidy and without pictures of family on any of the walls.A framed movie poster for Miller’s Crossing hung in the hallway.
I wondered if I had the wrong house.Maybe Adam was wrong about Jackson entirely and his Internet investigation had been a bust.
A car drove by the house slowly.The windows were tinted black and the sound of bass thumped obscenely, rattling the front windows of RogerJackson’s house.I watched from behind the curtain.The car turned onto Assembly and headed south.
A magazine rack stood next to one of the chairs in the living room and I flipped through the selections.Time and Playboy were the most prominent, but neither one had any copies with an address label.Then I came across a Videomaker magazine and saw a label on it.
RogerJackson.
This was the right house.
I started checking doors, finding several closets.One was full of towels, another was bare except for three coats hanging from the rack.Then, off the kitchen, I found a door that I had taken for a pantry.I opened it and saw a set of stairs that led sharply downward.
To the basement.
I flicked on the light, drew my gun and went down the stairs.
46
The narrow stairs creaked as I went down them.At the foot of the stairs, I saw that the basement was small.A tiny laundry area was off to my left.I poked my head in and swept my eyes across the room.Just a washer and dryer and another closet.
I moved to the other side of the small basement and found a finished room that had been turned into a simple office.A desk with a computer was pushed into the corner.A printer on a small table sat next to the computer desk and another box-shaped component sat underneath the table.The printer was off, but a red light glowed on the box beneath the table.The desk chair was a match for the upstairs dining table chairs.Behind that, on the opposite wall, was a bookshelf with a few mainstream paperback novels and some back issues of Videomaker magazine.
The desktop was empty except for a keyboard and mouse on a dark blue pad.I put my pistol back in its holster and slid open some of the desk drawers.There was nothing but generic computer related items and office supplies.In the bottom drawer, I saw a Hoyle Casino game advertising Texas Hold ‘em as a featured game and a thick box of software. The cover of the software box showed a video camera and an editing screen.
I slid the drawer shut.
Jackson’s computer was up and running.I could hear the fan, even though the screen was blank.I nudged the mouse.The newest version of Microsoft Windows popped up, along with a password request.
My eyebrows went up at that.Who puts a password on their computer when they live alone?
People who have things to hide, that’s who.And given his subscription to Videomaker magazine and the copy of video editing software in his desk drawer, I had an idea what it was he was trying to hide.
I thought about it for a minute and tried a few random passwords, knowing the odds were better that Ed McMahon would burst through the door with my check from Publisher’s Clearing House than me getting the right password.
Star, I typed.
Incorrect.Please check your password and try again.
I tried Jackson.
Incorrect. Please check your password and try again.
I typed a few more, including Miller’s Crossing and Videomaker, and got the same response.Finally I typed, Jackson is a pervert and hit Enter.
Incorrect. Please check your password and try again.
“Damn,” I muttered and wished I knew half of what Adam did about computers.
I settled for checking around the office some more, but found nothing.
I was halfway up the stairs when the telephone rang.I froze for a moment, then trotted up to the kitchen and listened to it ring.The stairclimbing caused a flare of pain in my knee.I massaged it and waited.After four rings, Jackson’s answering machine picked up.I couldn’t hear his message, but the large zero on the face of the machine turned into a rotating red line.Then the speaker kicked on.
“Are you there?” a woman’s voice asked.
I thought about snatching the receiver and talking to her.My hand actually began reaching for the handset, but I stopped and waited.
“Okay, I guess you’re out.Listen, I’ll be over a little later than we talked about, but I’m bringing a friend and she is excited to meet you.She’s never worked before, but she’ll do fine.Her name’s Linda and she’s totally okay with working one with me.We can do that instead of the solo scenes you wanted, if that’s okay.Anyway, I’ll see you later tonight and I’ll bring Linda.You’ll like her.Bye.”
I listened to the machine click off and I wondered if that had been Kris.I’d never heard her voice before, but somehow that hadn’t sounded like her.That was what I told myself, anyway.
47
I sat at RogerJackson’s dining room table and drummed my fingers.My options were running out.I could leave now and clear out of the second burglary I’d committed in as many days.Or I could wait for RogerJackson to find his way home and get what I needed from him.
With a sigh, I decided to wait.Like I told Adam, in for a penny, in for a pound.
I stood up to wander around Jackson’s house some more, taking time to open his fridge.A whole row of Heineken’s were in the door, but I dismissed them and grabbed a Coke instead.
Maybe I wasn’t so pathetic, after all.
The fizzy liquid splashed down my throat.I was surprised at how thirsty I was.I drank half the can in one long swig.Then I wandered aimlessly through the rooms, listening and waiting.
As I walked and drank from the Coke can, I thought about Gary LeMond and Yvette.I heard his lesson on “society’s bullshit” again in my head and wondered if it were true what he said about taboos.I knew there was at least a kernel of truth to it.Most societies slowly became more and more liberal as they went along, so taboos weakened and fell.Take interracial marriages, for instance.Or gays.Just a hundred years ago in America, both were certainly spurned, and sometimes worse.How many people were beaten up or even killed simply because of who they loved?