NINE

TY COLLINS AND Becky Sylvester would probably take a limousine to their charity event. I phoned the top limo company in the city, pretending to be Becky double-checking her reservation. “You tell me the time so I know you remembered my instructions,” I said.

“Six forty on the dot, out front,” the limo dispatcher said. “We’ll be there, ma’am. Guaranteed.”

That night, at 6:35, the spot in front of the building was blocked by a black work van. The van’s side door was open. The limo driver parked one space down.

Ty and Becky walked out of their apartment building at 6:51. Ty was dressed in a white tuxedo with a white shirt and tie. Becky wore a long gold dress that shimmered as she walked. A long fur coat hung over her arm.

As they approached the limo, an old woman closed the door of the van. She carried a black nylon case and held a small pane of glass by its edge. Her hair was silver. As she turned around, she didn’t see Becky and stumbled right into her.

“So sorry,” the old woman said. She had a slight accent, maybe Russian or Polish. She bent and picked up Becky’s coat and purse. “My fault, miss. You are not too badly hurt?”

“It’s all right,” Becky said. “I’m okay.” More important, her dress was okay. She got in the limo and didn’t think twice about what had happened. Not until they got to the awards ceremony.

“I want a picture of us on the red carpet, Ty.” She asked the driver, “Would you take one for us?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Becky opened her purse. Her phone wasn’t there.

“Must’ve dropped it,” she said.

“Dropped what?”

“My phone. My keys too.”

“You probably left them in the apartment,” Ty said.

“I’d never leave my phone.”

“Well, that’s true,” Ty said. “Guess maybe we should go back and look.”

“I’ll go. Give me your keys. You go get us our table.”

Ty stepped out of the limousine. Flashbulbs went off. Becky waved at the cameras before she shut the door.

At 7:03 the limo returned to the apartment building. Becky looked in the street and in the gutter. No phone and no keys. The work van was still parked out front.

Becky approached the door of the apartment. She had Ty’s keys, but she didn’t need them. The old woman was standing in the lobby near the elevators. She opened the door for Becky.

“Thanks,” Becky said.

The old woman looked a little familiar. Her hair was silver and cut short. A dust mask covered her mouth.

“Did you happen to see my phone?” Becky asked her.

“Sorry?”

“My phone. I lost my—never mind.”

The elevator doors opened. They both stepped inside. Becky punched in the code for the thirtieth floor.

As the doors began to close, she noticed something. Her hand moved out to keep the doors open. On the table by the mailboxes sat her phone and her set of keys.

“I should hold?” the old woman asked. Her foot blocked the doors from closing.

Becky grinned in relief. She waved her hand. “No, I found what I needed. Thanks.”

She returned to the limo. It was 7:07. She would still be on time. Everything would work out perfectly.

I stepped out of the elevator and unlocked the door to Collins’s apartment. The next time Becky Sylvester tried to use her door key, she would find it didn’t work. Hopefully that would be long after I was gone.

The passcode for the elevator was 1212. Not very creative. I hoped the same code would work for the door of the photo room.

Inside the apartment, the hall light came on before I could touch the switch. Motion-activated, I guessed. The rest of the rooms were dark. The place smelled of perfume and was still humid from the shower.

I crossed to the photo room. The numbers on the keypad glowed. I entered 1212 and waited.

Nothing.

It was different from the elevator code. Okay, I could figure it out. I tried the obvious—2121. Nothing. Then 0001. Nothing. Then 1234. Then my old friend 0000.

Nothing.

Frustrated, I put down the case. The code might be written in Ty Collins’s files. Often installers will do that, even though they’re not supposed to. Sometimes customers will write it down on the service contract or the warranty.

I hadn’t seen a file cabinet during my interview with Ty. I looked in the bedroom, the study and another room that might have been an office but where every surface was covered with clothes. A heavy aroma of Chanel No. 5 hung in the air. Becky had used this room to get ready.

Underneath a bathrobe there was a file cabinet. It was locked. In a few seconds it wasn’t. I put the bent safety pin back in my pocket and looked through the files.

Tax documents. Contracts. Warranties and service plans for dishwashers and cars. Nothing on the security system.

I looked in the study. Ty’s trophies caught my eye. Maybe the four-digit code was his first year of playing professional hockey? Or the year he won his first MVP trophy? I went back to the door and tried them both, forward and reversed. Nothing.

I could break down the door. Or take it off its hinges. Or break the faceplate and try to work open the lock’s mechanism. All of these choices would leave evidence that I had been here.

There was one more thing to try. I walked into the bedroom and scanned the walls. A mirror was hanging over the dresser. I moved it, uncovering a fuse box. I opened it and flipped the breakers, one, two, three, four.

An electronic lock needs power. When the electricity is cut off, some models will open automatically. Some will lock and stay locked until the company opens it. Others have battery backup. I couldn’t tell which model Ty Collins had. This was a chance I had to take.

I walked back through the apartment. Lights blinked from the kitchen. The clocks now read 00:01. I’d have to reset them before I left.

I tried the handle of the door to the photo room. It opened toward me. I was inside, alone with the Jane Brick photos.

I took one off the wall and examined the frame. It was difficult to open. It had to be laid flat and the backing eased up. The glass was easy to remove. Then the matte border. Finally I had the photograph.

I plugged in the scanner and carefully fed the photo into the tray, watching as it disappeared into the machine.

While the scanner worked, I took the glass from the frame to the kitchen table. I gently set down the pane of glass I’d brought with me, careful to touch only the edges. I laid the frame glass on top and traced around it. Then I used my glass cutter to cut out a perfect matching rectangle.

I put this new piece of glass in the frame. I’ll explain why later.

The scanner was finished. It had printed out a perfect copy of Jane Brick’s image. I placed the matte around it and put the frame back together.

It had taken me eleven minutes, but most of that time had been spent measuring and cutting glass. The next photograph took seven minutes. The third took five and a half. At this rate I would be done all ten in an hour. Maybe in forty-five minutes.

Exactly twelve minutes later, I heard the first sirens.