Chapter 9

“Getting in won’t be a problem,” I told Aaron when we had settled into the Royal Suite’s comfortable chairs again. “The trick will be making our move when Martin isn’t there and isn’t likely to walk in on us, as I’ve heard happened to an intimate acquaintance of mine just recently. Funny, she was also looking for a Guarneri.” I gave Aaron a meaningful look.

Aaron laughed. “I doubt this fellow Martin would have as poor manners as the person you’re referring to,” he said. “But just in case, let’s pick a time when that’s not likely to happen. So just how do we determine when that is?”

“That’s a good question,” I said. “There are at least two ways to handle that. Either we find out when he goes to work—if he goes to work—or otherwise leaves his apartment each day, or we find a way to lure him out for the length of time we’ll need for the job. The first way may take a little longer, but it’s more certain than the second.”

“Okay, so how do we find out when he leaves?”

“The only sure way is to spend a day or two observing his movements. If it’s a regular pattern, we can plan around it. If not . . .”

“If not what?”

“If not, I’ll think of something else,” I said.

At least I hoped I would.

****

Bright and early the next morning, Aaron and I found ourselves parked across the street from Donny Martin’s apartment building, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. There was a small park on that side of the street, and from time to time we got out of the car and strolled in the park, always keeping an eye on the front entrance of the building. Rolf, the friend who told me where Martin lived, had also described him in some detail, so I was pretty sure I’d know him when I saw him. How many men living in that building could be over six feet tall with red hair, a red beard, and a penchant for flashy clothes? Only one, I hoped.

At about nine a.m., a tall man with red hair and beard, wearing a very smart but very loud track suit, left the apartment building and set off down the street. That had to be our man. We had expected Martin would drive away in his car, and we were prepared to follow, but instead he just kept walking. So we got out and walked too, on the opposite side of the street.

Martin walked quickly and it was all we could do to keep up. About six blocks later, he entered the local branch of one of those fitness chains. Apparently he wasn’t going to work; he was going to work out.

After about an hour and a half, during which Aaron and I strolled back and forth several times, shared an ice cream cone from a nearby creamery, and looked at our watches innumerable times, Donny Martin finally emerged from the gym, no doubt even more buff than when he arrived.

Once again we followed behind at a discreet distance until Martin disappeared inside his apartment building and, presumably, inside Apartment 2B.

From the lobby of Aaron’s hotel, I telephoned Donny Martinʼs gym. A man answered with an enthusiasm reserved for the young and extremely healthy.

“Hi,” I began in the sexiest voice I could summon. “I understand my friend Donny Martin is a regular at your gym.”

“Yeah,” Young and Healthy answered. “He’s here most every day. Why d’ya wanna know?”

“I have something I want to give him and I’m wondering whether you can tell me if he’s likely to be there tomorrow morning, so I can deliver it. I just missed him today.”

There was a slight pause, perhaps as Young and Healthy briefly considered whether he was authorized to give out this sensitive information. If so, he apparently decided he was, because he said, “Yeah, he usually comes in a little after nine, so if you’re here about then, you should catch him.”

“Thanks so much,” I breathed in my best Marilyn Monroe voice. “I really appreciate your assistance. I’ll be there in the morning.”

And that was that.

****

Having established that Mr. Martin would likely be at the gym after nine a.m. the next morning, that’s when we decided to make our move.

“Getting into Martin’s apartment should be a simple operation,” I told Aaron, “as should finding the violin. So I’ll take on that part of the job.”

“Wait a minute,” Aaron protested. “I thought we had a deal that we’d do this together. I won’t…”

“Don’t get your shorts in a twist. You’ll have a very important job, in some ways more important than mine.”

“Which is?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Which is lookout, to be sure Martin doesn’t come home before I’m finished and out of the apartment. Just about the worst nightmare for any burglar is being caught in the act by the rightful owner of the merchandise she’s about to make off with. And having that happen twice in succession might be more than my system can take.”

“Fair enough. So you want me to stand outside the building and let you know if Martin comes back early?”

“Not exactly. I want you to drop me off, then go back and park across from the gym, so you can give me a warning when and if he leaves early. If you phone me and say he’s on his way, I’ll make sure I’m outta there within three or four minutes, regardless whether I’ve got the violin or not. Better to run away and live to burgle another day.”

“And do I sit there and wait for you?”

“Hell no. You get your ass back here as fast as the speed limit allows, passing Martin on the way I assume, and pick me up at the back of the building. In other words, you keep me, and maybe you, out of the pokey. Is that important enough?”

Aaron looked appropriately contrite. “Yeah, I guess so. If someone has to be the lookout and someone the burglar, I suppose I’m the logical lookout. I was hoping to be in on the actual heist, but…”

“But you’ve been watching too much TV. Crime is like any other business. It takes good planning, trained personnel, and everyone doing their assigned job. To go back to my example of our playing a violin duet, that would work fine so long as you were doing the playing and I was turning the pages.

“Now let’s go get some sleep. We have an early performance to play.”

****

Since we had a tight schedule to keep, Aaron and I both slept in his suite, him in the king-size bed in the bedroom and me on the pull-out sofa in the front room. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but this was strictly business, whatever either of us might otherwise have had in mind.

The alarm clock went off the next morning at six a.m. I won’t say I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but I did manage to pry my eyes open and get my tail into my black-on-black work outfit.

Aaron was a different story. This man was clearly used to working late in the day—few concerts begin at nine in the morning—and therefore getting out of bed well after six. So I had to resort to the tried and true method of persuasion: I poured a glass of cold water over his head.

It did the trick.

I won’t repeat here the manner in which Aaron thanked me for my assistance in getting him up and ready for action, but you can be certain it was both colorful and heartfelt.

“You’re welcome,” I said when he had come up for air. “You’ve hired a full service burglar.”

I’m not sure Aaron was terribly appreciative of the service, but I just ignored him and checked that I had all necessary paraphernalia: lock picks, screwdriver, flashlight, cell phone. When Aaron was finally alert and dressed, I made sure he had his necessary kit: car keys and cell phone.

We were ready to roll.

****

One thing you can’t predict with accuracy is traffic, especially in Seattle. I had made sure we started out with plenty of extra time—half an hour—to arrive before nine at Martin’s apartment. As it happened, it wasn’t enough.

My mistake was getting on the freeway instead of relying on the slower city streets. Just our luck, there was an accident ahead of us, and we were stuck with nowhere to go, no way to get off the freeway, until it cleared enough for a single lane of traffic to get by. So we arrived at the apartment building about 9:10. We waited in front for several minutes, but no Martin came out the door. A couple of men left the building and one woman, but no one meeting Martin’s description.

“Shall we just wait and hope he’s running late, like us?” Aaron asked as the minutes ticked by.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s twenty after already. I assume we missed him. He was on time and we weren’t. Drop me off and head for the gym for your lookout duties. I’ll go and get the violin.”

Aaron dropped me off at the back of the building. I found the rear entrance door, which was conveniently unlocked. Who would want to break into this dump?

Upstairs to apartment 2B. Since we weren’t absolutely certain Martin had left for the gym—maybe he overslept and was just getting into his workout togs—I rapped on the door loudly enough for someone inside to hear, hoping not to arouse the neighbors. Had he answered the door, I was prepared with Plan B, a “Sorry, wrong floor” excuse, although I would have regretted his having seen me, should I later show up in a police lineup. This was unlikely, as thieves don’t generally go to the police to report that their stolen property had been stolen from them. Anyway, there was no response, so I proceeded with Plan A.

I had no trouble at all picking the old, outdated lock in the doorknob. There was no dead bolt.

There was, however, a dead body.