Chapter 18

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Silver Blaze

I had to locate that safe and find out who was after Tom. But tonight I could end up as a police crime statistic. If caught, I could lose my license or worse. But what else could I do?

It was 1:30 in the morning when I left. As I quietly shut and locked my apartment door, the twins next door emerged in their nightgowns waving frying pans.

“What’s wrong?” I yelled, worried someone had broken into their apartment.

“We’ve been listening at our door for any noises,” Lucille said.

“Elizabeth told us you were getting those anonymous notes again,” Glendy added. “We decided to find out who’s doing it to you.”

“How did Auntie Elizabeth know I was getting them again?”

“You know she’s got that confounded visionary stuff, “ Lucille said.

“No use trying to deny it,” Glendy agreed. “One way and another, she knows everything.”

“You two give up this idea and get right back into bed this instant,” I ordered.

“Where are you going at this hour?” Lucille asked.

“I have to do a little sleuthing. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise. Okay?”

After they retreated into their apartment, I drove southeast to the Grange mansion. Traffic was light, but the fog was much thicker here nearer the Lake. Bad for driving, but good for my purposes.

I parked a few blocks away and walked to the mansion. The heavy fog dimmed the streetlights and muted traffic noises. Visions of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in the swirling fog of 1888 London filled my head.

I had dressed all in black, including my Cole Haan Zip shoes and my favorite pair of soft black leather gloves. I had my Michael Kors jacket and pulled the hood over my head to help me further blend into the night. I felt invisible. A rush of power surged through me. Was this was how real criminals felt on their way to do a dirty deed?

The circular drive in front of the mansion was clear of cars. To my dismay, I found the wrought iron gates in the front of the mansion locked. I wouldn’t be able to get to the library window that way, so I headed for the alley. Hopefully I’d find a back way in. If not, I’d have to scale that wrought iron fence with the spikes, which would not be a good experience.

The brick wall facing the alley was six feet high and covered in thick ivy, like Wrigley Field. I didn’t know if they’d installed motion sensors with floodlights at each corner, and in this fog, I wouldn’t be able to see them if they had. I moved cautiously along the wall, carefully avoiding the corner.

I knew I was taking a chance. Normally I wouldn’t walk down an alley - any alley - in the middle of the night. Crime statistics, victim statistics, risk management principles and just plain common sense make that decision easy. Yet here I was doing just that. I clung to a kernel of hope that statistically most rape victims know their attackers. On the other hand, the awful numbers on the anonymity of robbery, muggings, murder, and mayhem that take place every day trump that statistic. Nonetheless, even though I told myself I knew better than to be doing this, I continued creeping slowly along the wall, feeling for an opening.

A scraping sound pulled me up short. I held my breath, not moving. The silence lay heavy in the fog. I couldn’t see a thing - not even a shadow. I was sweating profusely. I glanced back toward the street where I’d entered and saw a small animal ducking into the street from the alley. In the dim fog, it was merely a silhouette and could have been a cat, skunk, raccoon or a rat. They all forage in garbage cans. Whatever it was had left for better pickings elsewhere.

I hoped that was the source of the noise and tried to breath normally as I worked my way further, feeling the ivy clumps and looking for an opening. This ivy had sharp thorny vines that I could feel through my gloves. I was about to give up when about a third of the way down the wall, a clump of ivy felt out of place. A trailer of the vine was dangling. I pulled on it and felt around. When I reached underneath, Eureka. There was a doorknob. I stripped away some more of the ivy and felt something. I aimed the flashlight and saw a doorway built into the wall. Someone must have used it lately and disturbed the ivy. Lucky for me.

The door had an old fashioned lock. I didn’t know if the lock shooter tool in my Borghese tool kit could open it. If this lock still had one of those long, old timey keys to open it, the lock shooter would be useless, and I’d be sunk.

Mentally replaying the video directions that came with the lock shooter, I inserted the needle flat into the lock, but not too far. I turned it for tension, but not too much. I mouthed “Open Sesame” and clicked a few times. The universe thought about it, frowned, and the lock held its secrets. It wouldn’t open. Damn.

I took a deep breath and tried again. I did the same routine, but this time it opened. I wrenched it wide enough for me to slip inside and pulled it closed. It sounded like the cell door closing on the way to the executioner.