So now, alone, alcoholic and aging, would he have trusted himself to remember his own passwords?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He shined his light under the space where the desk chair had been tucked into and searched for a list of passwords taped to the underside. All he found was a brass plate with the name of the manufacturer, CAL’S CUSTOM FURNITURE, and the phrase PROUDLY MANUFACTURE IN OREGON SINCE 1966 etched into the metal. On impulse he touched the plate and it moved, the panel unlocking and becoming a wide, wooden tray on a hinge that clicked into place to provide additional desk space. Tate half expected to find a list of personal information, client names and phone numbers and the like adhered to the smooth wood surface, info that Margrove could have accessed while working on the computer.
But no luck.
Maybe the old guy had been sharper than Tate thought.
He tried a couple of passwords—easy numerical sequences, or the word PASSWORD, or a combination of Margrove’s initials and dates on the certificates lining the walls, all to no avail.
“Crap.”
It was useless.
He decided to file this illegal break-in under Barking Up the Wrong Tree, when he thought of the hidden tray he’d discovered and the fact that this desk was “proudly” custom-made. If one secretive panel, why not others?
Once more, Tate searched the drawers of the desk.
Again he found nothing.
He was about to give up, figured this was all a wild-goose chase, when he stopped short and eyed the blotter again. It looked small on the massive desktop, and he realized the long drawer in the center of the desk wasn’t as deep as the desk itself, even though there was no overhang on the side facing the client chairs.
Just the design? Or . . .
He pulled out a side drawer and the center drawer.
The side drawer was about six inches longer.
Why?
Using the flashlight app on his phone for illumination, he checked inside the center drawer again, shoving aside the carton of cigarettes, and discovered a small, metal indentation in the back corner. Even under the harsh beam, the depression was hardly visible.
Tate reached in and pressed.
Nothing.
“Son of a—”
He tried again. Harder. Pushing the tip of his gloved index finger into the slight dimple.
Click.
The drawer slid open another six inches and there in a long, narrow cubby running the width of the drawer was not only a small leather-bound address book but several zip drives. All hidden away.
Tate hesitated a second.
He heard the sound of a truck’s engine and caught the glint of headlights showing through the space where the door was cracked.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
Had someone seen him? Or was the camera he was certain was fake, real? Or had there been another small security camera hidden in the building, one he’d missed.
It didn’t matter.
He heard the engine die.
Tate didn’t think twice, just scooped up everything in the small niche and stuffed the zip drives and address book into his pocket as he heard a car door slam, then a faint voice, from outside, as if someone was talking on a phone, but close to the door.
Shit.
He didn’t want to get caught.
No doubt if the police found anything disturbed they would start looking at security footage for this building and the surrounding businesses and street cams, but it was a risk he felt compelled to take.
Yes, he’d crossed a moral, ethical and legal line, but he wasn’t backing down.
He heard keys rattling in a lock, probably the front door.
With a creak, the door opened.
Crap!
Quickly, he closed the office door and slipped to the window, opened the sash, took out the screen and slid to the ground. Reaching up, he pulled the window down. It slid and landed with a soft thud. He left the screen in the frozen bushes and then, moving stealthily, leaving footprints he hoped the falling snow would cover, he cut through back alleys and side streets to the neighborhood where he’d parked his SUV. Once inside, he pulled off his gloves, started the engine and used the wipers to swipe the glass clean of the layer of snow that had collected.
Pulling away from the curb, he knew it was probably only a matter of time before the authorities were onto him and figured out that he’d broken into Margrove’s office, so he’d have to work fast, taking pictures of the notations in the attorney’s address book and downloading whatever information he could find on the zip drives, then possibly returning the stolen items—if he could pull it off.
Slowing for a red light, he thought about Margrove’s locked file cabinets and wished he’d had time to go through them.