Another Google search. Marcus Terry’s new address was 3822 Bremer Street, a fifteen-minute drive away.
He texted Alicia: Can you track down a Marcus Terry, 3822 Bremer Street
No response. She must be asleep.
It was 9:00 p.m. He had perhaps another hour before Nicole returned. Marcus Terry intrigued him, but he had only a short while to keep searching the house. He spent the next hour going through the kitchen—he searched the refrigerator and the cabinets over the stove, with only the lower cabinets, dining room, and basement left—and then called it quits for the night, let himself out. He’d finish tomorrow. In the meantime he’d drive over to Bremer Street.
Under the streetlights, Marcus Terry’s house was in shadow. An ancient Honda Civic, bumper askew, rusted in front of the garage. A light glowed dim from inside the house.
Finally he drove off to check in at the Holiday Inn off the interstate.
Although he was beyond exhausted—his body was still operating on European time—he couldn’t sleep. What was Marcus Terry’s connection to Nicole? A Google search of Marcus Terry turned up a handsome, worked-out man in his early thirties. His dark brown hair hung to his shoulders, framing a square face with very thick eyebrows and a thin moustache. His nose looked like it had been broken a few times. He looked vaguely familiar.
What if Nicole had already gotten rid of the violin?
Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
When he awoke, dazed and disoriented, at 3:00 a.m.—9:00 a.m. Moscow time—multiple texts from Alicia awaited him. How had he not heard the phone chime?
Alicia: Marcus Terry is personal trainer at Gold’s Gym, West Erie. 34. $15,542 in credit card debt. Been renting 3822 Bremer since last October. Previous address 184 Windview Place. WHERE ARE YOU???
Alicia: I’ve alerted Bill Soames, who will be contacting you momentarily. Flight BEG-EWR arriving 11 AM. DO NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID!! I will call you when I land
Marcus Terry’s previous address, as Nicole had told him, was 184 Windview Place.
What she hadn’t told him was that he’d been living there with her in October, when Ray and Nicole first met.
Marcus Terry had moved out shortly after Ray had met her. Why had nobody ever mentioned him to Ray—not Nicole, or Tina, or any of their other friends?
He didn’t answer Alicia’s texts.
At the all-night Walmart where he’d often shopped with Nicole, he bought a cheap T-shirt and a package of disposable rubber gloves. Then he drove back to 3822 Bremer.
Summer dawn came early, just after five o’clock, illuminating a beat-up house behind an unkempt lawn. The mailbox hung crookedly from the side of the front door. The other houses nearby were equally rough. Two doors down, a car sat on blocks in the driveway. He parked across the street, several driveways away. What time did personal trainers go to work? Nine o’clock? Didn’t a lot of people work out before heading to their jobs in the morning? Gold’s Gym opened at five thirty.
At 5:10 a.m., a light flicked on. Good thing Ray had arrived early. A figure passed the living-room window and Ray involuntarily ducked down, then laughed at himself. But he stayed low in the seat, waiting.
At 5:23, Marcus Terry opened the front door and got into his Honda Civic. Ray barely caught a glimpse.
He put on the rubber gloves, stuffed a bunch more in his pocket, just in case.
As soon as Marcus Terry’s car turned the corner, Ray was out in the predawn silver light, walking quickly.
Was going to jail for breaking and entering worth getting his violin back?
Hell yes it was.
A chain-link fence ran around the back of the house. Was there a dog? He didn’t hear one. He opened the gate, slipped through, wincing as the metal shrieked. A passing car made him move even more quickly.
The back door was locked, and visible from the houses behind it. A big oak tree partially blocked the view, but not well enough. No lights in any of the neighbors’ windows. He found a rock in a weed-filled garden bed next to the house. He pulled out the Walmart T-shirt, wrapped the rock in it to muffle the noise, and, with a single tap, broke the window above the doorknob. No going back now.
He reached in, unlocked the door from inside, closed the door behind him. Silence. Only then did he wonder if Marcus Terry had a roommate or a live-in girlfriend. But there’d been only one car in the driveway—unless another hid in the attached garage?
He waited, unmoving, peering out the window to see if anyone had noticed him. Nothing. He set the shirt and the rock down just inside the door, went quickly through the house. He was alone.