The place was a wreck. Clothes and bags were strewn all over the couch. A full ashtray on the coffee table. A Tony’s pizza box full of crusts lay open on the floor. Marcus Terry, a personal trainer, sure did a great job with fueling the temple of his body. A sink full of dishes. On the kitchen table, a half gallon of milk that should have been in the refrigerator sat next to a box of Fruity Pebbles. Marcus Terry had left the milk out—did that mean he’d be back soon?
Ray called Gold’s Gym. “Hi, can you tell me when Marcus will be done? Does he have a lot of appointments today?” The receptionist checked. He had four appointments, and was done at nine thirty. Could she schedule him a session? What was Ray’s name? Ray would text Marcus later. Thanks.
He had, at the most, four hours. Unless an appointment canceled.
In the front hall closet were several boxes of random papers. He scanned them as quickly as possible—tax returns, copies of old bills. In the bedroom, under the bed, were boxes of winter clothes and boots. As he moved to the bedroom closet his phone buzzed: Alicia. He ignored it. What time did she leave Belgrade again? Had she already returned to the US?
Six forty-five. Back to the kitchen. On the far-left corner of the fridge, beneath a coupon for protein powder and hanging awry, was a photo of a shirtless Marcus Terry hugging a young woman with auburn hair and a single music note tattooed above her wrist: Nicole.
Somehow, despite all this, Ray somehow hadn’t believed it.
Through the kitchen cabinets, emptying cans and boxes of food onto the floor. Then adding mismatched cups and plates. Nothing. Was there an attic? A basement?
In the cabinet next to the back door—inches from where he’d left the shirt-wrapped rock—he found a cardboard box packed with more old mail: flyers from moving companies, old gas and electric bills, and a tan oversize clasp envelope stuffed with invoices from Lowrey Storage. There were three invoices dating from this past May to July. At the bottom of the envelope were two identical small silver keys.
A storage unit, rented on May 12.
On May 16, his violin had been stolen.
His phone rang again. Bill Soames this time. He hit do not disturb.
By then it was seven thirty and the neighborhood was coming to life. He decided to get out: a Black man coming out of Marcus Terry’s home would, no doubt, raise eyebrows. Ray wasn’t going to take the chance that a neighbor would report him. He’d fill in Alicia and Bill Soames, they’d get a warrant, they’d figure this out.
Among the detritus on the living-room floor he found a ratty Erie SeaWolves baseball cap, tucked it low across his eyebrows. He stuffed the manila envelope under his shirt and, carrying the shirt-wrapped rock, unlocked Marcus Terry’s front door, removed the rubber gloves, and casually sauntered over to his car, waiting for a “Hey, you!” from the neighbors. No one seemed to notice him. He unlocked the rental and drove off.
A block away, he wrapped the shirt, rock, cap, and gloves in the plastic Walmart shopping bag, tossed it off the bridge into the Trout Run Stream below.
He called Alicia. Her voice mail picked up. By now she would be on a plane heading back to the United States. “Hi, I went to Marcus Terry’s house. She knows him. I think they’re working together. I found a bunch of receipts and a key to a storage unit in Erie. Lowrey Storage. I’m heading there now.”
He hung up. He should call Bill Soames back. Soames would have to fly in, unless he called in some local field agents, which is surely what he’d do. But would they have to get a warrant? Did they have probable cause? Ray had broken into and entered Marcus Terry’s house—would that make getting a warrant more difficult?
Plus when Marcus Terry got home after nine thirty, he’d see that someone had smashed the glass in his back door. How long would it take until he noticed that the envelope was missing? It was already eight forty-five.
Lowrey Storage, open twenty-four hours, was 4.3 miles away. He would reach his destination in seven minutes if traffic was light.
He pulled into the parking lot of a big gated building with rows of unheated storage units out back. There was a code to get in the back gate. He didn’t have it. He went through the manila envelope, didn’t see a code.
In the office, a short burly man with thinning black hair and glasses looked up when the sliding doors opened and Ray came in. His one earring was an iron cross. He had a tattoo of a koi fish on his hairy forearm. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I’m in unit 601 and I don’t remember the code to get in.”
“Okay, let’s see what we can do. Name?”