Housebreaking (15 page)

“You'll call him now? The tech guy?”

“He's not on duty 24/7. He comes in at eight tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you've got some printable surfaces there. The beer bottle, jewelry boxes, glass figurines, the dresser drawers, the door. He'll want to print the POE—point of entry. Don't disturb those areas. But you can clean up the rest. He'll also want to check those muddy footprints.”

“To make a mold?”

The cop laughed. “You've been watching too many cop shows. No, to
photograph the footprint with a ruler next to it, to get an idea of shoe size. Then we can check your delinquent pal, get a look at his feet.”

“So you're going to talk to my neighbor?”

The cop checked his watch. “It's a little late tonight. His house looks dark. But I'll have a chat with him tomorrow. And I'll canvas the neighborhood now, to see if anyone's out and about.”

“I see,” said Benjamin. “Well, thanks for all the help. I'll be expecting this tech guy tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. He'll be here first thing.”

After the cop left, Benjamin began cleaning up.

* * *

HE SLEPT POORLY
, plagued by nightmares.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, “Black Friday,” which meant a busy day at the dealership—they'd been gearing up for this sale for weeks. But he had to wait around for the tech cop. By 10:00
A.M.
there was still no sign of him. Benjamin grabbed the bedside phone and called the number the cop had left him but got his voice mail. Then he called his secretary to tell her he wouldn't be coming in for a while.

After that, he dialed Judy. She answered, sounding tired: “I've been cleaning the kitchen all morning. You ever try scrubbing turkey grease? No, you haven't.”

“Actually, I have. And it was a terrific meal.”

“Isn't this your big sale day?”

“I didn't go in yet.”

“Why not?”

“I had a lousy night.”

She had that flat tone, again, unconcerned. Her new-boyfriend voice. It annoyed him. “Why didn't you tell me you were dating your divorce lawyer? Your brother had to tell me? And I'm not sure that's even kosher. Legally, I mean.”

“You call at ten in the morning to interrogate me? I thought we'd gotten past—”

“Hey, take it easy. It surprised me, that's all. We're still married, technically. And ten o'clock's really not all that early.”

She sighed. “I assumed you wouldn't want to know about my love life.”

“We're grown-ups.” He heard a commotion in the background—the dishes clattering in the sink. “We should be able to discuss things.”

“In that case, yes, I'm seeing a man,” she said. “He's not my divorce lawyer, but they work together. And yes, I'm sleeping with him.”

He winced, imagining them together, the man's hairy back. “How old is he?”

“He's your age, maybe a little older.”

“How much older?”

“Never mind. I can see where this is going.”

“I simply asked the man's age.”

“And next you'll want to know his name, his income, the size of his dick, and whether he's good in bed.”

“Is he?”

She didn't respond.

“I just need a little time to get used to the idea of you sleeping with someone else,” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “Get used to it. I won't ask what you're up to. I can only imagine.”

“I'm not up to anything.” It was an old habit, avoiding any mention of women to Judy.

“Oh, right. While we're married you chase everything in a skirt. But now that you're single, you're a monk.” There came the slamming of pans, more water splashing.

“Can you leave the dishes for a minute?”

“I know when you're lying, Benjamin. Your voice goes up a half octave. It's your squeaky little liar's voice. So, no, I don't want to leave the dishes if you're going to feed me a load of horseshit.”

Benjamin sighed. “I've had a few dates, if you must know.”

“Dates? With the same woman, or different women?”

“Same.”

“Who is she?”

“She's no one.”

“What's her name?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it doesn't matter, then tell me.”

He paused. “Her name is Audrey.”

Judy said, “Didn't you know an Audrey in high school? Audrey so-and-so with the terrific ass.”

“How do you remember that? That's really weird.”

“What's weird is a married man going around for years talking about some high school girl's ass. I can't believe there are that many Audreys floating around. Jesus—is this the same one?”

Before he could respond, Judy uttered a noise of disgust—something between a bark and a cough. “What did you do? Call her the minute you left me? God, that's so pathetic.”

He had forgotten how well she knew him. “It's
Aubrey
,” he said.

“What?”

“The woman I'm dating. Her name is Aubrey. With a
b.
”

“What kind of name is Aubrey?”

“Like the song. Her parents named her after the song. It was their wedding song.”

“What song?”

“The song by Bread. Don't you remember?” He sang the verse for her: “
And Aubrey was her name. A not so very ordinary girl or name.
Et cetera.”

“That song came out when, 1975?”

“ 'Seventy-seven.” In truth, he had no idea.

“So that makes her, what, thirty years old?”

“Twenty-nine,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

“You're dating a twenty-nine-year-old?”

“Not dating. We went out a few times.” Somehow it always happened like this with Judy. He would tell one lie, then another, trying to get out of trouble but just ending up deeper, the whole thing a house of cards. “It's no big deal.”

“Right,” she said. “Let me decipher that for you. Let me tell you what you just told me. It means you're fucking this woman Aubrey and couldn't care less about her.”

“Did I say that?”

“In so many words, yes, you did. Maybe she doesn't spoil you like I did. Maybe she doesn't drop to her knees every time you ask. Maybe now you can appreciate what I did for you—”

“Listen, Judy, I don't know how we got started on this—”

“We got started on this because you have the nerve to persecute me
for moving on with my life. You're trying to suck me back in, in your own stupid way, and I'm not falling for it, okay? It would just turn out the same way. Besides, you don't want to come back, not really. You're just sick of living alone in Leonard's house and making yourself peanut butter sandwiches for dinner.”

“That's not it at all.”
Actually
, Benjamin thought,
that's pretty much it exactly.
Judy always knew when he was lying to her, to himself. Yes, he lied to her. But was there any other way to sustain a marriage? Wasn't lying to someone you loved sometimes the right thing to do? Who could bear to know the truth of what went on, day in, day out, in the other's mind?
You've gained weight. You say the same things over and over. You're looking older.
No, you didn't say those things. But Judy always knew, somehow, what he was hiding. Or maybe he gave her reason to know. He would lead her toward the place where she would find his secret. To enrage her, to punish her, but for what? Why had he always pushed her, prodded her, beat her with his own failings?

“Listen to me for two seconds, will you? I called to tell you that someone broke into the house last night.”

“What?” she screeched. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I'm serious.”

“Did the cops catch him? What did he take? Wait. Start over. What happened?”

He told her. She didn't interrupt. She had always been a good listener, at least up until the last couple of years. “Franky DiLorenzo thinks it's some kid who moved into the neighborhood,” he said. “The kid's been arrested before.”

“Franky should know. He watches that neighborhood like a hawk. You should get an alarm system before Leonard comes home.”

“I probably should.” It felt good to be agreeing with her.

“Speaking of Leonard, did you call the Polish ladies?”

“Not yet.”

“Typical. Always waiting until the last minute. You'll never change, Benjamin. But it's not my problem anymore.”

She hung up, and Benjamin remained in bed. He didn't know what to do with himself. He tried the police department. He was transferred twice and put on hold for ten minutes before getting the tech guy, who said he'd be there at noon. Benjamin hung up and stared at the ceil
ing. It was a Friday morning, but because of the holiday, it felt like a Sunday. Sundays were for hanging around the bedroom, reading the
Times
. His lazy day. It was a tradition of Judy and his, since the early part of their marriage: Saturday night was hers—to choose a restaurant or movie or anything she wanted to do, or issue instructions for any servile tasks she could think up for him to do—and Sunday mornings were his. Judy used to bring him a tray in the bedroom—waffles, bacon, a glass of orange juice—and, yes, she would spoil him in bed, whatever he asked. That indulgence was gone too. Gone for good. That fact seemed inarguable now. For some reason their divorce had not felt definite to him, even after the meetings with lawyers, the negotiations, the signing of documents. But his wife fucking another man—now
that
was divorce.

* * *

THE TECH GUY
was a civilian, dressed in a utility-type outfit, dark blue coveralls, same color as a police uniform, but no gun. He snapped on some latex gloves like a doctor and took photographs of the back door. Then he followed the route of the burglar through the house—kitchen, den, living room, Leonard's bedroom. He used a brush—like a woman's makeup brush, only larger—to paint a fine black powder, like soot, over small patches throughout the house—doorknobs, drawers, light switches. Each time he powdered an area, he would study the result with his head cocked at an angle, using a flashlight. As he moved through the house he jotted notes. “For my report,” he explained to Benjamin.

All for nothing.

“He might have been wearing gloves,” the guy explained. “But maybe not. It's not so easy to leave a latent. It takes a firm press without any slip. Doorknobs rarely leave a good print because the hand slips when turning the knob.”

The tech took a few photos of the footprints in the backyard. “Sneakers. Looks like a size nine.” He glanced up at the sky and exhaled deeply. “Nice working out here,” he said. “A nice change of pace.”

Benjamin followed him to his car. “Do we clean up now?”

The guy cleared his throat. “Oh, sure. I'm all done. If you have any problems with that powder, try Scrubbing Bubbles and 409.”

It took Benjamin the rest of the day, battling the soot. He spent an hour in his dad's bedroom alone, trying to get a dark splotch out of the
carpet. He nearly called the department to complain, but he figured the tech guy was just doing his job, even if he could have been a little neater.

That day and the next day, he expected the cop to get back to him, or Franky DiLorenzo to call, but he heard from no one.

By Sunday, he decided to put the incident out of his mind.

* * *

THAT DAY
he found himself missing Audrey Martin. He hadn't seen her since the day before Thanksgiving. He left a couple of messages and texted her, without response. Finally, that evening, she got back to him. He could tell immediately that something was bothering her.

“It's good to hear your voice,” he said, trying to sound cheery.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry I've been out of touch. It's been a rough weekend.”

“The holidays can be brutal.”

“I'll say.”

She was silent for a while, so he said, “Maybe a walk with the dog might help your mood. A real walk, that is. I've got an interesting story for you—”

“No, not tonight. I can't. Thanks for offering but—”

“I understand. It's getting late.”

“It's not that. Just give me a couple more days,” she said, and the line went dead.

He sat there for a while with the phone in his hand, his head lowered. Five days since he'd seen her, and she'd hung up on him. He felt morally wronged—his Italian soccer player expression, as Judy called it. He nearly called Audrey back to hash it out with her, but no. He wasn't supposed to pry, not after that meltdown of hers. What had she said that night?
Don't try to find out.

He got on the Internet and did a search for “Audrey Martin.” A series of newspaper articles came up—the
Hartford Courant
,
Greenwich Citizen
,
New Haven Register.
Even
The New York Times
had followed the story and its aftermath. He raced through the articles, switching from one to the next.

Daniel Martin-Murray, a seventeen-year-old senior at Greenwich High School, was driving home after school on a Wednesday in May 2006. He was alone in the car, a Toyota Celica, with his seat belt fastened, heading north on Wolf's Den Road in Cos Cob. The other driver, a land
scaper operating his employer's truck, ran a stoplight at the Mulberry Avenue intersection and collided with the passenger door of the Celica. The impact of the crash hurled the Celica over the curb and against a brick retaining wall, causing the air bag to inflate and pushing the metal frame two feet into the driver's compartment. Emergency personnel were unable to free the victim from the wreckage until firefighters arrived with special equipment. The landscaper was not harmed in the accident. He admitted to police that he had been talking on his cell phone and had failed to keep a proper lookout, and he was issued a summons at the scene for reckless driving.