The Violin Conspiracy(103)

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?”

“Marcus Terry.”

“I got you right here, Mr. Terry. I’ll just need to see some ID.”

“I actually ran out of my house without my wallet.”

“Sorry, I can’t give you the code without any ID.”

“Come on, man. Give me a break, please? It’s already turning out to be a shitty day. My address is 3822 Bremer Street. My grass needs cutting, my old lady is all up my ass, I’m almost out of gas, and I need to go grocery shopping. What else do you want to know? My shoe size? Ten and a half. Here are the keys, see? And here’s an invoice.”

The burly man behind the counter smiled sympathetically. “I hear you, bud. I’ve had those days. Gimme a sec. Here, I’ll write it down for you.” Ray watched him scrawl the code on a slip of paper.

“Thanks, man. You’ve literally saved my life.” He shook the man’s hand, turned to go.

“Excuse me, Mr. Terry?”

Ray froze. “Yeah?”

“This month’s payment is two weeks past due.”

“Oh, okay. Let me talk to the old lady and have her give you a credit card.” He headed out toward the storage units. “This is probably the last month I’ll be using it anyway.”

“Hey, where are you going?” the man asked.

Ray froze again.

“I thought you said you were 601?”

Ray didn’t move.

“That’s in here, remember? That’s one of the climate-controlled lockers.”

Ray shook his head, laughed. “Yeah. Duh. Sorry. I don’t know where my head is today.” He turned right, toward the interior of the building, and the door slid shut.

He punched in the code. The security door opened. He followed the signs to 601—about halfway down a long hallway lined with dozens of blue corrugated metal doors. Above him a fan clicked on. A few rows over someone rattled something, and then came the sound of glass clinking on cement.

The locker couldn’t be that large—doors about three feet wide marched endlessly, side by side, down the corridor.

There was 601. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. His fingers shook. His hands were sweating and he had to try three times to get the key in the metal padlock. Finally the key slid in, clicked, and the shackle slipped back. He removed the lock, placed it on the ground, pulled back the bolt, and lifted the corrugated metal door.