Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant

movies—I thought of 24 and asked myself, What would Jack Bauer do? Well, Jack had only twenty-four hours to do a lot more than look for recipes in an apartment, so unless I had to fit my plan in between disarming a nuclear bomb and torturing criminals, I didn’t have Jack’s time constraints. Good! If I went to Digger’s when it was totally dark, I’d have to use a flashlight; the electricity must have been turned off. But a flashlight would attract attention and make me look like a burglar. Although I wasn’t totally committed to social work, I wasn’t about to abandon my career choice for life as a burglar, especially one who got caught. The best time seemed to be late afternoon, when it would be somewhat dark but when there would still be enough light coming through the windows for me to see my way around. And on my key chain was a penlight I could use if need be.
    For the rest of the day, I puttered around the house nervously, waiting for the sky to start darkening, and when it did, I drove to Digger’s. Dressing for my first breaking and entering had been a challenge. Nothing dressy, obviously, but I couldn’t look suspicious, in case someone saw me and called the police. All black had seemed too obvious, so I’d gone with dark jeans, a dark ribbed turtleneck, and brown boots. I also did my hair and makeup. It might sound stupid to get dressed up to sneak into a condemned building, but I wanted to look normal and ordinary, as if I had some legitimate reason to be in the neighborhood and in Digger’s apartment. I mean, rescuing recipes was legitimate, but it might not seem that way to spying neighbors. Or to the cops, either.
    I parked a few buildings down from Digger’s, locked the car, and pulled on a white fleece hat. I wanted to cover my red hair, which stood out and made me identifiable. Stupid hair! I walked assuredly toward the apartment and up a long driveway to the back of the building. Bold signs on the front door declared the building to be condemned, and plywood had been nailed over some of the lower windows. I tried to march with confidence and radiate an air of authority, as though I worked for the city or for some company that required me to inspect the premises. Aha! I could pretend to represent a homeowner’s insurance company. From my purse, I retrieved a pen and one of the small notebooks I’d taken with me when I’d met Kyle. I furrowed my brow and stared intently at the building while I wrote in the notebook: Very burned. Fire, obviously. Still stinky here. There, that should fool anyone who might be watching me. If I had planned this masquerade ahead of time, I’d have brought a camera so that witnesses would see me taking pictures.
    I rounded the back corner of the building and ascended the short flight of fire-escape stairs to Digger’s back door. A hell of a lot of good the fire escape had done him! Ellie had given me no opportunity to ask to use her key; I prayed that I’d be able to get in. One look at the door told me that there’d be no need for a key. The door had obviously been smashed in, probably by the fire department. Splintered wood hung in jagged fragments behind yellow caution tape. I glanced left and right, and then ducked under the tape and into the kitchen.
    The kitchen was a disaster. I felt sick as I looked at the remains of the cabinets. The little that was left of them was black and unsalvageable. The counters and floors were covered in ash and chunks of ceiling. The stench nearly made me gag. I didn’t know whether its source was rotting food in the fridge or whether I was just smelling the fire; either way, the reek was nauseating. I suddenly wanted to move quickly. For the first time, it occurred to me that this place might have been condemned not simply as a matter of routine but for real safety reasons. I had no interest in having a support beam come crashing down on my head. Also, I’d miscalculated my time of arrival. It was darker inside than I