working.
He parked around the block and shut off the engine.
An hour ago, using a tool kit he’d picked up from the store, he had removed the Illinois license plates and replaced them with a set of Missouri tags that he had stolen off a car parked at a strip mall. The Chevy had the further advantage of being so nondescript, it was virtually invisible.
He loaded his pockets with items he anticipated he would need, and got out of the car. Pulling his knit cap low over his head, he walked briskly back to Thad’s house, wisps of breath puffing in front of him in the frosty night air.
None of the neighbors were out. It was dark, and too damn cold.
Arriving at Thad’s property, he headed straight to the backyard. Pine trees bordered the rear perimeter, shielding him from view of the homes on the other side of the lot.
The patio was a snow-mantled slab. It was accessed via a basic, sliding glass door.
He tore away several strips of duct tape and affixed them to the glass. Then he banged a hammer into the center of the taped-over section, punching through the window without the accompanying sound of broken glass raining to the floor.
He stuck his gloved hand through the hole and unlocked the door.
It was a lavishly decorated home, which he would have expected of a man of Thad’s orientation. The rooms were painted bright colors. The furniture had soft edges, smooth lines, fluffy decorative pillows on the sofas and chairs. Lots of photos of Thad and another brother. An abundance of live plants. Colorful artwork, many pieces featuring depictions of chiseled, bare-chested black men.
No one was home.
Leaving the lights off and making use of a utility flashlight, he rummaged through a bedroom set up as a home office. He searched through the file cabinet and the stack of paperwork on the desk. Nothing.
But there was a paper shredder in the corner, the bin bristling with destroyed documents. His wife would have urged Thad to shred the record of each payment she sent him. He appeared to have been dutifully following her instructions.
He went to the kitchen. In the refrigerator, he found bacon, eggs, butter, orange juice. He located a couple of pans and a bottle of Crisco, and fired up the gas burners on the stainless steel cook top.
Cooking by the bluish glow of the flames and a soft light above the range, he prepared eight strips of bacon, four fried eggs, and two slices of buttered wheat toast with grape jelly. He sat at the pine dinette table and ate, drinking the juice directly from the carton.
He loved breakfast food, especially at night. It reminded him of his old man, who would stumble in after a long night of hustling and boozing and drag his mother out of bed to cook for him, always breakfast stuff. As a man, he had taught his own wife to do the same thing.
He was chewing the last piece of toast when he heard the garage door grumble open. He had placed the Glock beside his plate. He picked it up and rose from the table.
The garage door clambered shut. He heard two voices outside, both men. One was deep, authoritative; the other was lighter, and quasi-feminine—Thad’s. Apparently Thad wanted his partner to search the house before he entered.
Dexter moved into the hallway that led to the garage entry door, standing beside the light switch.
“You smell bacon?” the deep-voiced lover boy asked.
Dexter didn’t hear Thad’s response.
A key jiggled into the keyhole. The knob twisted, and the door creaked open.
Dexter flicked on the light. The guy from the pictures—a tall, athletically built, dark-skinned brother with dreadlocks— stood in the doorway. He wore jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and Timberlands. He had gray eyes.
When he saw Dexter, his eyes opened wide with surprise. “Who the hell...”
Dexter shot him twice in the head. The guy tumbled back into the doorway.
From the garage: “Malik!”
Dexter stepped over the dead man and moved through the door. There was a Honda Civic parked on the left. Thad sat on the
He parked around the block and shut off the engine.
An hour ago, using a tool kit he’d picked up from the store, he had removed the Illinois license plates and replaced them with a set of Missouri tags that he had stolen off a car parked at a strip mall. The Chevy had the further advantage of being so nondescript, it was virtually invisible.
He loaded his pockets with items he anticipated he would need, and got out of the car. Pulling his knit cap low over his head, he walked briskly back to Thad’s house, wisps of breath puffing in front of him in the frosty night air.
None of the neighbors were out. It was dark, and too damn cold.
Arriving at Thad’s property, he headed straight to the backyard. Pine trees bordered the rear perimeter, shielding him from view of the homes on the other side of the lot.
The patio was a snow-mantled slab. It was accessed via a basic, sliding glass door.
He tore away several strips of duct tape and affixed them to the glass. Then he banged a hammer into the center of the taped-over section, punching through the window without the accompanying sound of broken glass raining to the floor.
He stuck his gloved hand through the hole and unlocked the door.
It was a lavishly decorated home, which he would have expected of a man of Thad’s orientation. The rooms were painted bright colors. The furniture had soft edges, smooth lines, fluffy decorative pillows on the sofas and chairs. Lots of photos of Thad and another brother. An abundance of live plants. Colorful artwork, many pieces featuring depictions of chiseled, bare-chested black men.
No one was home.
Leaving the lights off and making use of a utility flashlight, he rummaged through a bedroom set up as a home office. He searched through the file cabinet and the stack of paperwork on the desk. Nothing.
But there was a paper shredder in the corner, the bin bristling with destroyed documents. His wife would have urged Thad to shred the record of each payment she sent him. He appeared to have been dutifully following her instructions.
He went to the kitchen. In the refrigerator, he found bacon, eggs, butter, orange juice. He located a couple of pans and a bottle of Crisco, and fired up the gas burners on the stainless steel cook top.
Cooking by the bluish glow of the flames and a soft light above the range, he prepared eight strips of bacon, four fried eggs, and two slices of buttered wheat toast with grape jelly. He sat at the pine dinette table and ate, drinking the juice directly from the carton.
He loved breakfast food, especially at night. It reminded him of his old man, who would stumble in after a long night of hustling and boozing and drag his mother out of bed to cook for him, always breakfast stuff. As a man, he had taught his own wife to do the same thing.
He was chewing the last piece of toast when he heard the garage door grumble open. He had placed the Glock beside his plate. He picked it up and rose from the table.
The garage door clambered shut. He heard two voices outside, both men. One was deep, authoritative; the other was lighter, and quasi-feminine—Thad’s. Apparently Thad wanted his partner to search the house before he entered.
Dexter moved into the hallway that led to the garage entry door, standing beside the light switch.
“You smell bacon?” the deep-voiced lover boy asked.
Dexter didn’t hear Thad’s response.
A key jiggled into the keyhole. The knob twisted, and the door creaked open.
Dexter flicked on the light. The guy from the pictures—a tall, athletically built, dark-skinned brother with dreadlocks— stood in the doorway. He wore jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and Timberlands. He had gray eyes.
When he saw Dexter, his eyes opened wide with surprise. “Who the hell...”
Dexter shot him twice in the head. The guy tumbled back into the doorway.
From the garage: “Malik!”
Dexter stepped over the dead man and moved through the door. There was a Honda Civic parked on the left. Thad sat on the
Similar Books
