Unknown Remains by Peter Leonard Page A

call?”
    â€œYeah, but we’ll see.”
    â€œWhat’s your success rate with guys?”
    Vicki made a face.
    â€œListen, why don’t you come over, we’ll get better acquainted, plan your next move.”
    â€œYou go ahead, start without me.”
    God she was sexy, standing there in a miniskirt and a blue jean jacket, a scarf wrapped around her neck, goosebumps on those long, skinny legs sticking out of a pair of knee-high black boots.
    Cobb was a hundred percent positive the guy was going to call her the next day, but he didn’t. Didn’t call the day after that, either—waited a full week and showed up at the restaurant where she worked, sat in her section, left Vicki a hundred-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar glass of champagne. Poor guy couldn’t help himself was how Cobb viewed the situation, and as it turned out, he was right on the money.
    All that had happened about three months before 9/11.
    It was dark driving west on the freeway in light traffic, rush hour long over, to Ridgewood, an upscale Jersey suburb. Joe Sculley, whose number Jack McCann had called the morning of 9/11 after the plane hit, lived on Prospect Street, which curved through the tree-lined neighborhood, stately houses set back. He drove past Sculley’s, a big modern place with sweeping roof lines, made a U-turn, and drove by again. It was only nine fifteen, too early to get a closer look at the house, which was partly concealed by trees.
    He drove back to the freeway, passed a couple cheap motels, picked one that looked the best, a motor lodge, parked, and checked in to a room that smelled of cigarettes and disinfectant. There were two doublebeds. He put his suitcase on one, opened it and took out a sap, a set of picks, a screwdriver, a penlight, and a hunting knife with a six-inch blade. If Jack was in the house, he’d know in a few hours. If Jack wasn’t in the house, Cobb would find out where in the hell he was at.
    He turned off the light, pulled the spread and blanket down, and stretched out on the bed. The neon motor-lodge sign blinked through a crack in the curtains, casting a shadow on the wall. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
    It was after midnight when Duane Cobb awoke. He splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth. He put on black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black fleece jacket. He fit the tools and knife in a money pouch and strapped it around his waist and headed out to the car.
    The neighborhood off Prospect Street looked different now. He cut the lights and turned onto Carlisle Terrace, a dead end. He pulled over, turned off the engine, and looked around. The sky was overcast, no moon, no one on the street.
    Cobb opened the glove box and took out the Ruger Lc9, eased off the safety, and racked a round into the chamber. He slid the gun in his belt behind his back and covered it with the fleece. He could hear himself breathe. He could hear the muffled sound of the door opening, the swish of leather as he slid out of the car, and the click of the door closing as he leaned his hip into it. Sculley’s was three houses north.
    He walked through the woods and came out in Sculley’s front yard.
    The house was dark. Cobb walked along the east side, peeking in windows, seeing the shapes of furniture. He worked his way around to the back and stood on an empty slate patio, looking at the yard that sloped down to a pool with a covering over it. If things went sideways, he’d circle back through the woods to his car.
    Cobb turned facing the house now, looking through French doors at the dining room, crouched, took out the penlight, and studied the lock. Took out the pick set, selected one, maneuvered it in the lock, and opened the door. He stepped in and listened, not a sound. He liked theadrenalin boost he got when he broke into a house, liked the energy, the excitement. “Let’s see how good you are, boy.” It’s what his dad used to say when they