Page 43 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“I can’t put a clock on it, but you don’t just pick up table manners like those after a bad day in traffic court.”

“I told Lizzie she had bad table manners! I spotted it when we went to brunch with her and my dad. I thought she was just kind of—I don’t know—low rent. But prison? Holy shit, Johnny, we have to tell my father.”

“First of all, sweetheart, there is nowe. Second of all, what are you going to say? The guy who sells me weed is up on his prison lore, and he thinks this chick you’ve been banging is an ex-con?”

“You’re right. My father is already pissed at me because I haven’t been jumping up and down about how fantastic she is, so I’d better be a thousand percent positive. Do you think she has anything in her purse, like parole papers? That would prove it.”

“Her purse? No way. Her house, maybe, but not her purse.”

“Then you’ve got to help me break in and get it,” I said.

His head snapped back. “You want me to break into her house? Jesus, Maggie—are you out of your mind? You know the cops have a hard-on for me. You trying to get me arrested?”

“Oh God, Johnny, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get in any trouble. I just thought...”

He broke into a big wide smile. “Hahhhh! I’m just busting your chops. Breaking and entering is the highlight of my résumé. When do you want to do it?”

“She’s already got my mother’s car and her jewelry, so the sooner the better.”

We didn’t have to wait long. On Saturday morning the happy couple took the train into New York City to do some Christmas shopping. An hour later Johnny and I parked three blocks away from Connie’s house on Oriole Lane.

“How do we get in?” I asked.

“The front door,” Johnny said. “I checked it out yesterday. It’s a slam lock. I could teach a three-year-old to open one.”

“Teach me.”

“First you need the right equipment.” He pulled a piece of plastic from his jacket pocket. It was about the size and shape of a candy cane.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Sears. They have a burglary tools department.”

“Johnny, this isn’t funny.”

“Relax. I cut it out of a milk jug.” He put his thumb against his index finger. “You just slide it between the jamb and the door,” he said, slipping the plastic between his two fingers. “Then you drag it down, yank it out, and the hook on the cane trips the lock.”

He went through the motions. It wasn’t the most convincing demonstration, because I couldn’t tell if the plastic had actually parted his fingers, or if he just popped them open on his own. But I had to trust him. He was as close to a criminal genius as I was going to get.

It worked. We walked up to the front door of Connie’s house, and he opened it as quickly as if he’d used a key.

“You’re welcome,” he said once we were inside.

The house was woody—cedar on the outside, pine on the inside. The main living space was about twenty-four by twenty-four with a towering ceiling and lots of glass, so light filled the room. There was a stone fireplace at one end and a full kitchen on the other. Several doors led to what was probably the bathroom and bedrooms, and a wide, thick mahogany staircase with open risers led up to a loft.

“Nice digs,” Johnny said.

I walked upstairs to her studio space in the loft. There was a work in progress on the easel and a few canvasses propped up against a wooden trunk. I figured those were the rejects she decided weren’t worthy of hanging on the walls of her new boyfriend’s pub.

“I’m going to cruise around and see if I can find anything interesting,” Johnny said.

“And I’ll see if I can find anything incriminating.” I went downstairs and found her bedroom. The bed was made, the tops of her dresser and night table were neat and orderly, and there wasn’t a stitch of clothing or a pair of shoes lying around.

I opened her closet. Everything was meticulously organized. Sweaters, blouses, skirts, pants, and in one small section, several hangers with men’s clothes—my father’s. Disgusted, I shut the door.

There was a second, smaller bedroom, and that’s where I found the desk. It was white metal and probably cost less than a hundred bucks at Staples, or ten at a garage sale. The base was a pair of double file-drawer pedestals, and there was a pencil drawer in the center. I tugged at each drawer. Locked.

“Johnny,” I yelled. “I got something.”

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