The Proof is in the Pudding (13 page)

Liddy whispered, “Did you bring those lock-picky things Mack gave you when you kept losing your keys?”

Even at this tense moment, I had to smile at that old memory. “No. I have another plan for getting into Ingram’s house.”

Walking as quietly as possible, we started up Rothdell. I was praying that we wouldn’t run into any foraging coyotes. The canyons were full of them, especially during a period of drought such as Southern California was currently experiencing. This was a fear I hadn’t mentioned to Liddy, who lived south of Sunset Boulevard, in the woods-less and coyote-free section of Beverly Hills.

Another potential danger we faced was running into some predawn dog walker who would be likely to know we didn’t live in this area. In case we did, I’d prepared a story to tell: We’re middle-aged fans of the Doors, looking for the houses in which our musical heroes had stayed. It wasn’t a very credible excuse for being there, but it was better than admitting we were planning to commit burglary.

Several houses up the steep lane I touched Liddy on the arm, signaling her to stop. I indicated a structure that resembled pictures I’d seen of Swiss chalets. Nothing else we’d passed looked like that residence. It was constructed of dark wood, with rectangular windows framed in white, each of which contained four to six small panes. The roof had three peaks. One faced front, a smaller one faced to the left, and the smallest was set toward the rear. All that was missing was a layer of snow blanketing the roof shingles, and a pair of skis leaning next to the front door.

As Eileen had described it, this was a one-and-a-half-story house, with the upper level set a third of the way back from the ground floor. Keith Ingram’s bedroom was up there.

Liddy whispered, “What do we do now?”

“You hide in the shrubbery at the front while I go around to the back of the house. If I don’t manage to get inside in three or four minutes, I’ll come back. If I set off the burglar alarm, run fast as you can back to your car and get in. Drive across Laurel, go a few yards down Kirkwood Drive, cut your lights, and wait for me.”

“What about the alarm system? He must have one.”

“I have a plan,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

She patted the side pocket of her slacks. “It’s on vibrate.”

“Mine is, too. Call me if you see anyone coming up to this house.”

I put down my gym bag long enough to pull on the pair of Bill’s latex gloves Liddy had provided. We gave each other the thumbs-up sign.

Carrying the bag, I made my way through the darkness around to the back of Keith Ingram’s silent house.

There was just enough illumination from a streetlight in front of the next home for me to stay on the dirt path that led to the rear of the property. Eileen had alerted me to the fact that there was a wooden gate leading to the backyard, and told me where to feel for the latch.

The house next door was separated from Ingram’s lot by a six-foot fence made of wooden slats. A backyard security light burned. Only a little light came over the fence, but it allowed me to see what I was doing. Careful to make no noise, I set the gym bag down, took out the can of WD-40, and squirted the gate’s metal hinges. Seconds later, testing the gate by easing it open a scant few inches, I was rewarded by a welcome silence.

Through the gate, I saw that the lot wasn’t a very deep one. There was just enough room for Ingram’s swimming pool and a narrow brick patio.

I’d made it around to the back of the house without doing anything to arouse the neighbors. Fear of what I was doing made my heart pound. I stopped, stood still, and took a few deep breaths to calm myself. Extending my free hand, I was relieved to see that it was steady. A line from an old astronaut movie ran through my head: “All systems go.”

“I’m going,” I said to myself.

Studying the back of the house, I saw that Eileen’s rough sketch of the exterior had been accurate. Next to the rear door was one of the chalet’s vertical six-pane windows. It was set waist high. Three panes were on one side, and three on the other. Strips of white painted wood divided them.

I ran the fingers of my other hand along the bottom of the window and felt the wires that meant an alarm would go off when the window was raised.

But I had no intention of raising that window.

I removed the duct tape from my bag, tore six pieces about eight inches in length. After I’d attached them to the glass panes and to the side of the house beside the window, I took the hand towel out of the bag, draped it over my right wrist, and gripped the item I had taken from my Jeep’s glove compartment: my auto center punch.

Several years ago, I’d seen this little tool on a documentary about river rescues. It was used to break the windows of submerged cars. As soon as the program was over, I Googled “auto center punch” and found that they were sold on Amazon, for four dollars apiece, plus shipping. I immediately ordered six of them as presents for Eileen, Shannon, John, Liddy, Bill, and myself. I hoped everybody was keeping them in their cars, as I had been. Southern California is essentially a desert, but we do have floods sometimes, and whenever we have a storm, a car or two is swept into the Los Angeles River. For most of the time, it was a cement channel and a river in name only. There was so little water in it between storms that we called it the “Los Angeles trickle,” but when there was a sudden deluge from the skies it was transformed into a deadly trap.

At this moment, I had a more immediate danger right in front of me. Holding my breath and saying a little prayer, I knelt close to the window and positioned the tip of the auto punch near the bottom of the glass—as I had seen it demonstrated on television—and
punched
.

I sighed with relief when the pane cracked down the center. The glass didn’t fall because it was held in place by the tape. Working faster now, I repeated the punching process five more times, then began removing the pieces of glass, and setting them on the patio beside me.

Ouch!
A shard sliced through the rubber glove on my right hand. There was just enough light coming from over the fence next door that I could see blood oozing through the slit. I tore the glove enough to expose the cut on my finger. It wasn’t too bad. I pressed the finger against the towel for a few seconds. The bleeding stopped. I went back to work removing the panes.

When all the glass was out of the window, I wrapped my right hand in the towel again. Using that hand, I pressed firmly against the center strip of wood that had held the six panes in place. It cracked. Another press and I’d loosened it enough to push it aside.

No alarm shrieked.

Eileen’s sketch had filled me with hope that I wouldn’t have to open a door or a window, that I could create my own entrance into the house. By going through the panes and not disturbing the outside frame, as far as the alarm circuits were concerned, that window had remained closed.

I stuffed the towel back in the gym bag, removed my pencil flashlight, and dropped the bag into the house. I clicked on the pencil light, clamped it between my teeth so that my hands were free—and eased myself headfirst through the opening I’d made.

And into the darkness below.

Stretching downward inch by inch, my gloved hands touched a tile floor. According to Eileen’s diagram, I was in the kitchen.

When I’d maneuvered all of my body inside and twisted around so that I could stand, I transferred the pencil light from my mouth to one hand and aimed the slim beam around the room. Ingram had all the basic kitchen equipment, with everything neatly arranged for cooking convenience. The ubiquitous step stool—there was one in every kitchen that I’d ever seen—fit into a space beside the stove, safely out of the way of foot traffic. I wouldn’t be falling over it.

So far, so good, but there wasn’t time to think about how well things had gone thus far. At any moment my luck might turn.

Using the tiny beam to guide my way, I found the staircase and climbed.

Ingram’s bedroom was a man’s lair: a king-size bed with a headboard carved from some dark wood. Above the bed was a wooden canopy, with little lights set into it.

Opposite the bed, as Eileen had described, was a large armoire.

Using the pencil light to examine it closely, I discovered a peephole disguised as part of the raised design. When I opened the door, I saw what had caused Eileen so much terror. There was a video camera, aimed through the peephole at the bed.

Lights. Camera. Action.
I had the urge to throw up.

A shelf below the camera contained at least a dozen DVDs. Homemade.

I shuffled through them, looking for labels. No labels, but at the bottom of each case were small initials inscribed neatly in silver paint.

Did all of those cases contain video recordings of women with whom he had sex, taped with or without their knowledge? Thinking about that made me feel sickened to be standing in Keith Ingram’s bedroom.

I found a DVD marked with the initials EO’H. After making sure there was only one that had Eileen’s initials on it, I grabbed it and closed the armoire.

For a brief moment, I was tempted to open the armoire again and take
all
of the DVDs, to spare the other women. But I knew I couldn’t do that. They were properly police evidence; one of the women in that collection could be his killer. I felt justified in taking Eileen’s because I knew that she hadn’t stabbed Ingram. Still, whether they were tricked, as Eileen had been, or if they were willing exhibitionists, I felt sorry for the women who would soon be exposed. If any of those women were married—

The piercing
ring
of Ingram’s bedside phone nearly gave me a heart attack!

Instinctively, one hand went to the pocket holding my cell phone. I clutched at it, but it wasn’t vibrating. The ringing phone that had startled me really was Keith Ingram’s. Either the person on the other end of the line was someone who didn’t know he was dead, or it was the police calling to see if there was anyone else in Ingram’s house.

I doubted that Detective Hatch—
Hatchet
, I was calling him to myself—could obtain a search warrant before midmorning, but he might send a patrol car to guard the outside to prevent anyone from entering until the police searched Ingram’s residence.

I knew I had to get out fast. My luck had been good so far, but good luck could turn bad in an instant. I didn’t dare stay in this house I’d broken into even a few minutes longer. I shoved Eileen’s DVD into my bag and hurried down the stairs and climbed out through the broken window.

On the patio, I took a few deep breaths of the cold night air to calm my racing heart as I listened for any sounds that might mean trouble for me.

But the houses on either side of Ingram’s place were as dark and silent as when I’d arrived.

Liddy was still crouched in the shrubbery in front of the house when I let myself out through the back. As soon as I whispered her name, she emerged and grabbed my arm.

“I’m so glad you’re all right! You were gone so long I was getting worried.”

I pressed my index finger against my lips. She nodded, and we scurried down Rothdell Terrace as quickly and quietly as we could.

Liddy’s ivory Land Rover was exactly where we’d left it, and I was relieved to see that there were no other vehicles nearby. We scrambled inside and made our escape from the scene of my crime.

By the time we reached Sunset Boulevard we began to relax.

“Whew. We made it,” Liddy said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

I paused to think before I spoke. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I couldn’t tell her the truth.

Liddy was smart enough to realize what my silence meant. “Forget the question. If I don’t know anything, I can’t slip up, right?”

I gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you. You are the best.”

In the headlights of cars coming toward us, I saw her smile. “Yeah, yeah—that’s what all the burglars say to their getaway drivers.”