Liddy emitted a barely audible nervous titter. I held my breath. We scanned the nearest houses for any sudden turning on of lights.
Nothing.
… not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…
Liddy put the car in gear but didn’t turn her lights on again until we came to Montana Avenue and she turned left, toward Hollywood.
Even at this hour, there was strong illumination on Montana. For the first time I was able to get a good look at Liddy. I laughed, because we were dressed almost identically in black sweaters and black slacks. The only difference in our attire was that she wore a black knit cap covering her blonde hair. I’m a brunette, so I didn’t need a cap to make myself less noticeable, but I’d tied my shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail.
“We look like twin cat burglars,” I said. “Maybe we should stop at a gas station and buy some black grease to cover our faces.”
Liddy shuddered. “That would be awful for our skin. Open the glove compartment and take out the baggie.”
I did as directed and removed a Ziploc bag. “What’s in here?”
“Two pairs of Bill’s powder-free latex examination gloves. So we won’t leave fingerprints. He keeps a box in the bathroom. Aren’t they just like what the police use when they’re investigating?”
“Yes. These are better than the white cotton gloves I brought. You have an unexpected talent for crime, Liddy.”
“Thanks.” In the headlights of cars coming toward us, I saw her grin with pride.
With traffic moving swiftly on Sunset Boulevard at that time in the morning, we reached Laurel Canyon in twelve minutes. At my instruction, Liddy turned left and we headed up into the narrow, winding canyon.
When we were about fifty yards from Kirkwood Drive, I said, “Slow down here.”
Just below the Canyon Country Store, I directed Liddy to turn into the shallow turnaround at the foot of Rothdell Terrace. “Park here, in front of the dry cleaners, but face out toward Laurel.”
Liddy maneuvered as I’d suggested, then stopped and turned off the engine. No cars were behind us on Laurel, nor, for the moment, were any coming from the valley toward Hollywood. We sat in the darkness for a few moments, listening for the sounds of footsteps, and watching for lights turned on in any of the nearby houses.
When we were satisfied that the neighborhood was asleep, Liddy whispered, “What now?”
“We walk up Rothdell and find Ingram’s little pseudo Swiss chalet.”
“Walk? That road looks as though it goes almost straight up.”
“It’s narrow, and I don’t know where it would be safe to park. Besides, if we have to get away fast it’s better to have the car down here, where we can get right onto Laurel Canyon.”
To reduce the amount of noise we made, we opened only Liddy’s driver’s side door. After she got out quietly, I handed her my gym bag, then climbed over the gearbox, and stepped down onto the cement beside her. Liddy closed the Rover’s door with only the faintest
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.
Bless you, whoever invented WD-40.
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.
