Zipper Fall Read Free

thinking it was so clever and original.
    Frozen assets: about five grand.
    Not much for a successful stockbroker. I palmed the icy Ziploc bag and slipped it into my cargo pocket. The act of theft sent familiar, spine-tingling warmth across my shoulder blades, wrapping me like a warm hug. I was focused and my hearing sharpened to a point where I filtered out even my own heartbeat and the hum of the refrigerator. I froze for a second, halted by the sound of the elevator opening and closing again. A few moments of stillness passed before I dared to exhale and examine my surroundings with a keener eye.
    One of the bedrooms was right over Bellefonte Avenue. The room’s dark, elegant furniture was complemented by several Tokugawa-era Japanese prints. The nightstands, the bureau—all clean. Azurri’s personal effects must have been minimal. How surprising, then, that the second bedroom—the one with a window onto the alley and the fire escape—was cluttered with boxes piled on top of one another, with full bags of material ensnaring my feet. I didn’t even bother wading in because I didn’t care for bruising my shins on odd pieces of furniture. I felt a brief sense of relief that I chose not to enter via the fire escape. Had I tried to climb in through the window on the other end of all that junk and make my way across in the dark, I’d have sounded like two raccoons fighting in a garbage can.
    The bathrooms were both clean. The first was empty of towels and toiletries altogether; the other held personal items and first-aid supplies. A plush, black cotton terry robe hung on the door, waiting to wrap its owner in warm comfort. Its pockets were free of diamonds, cash, or contraband. So were all other potential hiding places in both bathrooms: the toilet tanks held only water, there was nothing terribly valuable in the cabinets, and the plumbing access contained only pipes and a dead spider.
    The dining room, on the other hand, had every single surface covered with collectible objects of various sizes. There were four half-opened cardboard boxes on the floor.
    How did this seemingly neat and tidy individual amass such a wealth of knick-knacks? I walked through, not spending much time. Only a few items caught my attention. There were four English silver candy dishes, circa 1820s, and since their design and quality varied, I picked one of medium value; the nicest one would have been the first to be missed. I found a fabulous carving of a tiger, probably an antique ivory piece with ruby eyes, but the way it was displayed told me its absence would be noted, so I left it.
    Thirty minutes had passed and I knew I had to get out soon. Computer maintenance wasn’t all that complicated these days, and the guy downstairs might start to get suspicious. I looked around, frantic to find the magical third secret treasure to satisfy me. One more thing… just one more little thing.
    My eyes fell on a midsize painting centered over the dining-room sideboard. The subject matter was neo-classical, but the quality… awful. I peered a little closer. A decent frame was being wasted on a cheap print with a paint-like acrylic layer on top. Mr. Azurri might have been an asshole, but judging from his other decorations, he was a man of taste when it came to art, so why would he display such fake trash in such a prominent location?
    The frame seemed a tad thick. I jostled it with a gentle hand and almost jumped when it swung to the side on a column of piano hinges and revealed a small wall safe.
    Bingo!
    Safecracking was something of a hobby of mine, and my fingers itched with the desire to turn the dial and make the mechanism sing for me. Time, however, was not on my side. I closed the painting. There would have to be another visit.
     
     
    T WO days passed since my illicit adventure. Tuesday at work paled in comparison with the thrill of the untouched safe in the wall, and I was aching to get out of the office. My venture had earned $5,380, mostly in