Read Online L Is for Lawless by Sue Grafton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue Grafton
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safe might be something as basic as natural cement. A more modern safe might rely on vermiculite mica or diatomaceous earth, particles of which can often be traced back from a burglary suspect's tools and clothing to the specific safe manufacturer.
On closer inspection, I could see the safe wasn't actually embedded in concrete. The concrete formed a sort of housing into which the safe had been shoved.
"We got a locksmith on his way," Chester said. "I couldn't stand the wait, so I called an emergency number and told 'em to send somebody out. We could have all the answers right behind this dial." He was probably picturing maps and ciphers, a small wireless radio, a Luger, and transmission schedules written in invisible ink.
"Have you looked for the combination? It's possible he wrote it down and tucked it someplace close. Most people don't trust their memories, and if he'd needed to get into it, he wouldn't want to waste time searching."
"We thought of that, but we looked every place we could think of. What about you? You searched pretty good yourself. You come across anything might be the combination to that?"
I shrugged. "I never came across any numbers, unless he was using his birthdate or Social Security."
"Can they do that?" Bucky asked. "Make up a combination to suit any set of numbers you give?"
I shrugged. "As far as I know. I'm not an expert, but I always assumed you could do that."
"What do you think, should we pull that thing out?" Chester asked.
"Couldn't hurt. The locksmith will probably have to do it anyway once he gets here," I said.
I rose to my feet and stepped out of the closet, allowing Bucky and Chester sufficient room to maneuver the safe from its resting place. It took a fair amount of huffing and puffing before they managed to set it down on the floor in the middle of the room. Once they'd eased the safe out of its concrete housing, we could take a better look. The three of us inspected the exterior surfaces as if this were some mysterious object that had appeared from outer space. The safe was maybe sixteen inches deep, with a two-tone beige-and-gray finish and rubber mounting feet. It didn't look old. The dial was calibrated with numbers from one to a hundred, which meant you could generate close to a million combinations. There wasn't any point in trying to guess the right one.
Babe had abandoned her packing and was watching the whole procedure. "Maybe it's open," she said to no one in particular.
We turned in unison and looked at her.
"Well, it
could
be," she said.
"It's worth a try," I said. I reached down and pulled the handle without success. I turned the dial a few numbers in one direction and then the other, still pulling the handle, thinking the dial might have been left close to the last digit in the combination. No such luck.
"What do we do now?" Bucky asked.
"I guess we wait," I said.
Within the hour, the safe technician arrived with a big red metal toolbox. He introduced himself as Bergan Jones from Santa Teresa Locksmiths, shaking hands first with Chester, then with Bucky and me. Babe had gone back to folding clothes, but she nodded at him shyly when he was introduced to her. Jones was tall and bony looking, sandy haired, stoop shouldered, with a high shiny forehead, sandy brows, and big glasses with tortoise-shell frames. I placed him in his middle fifties, but I could have been off five years in either direction.
"Hope you can help us out here," Chester said, waving at the safe, which Jones had already spotted.
"No problem. I probably open thirty safes a month. I know this model. Shouldn't take me long."
The four of us stood and watched in fascination as Jones opened his toolbox. There was something in his manner of an old-fashioned doctor on a house call. He'd made his initial diagnosis, the condition wasn't fatal, and we all felt relief. Now it was just a matter of the proper treatment. He took out a cone-shaped device that he attached to the dial, screwing it down
On closer inspection, I could see the safe wasn't actually embedded in concrete. The concrete formed a sort of housing into which the safe had been shoved.
"We got a locksmith on his way," Chester said. "I couldn't stand the wait, so I called an emergency number and told 'em to send somebody out. We could have all the answers right behind this dial." He was probably picturing maps and ciphers, a small wireless radio, a Luger, and transmission schedules written in invisible ink.
"Have you looked for the combination? It's possible he wrote it down and tucked it someplace close. Most people don't trust their memories, and if he'd needed to get into it, he wouldn't want to waste time searching."
"We thought of that, but we looked every place we could think of. What about you? You searched pretty good yourself. You come across anything might be the combination to that?"
I shrugged. "I never came across any numbers, unless he was using his birthdate or Social Security."
"Can they do that?" Bucky asked. "Make up a combination to suit any set of numbers you give?"
I shrugged. "As far as I know. I'm not an expert, but I always assumed you could do that."
"What do you think, should we pull that thing out?" Chester asked.
"Couldn't hurt. The locksmith will probably have to do it anyway once he gets here," I said.
I rose to my feet and stepped out of the closet, allowing Bucky and Chester sufficient room to maneuver the safe from its resting place. It took a fair amount of huffing and puffing before they managed to set it down on the floor in the middle of the room. Once they'd eased the safe out of its concrete housing, we could take a better look. The three of us inspected the exterior surfaces as if this were some mysterious object that had appeared from outer space. The safe was maybe sixteen inches deep, with a two-tone beige-and-gray finish and rubber mounting feet. It didn't look old. The dial was calibrated with numbers from one to a hundred, which meant you could generate close to a million combinations. There wasn't any point in trying to guess the right one.
Babe had abandoned her packing and was watching the whole procedure. "Maybe it's open," she said to no one in particular.
We turned in unison and looked at her.
"Well, it
could
be," she said.
"It's worth a try," I said. I reached down and pulled the handle without success. I turned the dial a few numbers in one direction and then the other, still pulling the handle, thinking the dial might have been left close to the last digit in the combination. No such luck.
"What do we do now?" Bucky asked.
"I guess we wait," I said.
Within the hour, the safe technician arrived with a big red metal toolbox. He introduced himself as Bergan Jones from Santa Teresa Locksmiths, shaking hands first with Chester, then with Bucky and me. Babe had gone back to folding clothes, but she nodded at him shyly when he was introduced to her. Jones was tall and bony looking, sandy haired, stoop shouldered, with a high shiny forehead, sandy brows, and big glasses with tortoise-shell frames. I placed him in his middle fifties, but I could have been off five years in either direction.
"Hope you can help us out here," Chester said, waving at the safe, which Jones had already spotted.
"No problem. I probably open thirty safes a month. I know this model. Shouldn't take me long."
The four of us stood and watched in fascination as Jones opened his toolbox. There was something in his manner of an old-fashioned doctor on a house call. He'd made his initial diagnosis, the condition wasn't fatal, and we all felt relief. Now it was just a matter of the proper treatment. He took out a cone-shaped device that he attached to the dial, screwing it down
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