had to be his mother. And his sister. Maybe even a twin.
Merrill searched for the signs of age on the photo. Maybe it was from long ago. But the edges were still remarkably firm. And what she saw next sent her head spinning even more.
In the background, on the streetcar, behind the two women, was an advertisement. It was for a film. Partially blocked by the two women in front of it.
They died when he was at university, Merrill said, but the image she was looking at was the same in any language.
The film was The Dark Knight. Heath Ledger starring as the Joker.
You had to have been in a cave somewhere the past year not to have been aware of it.
The Dark Knight had come out only last year.
It was after eleven, that same night, when Kevin Mitman turned his BMW X5 onto John Street, the kids finally dozing in the back.
Timmy had only calmed down about the game a few minutes ago. The Rangers coming back from two goals down in the third against the Devils and won in overtime. Petr Prucha, Melissa’s favorite player, had tipped in the winning goal. The crowd went crazy. When Prucha had skated out for his star-of-the-game ovation, Tim stood on his chair and cheered, fists in the air. As they left the Garden, they even bought Melissa his number 25 jersey.
In the front passenger seat, Kevin’s wife, Rosemary, stirred.
“We’re home!” Kevin said.
“Mmmm.” Ro opened her eyes. “How’re you doing, honey?”
“Not bad. Everyone’s asleep.”
“No, we’re not!” Tim suddenly chimed in.
Ro glanced at the clock and groaned. “Well you will be soon, mister.”
They were supposed to have left the night before. Up to Mount Snow for a few days of skiing on their spring break. But then some business things came up and Kevin figured they might as well go to the game, as opposed to giving the seats away, though Ro, who thought hockey duller than listening to the business channel, had to be dragged.
“I’ll get the kids in bed,” she said. “You take out the recycling.”
“Uh, yeah, okay,” he said with a sigh. The driveway was fifty yards long and it was twenty degrees. Doesn’t driving count for anything?
He wound the SUV down toward their home, a large ranch on two backcountry acres, which they’d bought when Kevin had taken over the family’s printing company. It was pretty remote—a twelve-minute drive from town and the nearest market. You don’t want to forget the milk, he always joked. But they liked it. They had deer and even coyote and in the spring, the same geese always on their pond.
Kevin was about to turn in. “We’re here, gang…”
Suddenly something didn’t seem right. Instead of turning, he slowed at the gate.
There was an empty black van parked on the side of the road—unusual, because no one ever parked out here. The nearest house to them was hundreds of yards away. Everyone had driveways and garages large enough to hold a dozen cars.
He noticed something else too.
“Ro, did you leave the lights on in the house?”
“No,” she said, staring down the driveway. They were always strict on that one. Thousand-dollar electric bills and Kev’s business was soft. “Just in the foyer,” she said. “Like we always do.”
From the street, they could see lights on throughout the house.
“Shit!” Kevin pulled up on the darkened street, keeping out of sight.
In the back, Timmy leaned forward. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Melissa woke up. “Why aren’t we turning? What’s happening?”
Kevin turned to Rosemary. They’d all heard about the string of burglaries in the backcountry. The local papers had had it all over. They were supposed to be in Vermont. He flashed through the possibilities. Who would have known? The newspaper delivery people. The mailman. The gardeners…
He passed the house and pulled up to a stop about a hundred yards down. “What do we do, Ro?”
“There’s no way we’re going in there, Kev.” His wife shook her head, fear in her eyes.
He nodded. He bit his lower lip and punched in 911 on the Bluetooth. A female duty officer answered on the second ring.
“Greenwich Emergency.”
“This is Kevin Mitman. I live at 2019 John Street,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes. “We just came back from a hockey game. I’m outside in the car.” He took a breath and grabbed his wife’s hand. “I think someone’s broken into our house.”
It wasn’t them.
The two stunned burglars, clad in athletic sweatshirts and jeans, were descended upon by the Greenwich police—lights flashing and guns drawn—carrying a plasma TV up the Mitmans’ driveway, heading back to their van.
The two robbers were barely adults. Yemeni kids from Norwalk. One was twenty-two, the other nineteen. They were shaking in their boots. An hour’s interrogation back at the station had them giving up who they had felt up in the fifth grade. They owned up to several of the break-ins. The McLains. The Polashes. The St. Angelos. They gave up the whereabouts of a basement apartment where they still could find much of the stolen cache.
It wasn’t them.
They got their prospective locations through another cousin who delivered the local paper each morning. That’s how they knew when homeowners planned to be away. Neither of them had much of a record. The older one had been pinched for shoplifting. The nineteen-year-old was actually enrolled in Norwalk Community college and this was his first arrest. The older one had a gun on him, an old, passed-down Beretta .22 that he’d bought on the streets. More for show than any real effect.
No match for the Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter that had been used on the Glassman family.
When they were confronted with the murders, everything started coming out of them. They even had an alibi for that night. The younger one’s cousin was having a betrothal celebration in Passaic, New Jersey. He had spent the night at the cousin’s house.
The older one had spent the night at a bar in White Plains. Until two A.M. Closing time.
They
