PERFECT CRIME
Jack Erickson
Copyright 2010 Jack Erickson
https://www.jackerickson.com
PERFECT CRIME
Jack Erickson
I glanced over my left shoulder at the lights of San Francisco twinkling like a fairy-tale kingdom across the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I gripped the steering wheel and turned sharply, brushing against the rocky outcrops of the Marin Headlands. One mistake and I would plunge into the treacherous Pacific currents that have claimed sailing ships since Sir Francis Drake sailed past in 1585.
The night fog was moving across the headlands like a jungle cat stalking prey. Nothing escapes the fog’s relentless prowl across the barren landscape, dark and moody as a Scottish moor. Strange things happen on nights when the moon shines on barren settings and predators lurk in dark places. Heathcliff would have been at home here; so would have Baskerville’s hound.
The milky beacon of the Point Bonita Lighthouse swept across the dark Pacific, its foghorn moaning like a sorrowful plea from the grave. A few miles west, great white sharks, gray whales, tuna, seals, and salmon swam in deep Pacific currents.
The headlands’ tortuous turns resembled a Le Mans rally route. A mile to the east, Sausalito’s bars and restaurants were packed with Marin County liberals dipping focaccia bread in olive oil and vinaigrette, nibbling radicchio salads, chewing on grilled tilapia, and sipping Napa Valley’s fruity pinot grigios.
I was straddling two worlds: the western edge of North America and the hedonism of the California good life.
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A month ago, my husband and I had driven the headlands’ winding roads to attend a summer barbecue at an isolated hideaway owned by his college roommate, Alex. The sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean and the San Francisco Bay had been dazzling in the afternoon sunshine.
After reaching the heights, we had driven into a shallow valley past a nature center and a mammal research center, along with anachronistic World War II Army barracks and a Nike missile site from the Cold War. The historic buildings form the northern boundary of the National Recreational Area that stretches across the Golden Gate to Alcatraz, the Presidio, Golden Gate Park, and the San Mateo coastline to the south. Beyond the weathered buildings was a secluded area where a few isolated homes remained from old dairy farms before they were absorbed into the national park.
I slowed as I passed the darkened buildings and drove up a ridge leading to the secluded homes. I parked on the shoulder and turned off my headlights to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I rolled down the window and inhaled salty air into my lungs. I listened to waves crashing against the cliffs and the wind sweeping through the chaparral, oak trees, and tall grass.
A full moon cast an eerie sheen over the desolate landscape. I braced for what lay ahead; my life could change profoundly in the next few moments. I was about to confirm—or deny—my suspicion that my husband was shacking up with his lover in one of the secluded homes.
I eased the car in gear and crept over the ridge. Through a gap in the fog, I spotted the gauzy lights from Alex’s home. My heart leapt. My five-hour evening drive from Los Angeles had been partially vindicated. Someone—or ones—was in the house; my gut told me they were my faithless husband and his illicit lover. A ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney. My plan was going to work!
I navigated by moonlight and turned onto a dirt road a hundred yards from the house. I parked beneath windswept branches of oak trees buffeted by the winds that slash the headlands in all seasons.
I turned off my engine and reached into the backseat for my black canvas bag. I slipped out of the car, easing the door shut. Clutching the bag, I moved silently to peek over the ridge. Two lights shone through the fog; one from the front of the house, the other off the rear patio.
I hurried to the driveway, where two cars were parked. One was my husband’s Acura; the second was a new Mercedes 280 SL. I crept around to the back patio deck, where a barbecue grill was against the railing next to a stack of chopped logs for the fireplace. A light shone through the sliding glass door leading to the patio. Two dark windows faced the west, one the guest bedroom, the other a laundry room. I knelt beneath the bedroom window and peeked through the blinds. Two overnight bags were tossed on a king-size bed. The larger one was my husband’s designer bag.
I moved to the deck, where vertical blinds were open. I peeked into the living room. It was unchanged from my visit last month: bookshelves against the wall, a dining table, an entertainment console, a coffee table, and a sofa facing the fireplace, where logs blazed. The backs of two heads were visible on the sofa. Bottles of wine and plates of food rested on the coffee table.
Voices and muffled laughter from the living room. One voice was familiar; the female voice sounded off-key, rather like an out-of-tune piano. The pattern repeated: my husband’s voice, an off-key response, and laughter. The heads dipped down until I couldn’t see them. Blazing logs crackled in the fireplace.
I crept to the darkened laundry room window. Through open blinds, I could see the closed door leading to the hallway. I ran my fingers along the window until I found a crack between the window and the frame. Alex had mentioned the crack when we visited last month.
“These things happen with this old house; we have minor quakes all the time and heavy winds in winter. We’re directly above the San Andreas Fault, which goes out in the ocean a few miles from here off Point Reyes. I’m getting it fixed before the winter rains.”
Alex was handsome, rich, and conceited. “This house belonged to my grandparents, who had a dairy farm when I was growing up in Marin,” he had told us that afternoon. “The old place is showing its age. The wind howls, the windows rattle, and it feels like the whole place is falling apart. Last year, part of the roof tore off. The smoke detector hasn’t worked in years. Last year, bricks fell from the chimney into the fireplace, which I had to replace. The upkeep costs a fortune, but for a weekend hideaway, it’s great if you don’t mind the wind howling and the creaking noises. I love to bring women here; they can’t wait to dive into bed and pull the covers over their heads. The furnace doesn’t work anymore, so I heat it with the fireplace.” He had cackled like a naughty boy, thinking he was so cool. He had looked cocky in his pink Hawaiian shirt, Italian sandals, wraparound shades, and $100 haircut.
I ran my finger along the quarter-inch crack. I reached into my bag and pulled out a cardboard tube from a washing machine that had been delivered to our house. I had wrapped and taped butcher paper around the tube, extending it and fashioning a sleeve on one end. I slipped the sleeve into the crack. A degree in engineering from Cal had taught me a few practical tricks.
I crept back to the patio and disconnected the line from the propane tank to the grill with a pocket wrench. I slipped the round end of the paper tube onto the nozzle of the propane tank and repositioned the line just above the nozzle so it would look like it had been dislodged by an explosion. In a fire, the paper tube would burn.
Dry logs sparked and popped in the fireplace. I heard low moaning and muffled voices from the sofa. Muffled laughter. A slap. A thump. Moans and muffled laughter. Two naked figures rose from the sofa and made their way to the bedroom. I recognized my husband’s naked buttocks. His hand was over hers, the creep.
I crept beneath the bedroom window and heard the door open and close. Two thumps as overnight bags dropped on the floor. Rustling of bedcovers tossed off. Laughter. Muffled voices. A gasp. Soft moaning. Minutes later, the rattling of the headboard against the wall. More gasps and moans.
I turned the knob on the propane tank, hearing a low hiss as gas moved along the tube into the laundry room. The Fire Administration’s FEMA Web site had described how gas ignited in a closed space. Being heavier than air, gas would fill t
he laundry room and work up into the open space, filling the attic. It would creep under the door into the hallway and flow all over the house, laying a carpet of combustible fuel. The gas would seep under the bedroom door, but after a couple of bottles of wine, hanky-panky on the sofa, and lovemaking, the two of them would likely fall asleep before the odor became strong. Fireplace embers would ignite the gas, and flames would race toward the source, into the laundry room and up into the attic, and burn the weathered wood of the old house. Once the hot air reached a certain temperature in a closed space, the house would explode, breaking the glass windows and drawing in more oxygen to create an inferno.
I crept away from the darkened house and ran to my car. I backed onto the road and drove away in darkness, following the road until it crested the hill. I parked and got out to look back over the valley.
The luminous dial on my watch said it was midnight. Ribbons of fire from the attic licked dry shingles on the roof and crept down the walls, lighting the night like a harvest bonfire. Ten minutes later, a flash was followed by a thunderous boom, blowing out the windows.
It was time to leave. I had committed the perfect crime. Now I had to drive three hundred and eighty miles to my perfect alibi in a Burbank hotel.