Every Move You Make by M. William Phelps Page B

trying to figure out how to get in.
    The local police were baffled by the job. The thief had tunneled his way through the outside of the building and underneath one of the walls, only to come up on the inside of the building. After stealing the most expensive item he could find, he left a note in place of it: Thank you, The Mole .
    Lisa confirmed it was Evans.
    He had also pulled off a job in Margaretville, New York, near the Catskill Mountains, in late September, Lisa said. This time, instead of going in through a window or tunneling through the floor, he scaled the side of the building next door using a ladder a Chinese Restaurant had left out and entered the shop through an open window on the roof. He justified the robbery by saying it was the owner’s fault for leaving the window open.
    Then she explained a burglary Evans had pulled off at an antique depot not too far away from the barn he had torched. During that job, he had located a “trapdoor” in the basement of the building and slipped right in one morning when nobody was around. Because there were people roaming around outside the place while he was inside, he said, he put an old phone booth door he had used to get into the building across the window, like a curtain, so no one could see him.
    There was an old white house in Hyde Park, New York, Lisa explained, that had caused Evans some trouble. The day after the job, she said, he showed up at her apartment with a scratched-up, bloodied face.
    “What the hell happened to you?” she asked.
    “As I was going in through a basement window, I tripped an alarm system and took off. Right on the opposite side of the window was a pricker bush. I ran right through it, toward a bingo hall across the street where ‘my partner’ was supposed to be waiting for me in his car.”
    “Was he there?”
    “No. That fucking asshole split on me.”
    Lisa said it was Tim. When he heard the alarm, he must have gotten scared and taken off, leaving Evans to fend for himself.
    When Evans met up with Tim later that night in a motel room they’d rented, he punched him in the face for leaving him at the scene, screaming, “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again!”
    Horton looked at Lisa as she told the story. Motive. Gary never forgets.
     
    A narrative of certain burglaries Evans had pulled off was, most certainly, good information, and Horton was happy to have it. But as the interview progressed, he wanted Lisa to talk about the last few days she had spent with Evans. It was clear now Evans was the last person to see Tim.
    Lisa had been chain-smoking since the interview began. Rubbing her eyes, stirring in her seat, she said she needed a break. So Horton told her to take a walk up and down the short hallway outside the room and use the bathroom if she needed. “But don’t get comfortable,” Horton warned, “because we still have plenty more work ahead of us.”

CHAPTER 17
    The second-floor interrogation room inside Bureau headquarters was part of a brick building that looked like an old grammar school. Inside the cream-colored room Lisa was being questioned in was one small window, which looked out across the street at Siena College. Horton kept the shades closed so witnesses and suspects couldn’t let their minds wander. The walls were painted a calming hue of vanilla for ambience and mood. Besides a plain metal table and a few chairs, the room sat empty. The mirror on the wall was two-way. There were hidden cameras set up around the room in case the Bureau wanted to videotape an interview.
    When Lisa returned from the bathroom, she appeared rejuvenated, refreshed.
    “All set now, Lisa?” Horton asked.
    “I guess so,” she said, running her hands through her hair.
    “Tell us about October third. You said you saw Gary that day?”
    “He stayed at my apartment the night before. I got up about six or six-thirty in the morning,” she said as she sat down, “and Gary was already awake, sitting in the living room