The Safe Man by Michael Connelly Page B

under the flooring. He was pretty sure the houses out on the island were built on fill—the coral and shells dredged up to dig the barge channel leading to the phosphate plant.
    “You’ve got no basement here, right?” he said. “No way under the house?”
    “No, no way.”
    “Then it looks like I’d have to tear up the floor. It goes over the lip of the box. This wood is so old you’d never match it. But I guess you could keep it covered with the rug.”
    “No, I don’t want to tear up the floor. I’ve spent enough on the floor. What about the door? Can you just take it off? I could leave it with just the plywood on top, cover it back up with the rug.”
    “Once I get it open I can take it off if you want. But why? You might as well just leave it unlocked.”
    “Three words: In Cold Blood. Things could go wrong. I want the door taken off. Go get your tools.”
    “Yes, sir. ”
    Brian started out of the room.
    “Excuse me. Are you being sarcastic?” Robinette asked.
    Brain stopped and looked at him.
    “Uh, no sir. I’m just going to get my tools. By the way, it’s going to get really loud in here when I start drilling and hammering. It might last a while, too—depending on the thickness of the front plate.”
    “Beautiful. I’ll work in the upstairs study.”
    In the van Brian looked through all his manuals and catalogs for a listing on Le Seuil or anything close to it. He found nothing. He called Barney Feldstein, who worked in San Francisco and was the most knowledgeable box man he knew, and even Barney had never heard of the maker. He put Brian on hold and checked the archives of the Box Man website. When he came back on, he had nada.
    What Brian wished was that he could talk to his old man about it. If anybody knew the safe maker, it would be him. But that was impossible. It took a request from a lawyer to set up a phone call, and a letter was useless. He needed advice right now. Resigned to the idea that he would go in blind, he gathered his tools and went back into the house. Robinette was still in the study. He was gathering some files from the desk to take with him upstairs.
    “I couldn’t find anything in the manuals and I called a guy who’s been doing this longer than anybody I know in the business,” Brian said. “He never heard of this safe company either. So I’ll do my best, but it’s looking like a double drill.”
    “Explain to me why you have to drill it twice,” Robinette said impatiently.
    “I’ve got to pop out what they call the free wheel. It’s the locking gear. To do that I have to drill through the front plate so I can hit it with a spike. With most safes, I know where the free wheel is. I have design manuals. I can look it up. I then come through with the drill, pop the gear, and open the safe. With this one, I’m going in blind. I’ll take an educated guess but most likely I’ll miss. I’ll then snake it with a camera, find the right spot, and drill it again.”
    “You’re sure you’re not just taking advantage of me here?”
    “What?”
    “How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam designed to get the double dip? Or the double drill, as the case may be.”
    Brian was thinking that he ought to pick up his tools and just walk out, leaving the arrogant writer with his unopened safe. You open it, asshole. But he needed the money—Laura was planning to take the option of extending her maternity leave by four unpaid weeks. Besides, he was curious about the safe. He’d have something to post on the website after he got it open.
    “Look,” he said to Robinette. “If you want to go out to the van and look in the manuals and try to find this, be my guest.”
    Robinette waved off the suggestion.
    “No, never mind. Just get it done. Come to the bottom of the stairs and call for me when you are about to open it. I want to be here to see what that old fool Blankenship put in there.”
    “Arthur Blankenship? This was his house?”
    “Yes, that’s right. Did