Near the crest of a hill, Frank made a sharp right turn. The Lexus pulled into a narrow driveway fairly well masked by the trees around it. Despite the drought, the lawns, the trees were greener, more lush up here.
“We’re in Beverly Hills,” said Jack.
Though the driveway continued on, Frank rolled up to circular-stone structure not much larger than a freestanding garage. The Lexus stopped under an arch, where a small wall fountain trickled. In the cool shade, Frank cut the engine while Jack studied his surroundings.
The building had a large glass door behind a cast iron gate. The gate was wide open, the door ajar. Farther along the driveway, Jack spied several other vehicles huddled together under a copse of spreading eucalyptus trees — two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, and a black crime scene van. Jack also noticed a tan Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down. Except for a plainclothes detective loitering around and trying to look nonchalant, no one else was in sight. All of the vehicles were deep enough inside the grounds to be invisible from the road, and Jack thought that was intentional. The authorities were deliberately trying to hide something.
“Have you ever heard of Hugh Vetri?” Frank asked.
The name jogged something in Jack’s memory. “Maybe. Should I know him?”
“Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll introduce you.”
As they climbed out of the car, a member of the LAPD Crime Scene Unit came through the glass door. The man saw Frank with a stranger and frowned. He approached, handed them both latex gloves.
“We’re finished in the bedroom and the study. We’re working on the nanny’s room now,” the forensics man told Castalano. “But I still don’t want anyone going in there who doesn’t have to.”
“We’ll make it quick,” Castalano replied. The other man had more questions so he and the detective huddled for a few minutes. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Jack moved a discreet distance away, pulled on the gloves. The morning sun was already scorching, even in the cool shade. Jack massaged his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the glare for a moment. Finally, Castalano broke away from the other man, waved Jack through the door.
A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.
“Down here, Jack.”
Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.
“Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”
“Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into the blockbuster of the year. He’s about to release the sequel, or he was.”
“Was?”
Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”
The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder — the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top — only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.
Jack tamped down his revulsion enough to study the corpse without touching it. Of particular interest was the positioning of the body, the binding wounds on the arms and legs, the bright bruise on the cheek, under the right eye. Most revealing was the expression on the dead man’s face — one eye open, the other closed, mouth gaping and blood flecked, tongue black and distended. This man’s death was deliberately prolonged. He’d experienced hours of torture before being released.
Detective Castalano broke the silence. “His wife, Sarah, is in the master bedroom. Her throat was cut. Vetri’s daughter is in the bathhouse. Whoever did this found her while she was taking a midnight swim. She was the first to die, but it was mercifully quick, unlike this poor bastard.”
“Anyone else?” Jack’s voice was brittle.
“The live-in nanny and an infant son. They’re both in the nursery. Want to see those crime scenes?”
“No.”
“That’s smart. Their murders were savage enough, Christ knows. But whoever did this saved their real fury for Hugh Vetri.”
“How did the murderer get in?”
“That’s the funny part,” Castalano replied. “The alarm company says the alarm was activated at eight p.m., then turned off again around midnight. The code was used. Whoever did this may have been an insider. We’re checking out that angle now, along with some others.”
Castalano glanced at the corpse, looked away. “It’s like fucking Charles Manson all over again. I thought hippies were extinct.”
Jack began to back out of the room. Castalano caught his arm. “Sorry. There’s more you have to see, Jack.”
The detective crossed the room to the computer still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.
“Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”
Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.
To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.
“Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”
Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”
Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”
“We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”
There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”
Jack nodded. “Shoot.”
“Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”
“Not a clue,” Jack replied.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music — just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.