Deciding to save the basement for last, I returned to the middle hallway and pushed through the final door, entering what appeared to be Carns’s office. Three desks spiraled out from the center of the room. Two were neat and tidy. Ignoring these, I moved to the third, which was strewn with computer printouts and reference books from an adjoining bookshelf. As I began my search, a single printed word in the jumble of papers on the desk jumped out at me.
Philharmonic.
It was in an article that had been published in the Los Angeles Times describing Catheryn’s appointment as the Philharmonic’s associate principal cello. Stapled beneath was her picture, along with a property report giving our home address. Stunned, I searched further, finding other newspaper articles detailing several of my past homicide cases, as well as another piece about Catheryn. With a chill, I noticed that each mention of her name had been neatly underlined. I stared at the articles, realizing their implication.
I have to tell Kate, I thought, shaken by what I’d found. Thank God she and the kids are in Santa Barbara.
With an effort of will, I forced myself back to the business at hand. I quickly searched the rest of the desk, careful to leave everything exactly as I had found it. Next I moved to the file cabinet, discovering Carns’s IRS tax returns for the past eight years. The most recent return gave his present Coto address; five years before that Carns had lived in San Diego. The oldest listed address was in San Francisco.
Making a mental note of the previous addresses, I replaced the tax returns. As I did, I noted something odd about the reference works lining an adjacent bookshelf. Most were technical publications involving finance and investment strategy, but near the bottom were a number of seemingly misplaced volumes-true crime studies of various modern sociopaths like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, and Randy Craft, along with a book on hypnosis and an array of clinical psychology textbooks. Intrigued, I leaned closer, noting a manila folder jammed between two of the psychology books.
I pulled out the folder. It contained a psychological evaluation on Carns from a Portland doctor, and another from a psychiatrist in San Francisco. I scanned them quickly. I also found social service documents from upstate New York and a five-year span of outpatient records from a San Francisco medical institution.
My cellular phone rang. I flipped it open. “What?”
“Just checking,” said Barrello.
“Where is he?”
“Still in the market. How’s it going?”
“Slow. Don’t call again unless you have to.”
I replaced the folder and checked the time. Thirteen minutes. After a final glance around the office, I retreated to the hall.
One last area.
I descended to the basement, again resolving to call Catheryn and warn her the minute I was out of there. At the bottom of the staircase a pair of doors lay to the left, another to the right. After a moment’s hesitation, I entered the room on the right. A massive gun cabinet squatted against a side wall. Across from it, flanked by a shooting bench and an ammunition stand, the maw of a four-foot-diameter concrete pipe gaped into the room. I moved to the cabinet and opened a number of drawers. The smaller ones each contained six to eight pistols; the larger ones held rifles and shotguns.
Next I walked to the waist-high tunnel and peered into its interior. In the distance I could make out a faint glimmer of light. Curious, I tripped a switch next to the tunnel opening. A string of bulbs running the length of the shaft came on, revealing a pulley system of range markers and a large mound of sand blocking the tunnel at the far end. Although I couldn’t make out the numbers on the final range marker, I gauged the distance to the sand to be at least several hundred feet. Briefly, I considered crawling down the shaft and recovering comparison slugs from the sand pile at the far end. Again, I checked the time.
Sixteen minutes.
I decided that entering the tunnel would take too long. Besides, considering all the guns in Carns’s collection, chances were slim that any projectiles recovered in a hurried search would match those found at the various crime scenes.
I retreated to the doorway, again making sure I’d left nothing disturbed. But instead of leaving, I stared back into the chamber, certain I was overlooking something.
The guns? The tunnel? What?
Unable to put my finger on it, I resolved to return if I had time. There were still two rooms left to search. Moving quickly, I entered the first. It proved to be a professionally equipped darkroom with stainless-steel sinks, plastic developing trays, and an enlarger.
The second room was locked.
I eyed the Medeco deadbolt above the knob, certain the room beyond was secured for a reason. Frustrated, I turned away. Then it dawned on me: People might bolt an interior door to keep out a nosy maid, but nobody carried around a key to a room in his own house. Not even Carns.
I ran my fingers along the trim above the doorframe. Nothing. Same with the molding above the door to the darkroom.
Where is it? It has to be here. The gun room?
Too far for convenience.
The darkroom.
I returned to the darkroom. There I searched the drawers, storage bins, and shelves for the key. Minutes later I found it hidden on the inside of a cabinet face beneath one of the sinks, hanging on a small hook. Key in hand, I returned to the hall and shoved the key into the Medico deadbolt. The door swung open.
Stepping inside, I tripped a light switch, surveying the windowless vault beyond. Soundproofing panels covered nearly every surface. A mirrored closet lay at the far end, with built-in bookcases bracketing a gigantic television screen spanning the near wall. Across from the screen sat a solitary leather armchair, a table, lamp, and a slide projector.
I crossed to the bookcases and inspected their contents. One held a surround-sound stereo, a VCR and DVD player, and various other electronic equipment. Video and audio discs and tapes jammed the shelves above and below, each labeled in a distinctively slanted cursive. Stacks of similarly marked slide carousels filled the second cabinet. I scanned some of the titles: Airport Double, Portland Marina, San Diego Hooking, Seattle Please Please. Hairs prickling on the back of my neck, I removed a slide and held it up to the light. My stomach lurched at the blasphemy it contained.
Keep it? No. Too risky.
I dropped the slide back into its slot. As I did, my phone rang again. I flipped it open. “What?”
“He’s left the market,” Barrello said urgently. “He’s heading out of the lot, turning left on Antonio Parkway. He’s comin’ back. You want Sal to stop him?”
“No. Can’t chance it.”
“Where are you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
A moment of silence. “Are you inside?”
I didn’t answer.
“Get out of there. Now.”
“Be ready to roll.” I hung up, my mind racing. Thirty seconds to exit the house, another thirty to rejoin Barrello, ninety to make it down the hill and clear the area.
I still had time.
I stepped to the closet and threw open its mirrored doors. Inside hung a collection of blouses, leotards, skirts, jackets, and underwear. I stared. Some of the clothes looked stylish and new, others tawdry and worn. Here and there spatters of rust-colored stain bore testament to the wearers’ final moments. Shelves on either side of the clothes pole held shoes, belts, hats, and a number of photo albums. Conscious of the seconds slipping past, I opened an album and flipped through several pages of snapshots. From each grotesque photo the face of a young woman stared back. Some were beautiful, some average, some plain. A few were alive. Most were not.