“Then why don’t we leave town and let them have at it?”
“Because I believe that for now you’ll be safer here than running. And if I’m here, I can push some leads that I don’t think the cops can follow.”
“At the hospital?”
“To start.”
“You’re going to get in to see her by pretending you’re still a cop, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. I’m pretty good at it.”
“Jack, even if you fool everybody and get in, she’s not going to talk to you. She hates you. She hates me.”
“Right now I’ll bet she hates the man who shot her even more.”
Till drove from Ventura Boulevard up Vineland. When he turned right onto Riverside for the last few blocks toward the hospital, he could see the lights of several police cars and a couple of ambulances blinking on Riverside. There were other emergency vehicles parked on the left side of the street. “There’s something up ahead,” he said.
Till drove up to the area, and found that the police were waving cars on, keeping them moving. He pulled off Riverside at Ponca, parked, and got out. “Come on. I don’t want you alone in the car.”
They walked across the street, and made their way through the crowd of people who had gathered. There was more police tape, and there were police officers busy working the area as a crime scene. There were two bodies lying in different parts of the alley. Till asked the man beside him, “What happened?”
“Those guys got shot a while ago. See?” He pointed at the bodies.
“What was it, a robbery?”
“I don’t really know. I heard it was a carjacking.”
Till edged closer to the nearest body. The police forensic people were kneeling on the rough pavement beside it, trying to measure angles and examine the ground for evidence. Till took Wendy’s arm. “Look at this.”
“I don’t want to.”
He pulled her closer. “Look.”
She said, “My God! It’s that guy. The one in Morro Bay.”
Till pointed down the alley, where other officers were working beside a second body. “There’s the man from the locker room.” He took Wendy’s arm. “Start walking.” They began to walk toward the street. “I don’t know who did this to them, but he didn’t do it for us.”
40
PAUL AND SYLVIE TURNER were already over the six-foot fence and walking on Scott Schelling’s smooth, level green lawn. It was pleasant walking here because even at night it was easy to tell that nobody but the men who cut and rolled it had ever walked here, and because the fence was lined with taller hedges that made it safe for even Paul and Sylvie to stand erect as they made their way across the lawn. The two strolled toward the house, then stopped a distance from it and circled it slowly.
Their first stop was the garage. Paul took a small Maglite out of his pocket and shone it through the window at the side. He whispered, “There’s a sports car, and a Lincoln Town Car.”
“Good. He’s probably home.”
Paul nodded, and they resumed their walk. There were a number of procedures that they followed without discussion. They stayed ten or twelve feet away from the house while they studied it, so they were outside the range of motion detectors that could trigger floodlights. They checked the eaves and peaks of the house for surveillance cameras, although they didn’t matter so much at this hour because nobody would be awake to watch the monitors. They examined the shrubs and perennials for signs of electrical wiring, checked the window screens for conductive mesh and the glass for silver wire. The doors were sturdy, well-made, and equipped with heavy gleaming hardware.
When they went around the corner, there was a metallic jingling, and then the sound of quick footsteps as a dog bounded across the lawn toward them. He was big, a retriever of some kind, and in a moment he was on them, panting and jumping. Paul petted him, then patted his shoulder, hard, whispering, “Good boy. Good boy,” as he took out his gun. He held the silencer a few inches behind the dog’s head and fired, then watched the dog fall to the grass and held the gun closer to fire a second round. Paul grasped the dog’s hind foot and dragged it into a clump of bushes.
“The dog’s our way in,” Sylvie whispered. “I’ll bet there’s a doggy door.”
“Let’s take a look.”
They continued their circuit until they came to the kitchen door in the back of the house, where there was a pet entrance cut into the lower panel. Paul and Sylvie knelt on the back steps to examine it.
“This has got to work. The alarm system is all pretty well wired,” said Sylvie.
“And there are video cameras,” said Paul. “We’ll have to find the deck and erase the tapes or take the chips later.”
Sylvie reached out and tested the pet door. “I’m sure I can fit through.”
“It won’t be wired, but we have to be careful about noise.”
“Of course. And internal traps and electric eyes. You’re sweet to worry.”
“What are you going to do when you’re in?”
“Wake him up, make him turn off the alarm, and let you in.”
“Good. Warn him what happens if he pushes a call-the-cops code.” He leaned close and kissed her cheek. “I love you, baby.”
Paul put on his thin kidskin gloves while Sylvie did the same. Paul lifted the clear plastic flap away from the dog door, held it up and whispered, “Good luck, baby.”
“Thanks.” Sylvie slipped her arms through the opening, shrugged to get her head and shoulders in, turned to the side to get her hips in, then turned the rest of the way to sit and pull her legs and feet in.
The kitchen was dark and quiet. She listened to the sounds of the building while her eyes accustomed themselves to the dark. Then she got up, took out her gun, and began to explore.
She found a dining room with a crystal chandelier and a long formal table and antique sideboards that didn’t seem contemporary enough for a music executive. The living room was divided into two carpeted areas with two separate sets of white furniture, with a clear space of marble floor down the center, which told her that Scott Schelling passed through the room only on his way to and from the front door. She followed a corridor off the living room and found a large den, a media room with thick leather theater seats, a huge flat-screen television set, smaller monitors, and lots of speakers and control boxes for various interlocking sound systems. She made her way back down the long corridor past the living room and into a small gym. It had many of the machines and pieces of equipment that Sylvie’s first husband, Darren, had bought her, but the set of weights was bigger and heavier than hers.
She had reached the private areas of the house, so she knew she must be coming closer to the bedrooms. The gym had a door that led to a shower room, and on the far end of it was a door to a conventional bathroom, and then another door to a large walk-in closet and dressing room. She could see built-in dressers and cabinets and rows of men’s suits on hangers, rows of shoes on shelves.
Sylvie edged close to the next door, her gun ready, and stepped out suddenly, the gun aimed at the bed. But the bed was still made, the covers perfectly smooth. There was a desk to her right near the wall, so she came close. There was nothing on its surface—no papers, no wallet or keys, no sunglasses or coins he might have left there when he went to bed. She looked at her watch. It was very late—after two. He should be home, if he was coming.
Maybe he slept in another bedroom. She made her way out the door and down the hall, looking in each bedroom. When she had seen them all, she walked back toward the kitchen. On the far side of it was a separate corridor she had missed the first time; it led to a suite for a maid. She opened the door carefully and explored it. The closet had a woman’s clothes in it, and there were Spanish novellas on the bookshelves, but the bed had not been slept in. In the maid’s bathroom, Sylvie studied the louvered window above the shower for a moment, then returned to the kitchen and knelt by the dog door. “Paul.”