Freda glanced back at the house. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I still have to put supper on the table.”
I thanked her for her time. Wesley had long since disappeared inside, and I didn’t think he’d mind if I left without saying good-bye to him.
I ruminated in my car for a minute or two. My conversation with Freda led me to one inescapable conclusion, and it was the same conclusion I’d reached after talking to Beulah Redman: Buster and Freda were worth a lot more dead than alive. Mike hadn’t yet found an insurance payout to TFJ from Buster’s death, but I was reasonably sure one would turn up. On the good-news side, Freda’s policy had been in effect for a year and she was still very much alive, and Buster’s death was uncontested.
What if there wasn’t any foul play involved? What if Florio took out the policies because Buster was old, Freda was a smoker, and Zimmy was a recovering addict? It made payouts a pretty good bet. Maybe what they were doing was shady, but not actually illegal. I needed to know more before I could make a realistic assessment of everything, especially whether Freda was in any immediate danger.
As I reached for the ignition, doubt flickered a warning in my gut and my hand paused.
Why threaten Zimmy, then? Follow the First Rule, Tenzing. Don’t let the tickle come back as a gut-punch. Here’s a perfect opportunity.
I climbed out of the car, hurried to the front door, and knocked before I could talk myself out of it. As I waited, I scribbled my cell phone number on the back of an envelope. I was going to need business cards soon.
Wesley opened the door, his eyes lifeless. I handed him the envelope.
“Call me if Tommy Florio gets in touch,” I said, “or for any other reason. You both take good care, okay? I mean it.” Wesley’s eyes met mine, and for a moment his face brightened, as if remembering what mattering to another human being felt like.
It was nearly 11:00 when I finally turned off the highway onto the gravel road I hoped would lead to the Children of Paradise headquarters. I’d arrived here without a hitch; now I just had to figure out what the heck I was hoping to accomplish.
If I were back at the monastery, I’d already be asleep at this time of night-we were in bed by nine and up at four. But the Children of Paradise were not exactly a conventional religious community. What would they be doing at this hour? This being Southern California, they might not even be climbing out of their hot tubs yet.
I rolled along the gravel past acres of trees planted in rows. Fruit trees, maybe. It was hard to tell. The branches were bare, and the withered trunks, washed by moonlight, looked forlorn and ghostly. I wondered if this was their normal state, or if they had been attacked by some disease. Maybe they had simply succumbed to the recession like everything else.
My tires crunched down the road for a little over three miles when I spotted a broken-down building to one side. It was divided into stalls that looked like they had once stabled horses. A quarter mile farther along, a driveway was blocked by a padlocked gate. A hand-lettered wooden sign nailed over the entrance announced:
CHILDREN OF PARADISE SANCTUARY Visitors by Appointment Only 661-555-9040
I punched the digits into my cell phone. I had no intention of calling them tonight, but who knows what Mike could do with a phone number?
I decided to drive past the sign, in hopes of discovering another point of entry. Sure enough, within half a mile I spotted a little dirt road on the right. I turned onto it, killing the headlights, and bumped my way along deep ruts, finally steering my way up a small incline. I parked at the summit and was treated to my first view of Paradise.
I took off my windbreaker. Slipped my holster over my left shoulder and nested the Wilson safely under my arm. Put my windbreaker back on. I pulled a Maglite XL100 out of the glove compartment, fed it fresh batteries, and stashed it in my pocket. Added my Microtech H.A.L.O.-a knife favored by film crews as much as cops-for good measure. I didn’t necessarily expect any trouble, but when you’re nosing around other people’s property in the dark, there’s a certain comfort in having a mini-arsenal within reach. I turned my car around, aiming its nose for the exit, stepped outside, locked it, and moved closer to get a better look.
This particular Eden was definitely a down-market version, the rustic model where angels occupied canvas yurts. Beyond the waist-high fence, set at the base of the hill, I counted eight of the domed tents, each about 20 feet in diameter. The structures were dark and quiet. Toward the rear of the compound loomed a larger yurt, nearly twice the size of the others. Light glowed from its windows.
I patted the comforting contours of my underarm cannon and vaulted the waist-high fence. It felt good to be back in action. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the hum and buzz of adrenaline in my bloodstream. This particular high was even better than the standard cop-speed, because what I was doing was not, shall we say, strictly legal. In my mind I heard Bill’s voice chiding me: “Not strictly legal? Try one hundred percent illegal.” I thanked him and proceeded down the hill toward the yurts.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I grabbed it and flipped it open next to my mouth. Mike’s timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Not now!” I hissed.
There was a pause.
“All righty, then,” I heard Julie say. “Guess I’ll catch you later.” Click.
Great.
I called right back, but her voice mail picked up.
“Sorry about that,” I said after the tone, keeping my voice low. “I thought you were someone else…. I mean someone I work with. A guy, a guy I work with …” Why did I call back? Holy crap but I got goofy around this woman. “Anyway, I’m right in the middle of … this thing. I’ll call you later.”
I turned off my cell and stowed it in my pocket. Sighed. My buzz was killed. It wasn’t her fault, but as I picked my way down the hill to Paradise, I found myself blaming Julie anyway.
CHAPTER 11
The night was cloudless. The full, fat moon spread a blanket of silvery light over the dirt pathway, so my Maglite stayed in my pocket as I worked my way downhill. Crickets sawing a concerto filled the night air with a peaceful rhythm-until I neared the illuminated yurt and heard two angry male voices coming from inside.
I approached from the rear, edging around the perimeter until I reached a window, more of a tent flap, really, with netting to keep the bugs outside. There was no shortage of them here: the mosquitoes dive-bombing my face and arms were intent on a midnight snack.
I sidled up to the flap and peered in. Two men were conversing on the opposite side of the yurt. I couldn’t hear the particulars, but their tone was contentious, the volume rising and falling in tandem with the vacillating tension. The man on the left slouched back in his chair, beefy arms crossed behind his head. Even sprawled, he managed to be imposing. He was in his early 50s, sporting a long white robe of thin cotton, and none too clean. His shaved head gleamed with menace, and his jutting auburn beard moved when he talked.
Crude swords decorated with some sort of scrollwork covered both forearms-primitive blue-inked symbols that shouted time behind bars. A geometric, X-shaped structure composed of small rectangles, like some sort of molecular compound, straddled the nape of his neck. I had never seen a tattoo quite like it. His hands were huge, big as mitts, with flat, spatulate thumbs. Squat toes, wiry with red knuckle hairs, poked out of a pair of leather sandals. His ruddy face looked calm enough under the steady torrent of words from his companion, but I sensed that inside, a suppressed fury was ticking away like a time bomb.
As cult members go, he was a lousy poster boy.
The second man, spidery-thin but with a small paunch, was at least two decades younger. He also had on the white robe and sandals, but he had accessorized his outfit in a unique, attention-getting way: a double-barreled shotgun slung loosely over the crook of one arm. His elder didn’t look worried, though, and the acolyte seemed more clueless than threatening.