We left the Camry parked on the main road, near a church, which we hoped would excuse its presence, and walked back to the house. The place was still in darkness when we arrived and Sean quickly led the way past the garage towards the rear. We walked confidently, like we had every right to be there.
The back door had a solid bottom half, complete with cat flap, and a series of small panes of glass at the top. Sean slipped his pocketknife out and, while I kept a nervous watch, sliced through the putty holding the nearest piece of glass to the lock. In moments, he was reaching inside.
Despite his confidence over the lack of alarm, I still held my breath while he turned the key left on the inside like he was removing the fuse from a booby-trapped device. The lock disengaged smoothly and the door clicked open without any fuss. I listened for the shrill beeping that usually means you’ve got thirty seconds to enter your disarm code, but there was nothing.
We stepped through into a small tiled hallway—over the doormat, just in case—and Sean threw me a quick, if rather smug, smile which I pretended not to see. I’d taken the SIG off my hip as soon as we’d got inside. Sean’s Glock was already in his hand, though I hadn’t even seen him reach for it. The handling of a gun came so naturally to Sean that it just seemed a part of him.
The hallway had a utility room off of it, with a locked door that presumably led to the garage. We moved on, into a large modern kitchen in glossy white, its surfaces wiped down and clear of clutter. There was an automatic water bowl on the floor. The only noise came from the constant trickle that flowed into it, the shunt of the refrigerator, and the distant hum of an air-conditioning unit.
As we stood there, letting the silences of the house settle around us, we heard a thump. The white cat we’d seen washing itself in the front window came stalking arrogantly into the kitchen and sat down in the center of the tiled floor to fix us with an accusing stare. I swear its unblinking eyes shifted from us to the huge double doors of the fridge and back again, pointedly.
“Feeding time, huh?” Sean murmured. “No chance, pal. Go and catch something.”
As if understanding perfectly, the cat’s tail lashed twice. It got up abruptly and trotted out again, giving a last annoyed flick just as it disappeared through the doorway.
Enough illumination from the street filtered in through the front of the house to light our path. We followed the cat out of the kitchen, past an open-plan dining room with a glass-topped table supported on what appeared to be two blocks of marble. Huge ornate lamps were placed at either end. The table had only one place mat set on it.
Past the dining room was the living room with its big front window, which was where we’d seen the cat from the street. Just as we drew level with the doorway, the lights in the living room clicked on, nearly giving the pair of us a heart attack.
I hit the wall, bringing the SIG up instantly to cover the vestibule. Light from the living room spilled starkly into it, showing it to be empty apart from another cat, a tabby with a startlingly white bib and paws, sitting on a side table near the huge front door. The cat regarded me with disdain.
On the other side of the doorway, Sean had swung the Glock round to cover the living room. I glanced across at him.
“Clear,” he said tightly. “Lights must be on a timer.”
“Oh yeah, one of those scare-the-burglars-to-death timers.”
“We’re not burgling.”
“Mm,” I said. “Try telling that to the local cops if we get caught.”
“Well,” Sean said, “I wasn’t planning on it … .”
Aware we could be seen easily from the street through the uncurtained windows, I peered quickly into the living room without entering. Thick rugs, white leather corner sofa, bigscreen TV in an open cabinet with what looked to me like top-end hi-fi. To one side of the TV were half a dozen bottles of various spirits. Most of them were full, or very nearly.
In front of the sofa, three or four different remotes were scattered across the glass-topped coffee table, which was a scaled-down version of the one in the dining room. On the shelf underneath were a couple of magazines about American football and what looked like a travel brochure for Tanzania.
“Real bachelor pad,” I said quietly.
Sean raised his eyebrows and jerked his head upwards. We climbed the open-tread stairs out of the vestibule carefully, to avoid the creaks. The landing was also open-plan, with a gallery that looked down over a balcony into the living area. Everywhere was white. Another cat—dark gray this time—streaked past us on the landing and bolted for the stairs, a long sly blur in the gloom.
How many damn cats does this guy have?
Before we had a chance to go nosing into the upstairs rooms, we heard the sound of a powerful engine revving slightly as it changed gear for the turn into the driveway. The motor dropped back to a throaty idle, but the sound grew louder and more echoing, which could only mean the garage door was rising.
“Utility room?” I said. We needed to grab O’Loughlin as soon as he came into the house, without giving him chance to run, counterattack, or call for help. The ute was the most sheltered spot, unseen from the street. And just about roomy enough to take him down physically, if it came to that.
Sean nodded. He was already moving for the stairs, stealth discarded in favor of speed. As we reached the utility room, we saw a thin stream of light coming in from under the door leading to the garage. There was the clank of a motorized mechanism moving slowly through its operation, and then the sounds of the street were muffled again.
Sean and I braced ourselves on either side of the door. I slotted the SIG back into its holster, making sure my jacket slid free over the butt, just in case. Sean watched me and lifted a brow.
We need him to trust us, don’t we?
Yeah, but not that much.
The Glock stayed firmly in his hand.
The Porshe’s engine had already shut off and we heard the plip of a car alarm being set. O’Loughlin might leave his house alarm deactivated, but he wasn’t too careless with his toys, then.
Footsteps. A key fumbling into the lock, rattling the handle a little. The door opened, bringing a rush of warmer air with it into the coolness of the house interior.
Even as the figure stepped into range between me and Sean, I registered something was off. O’Loughlin was shorter than I was expecting, slightly built, shoulder-length hair, curves, soft voice.
“Hey, guys—mama’s home!”
Terry O’Loughlin’s a woman. This stupidly obvious fact hit me at just about the same time that something warned Terry she had more than cats in her house. The briefcase and papers she’d been carrying spilled from her suddenly nerveless hands, hit the floor and scattered. The woman’s automatic flight reflex had her wheeling back for the door to the garage, for the safety of her car, but Sean had already moved behind her and shouldered it shut.
The noise the door made as it slammed seemed to jolt her out of stasis. Realizing she couldn’t go back, she gave a strangled cry and tried to bolt for the kitchen instead.
I grabbed her arms as she scrambled to get past me. She couldn’t break my grip but she fought anyway, panic lending her strength. It was a short-term loan and the payments were steep. She struggled on for a few moments, exhausting herself in the process, then went limp. I relaxed my hold on her just a little, enough so we could talk to her.
“That’s better,” Sean said soothingly. The Glock was out of sight. “We’re not here to hurt you, Terry. We just want to—”
“The hell you’re not!” Terry said fiercely, surging forwards to lash out with her right foot, aiming for his groin.