by Rhys Ford
“Still nothing from the intercom. Let’s get out and stretch. I’ll try the speaker again.” Hank unclipped his seat belt, then opened the car door. “Why don’t you go take a peek through the gates? See if you can catch any movement up there. Swann knew we were coming. She’s even the one who set the time.”
“Yeah, confirmed it again with her this morning.” Stepping out of the car, Dante was grateful for the slightly muggy Los Angeles morning air. It was cooler than down on the lower streets, but not by much, but he didn’t care. The unmarked’s cooling system had two settings, stale and arctic, so the warmth felt good. Closing the door behind him, he stretched, feeling every sleepless second he’d spent lying next to Rook hanging on his bones. “Maybe the intercom’s broken. Try giving her a call.”
The hedges were recently cut, heavily fragrant with dried sap beading on the trimmed branches, brutally snipped to follow the edge of the gate’s stone pillars. Peering behind the hedge, Dante leaned on the heavy wooden gates blocking the drive to get a good look at the wall when the right side swung wide, gliding easily on its heavy hinges.
“Shit and hell,” Hank swore from his spot near the intercom. “Damned thing’s not even—”
Dante heard the engine before he saw the car, a squat, pug-nosed European job with rattling hubcaps and blacked-out windows. A curve in the driveway and a copse of bristly palms hid most of the house, and for a brief speck of time before the gray-green rattletrap emerged, the car’s ill-timed motor fired roughly enough for him to wonder if the lawn was being mowed. The sleek black drive was wet, or maybe the car’s tires were balding, because when the two-door coupe barreled around the bend, heading straight for the gate, it began to drift, and its back end skidded around.
Straight for Dante.
He dove, a graceless tumble behind the metal post set on the side of the drive. Meant to stop the gate from swinging back, it was his best hope—his only hope, really—to not get smeared over the driveway. Hitting the cement curb with his shoulder, Dante rolled, shouting at Hank to get out of the way. He got a flash of a ski mask, blurred by the darkened windows and the speeding car, before a bush caught his back, crushing branches into his ribs, and Dante’s wind left his chest, leaving him gasping. The car continued on, smashing into the gently swinging gate in a horrific tear of wood and metal, ripping the anchoring planks from their hinges. The coupe’s front end glanced off the unmarked’s passenger side, spinning it toward Hank, but the lanky detective dodged the sedan, plastering himself up against the hedge.
“Dante! You good?” Hank’s jacket flared, flung aside as he pulled his gun from its holster, but the car gunned its motor, slipping around the bend. “Answer me!”
“Fine!” Gasping, Dante struggled to stand up, extracting himself from the tangle of leaves and small branches he was trapped in. “Gate’s got cameras. Maybe a plate? Checking the house—”
“Got it. Calling in backup! Montoya! Don’t go in if it’s off!” Hank was already on the move, sliding into the battered sedan. The unmarked’s tires kicked up a flurry of leaves, pelting Dante across his face. Camden hit the siren before he turned the car completely around, then punched it, barreling down the street.
His lungs burned, but Dante broke into a run, following the driveway line. His knee ached from something he’d hit, but the urgency of getting to the house drove him on. Going in hot without a backup was foolish, but there’d been no choice, no time. Not after seeing the aftermath of the killer’s diligence painted all over Martinez’s apartment. Sadonna was his only focus, and the very real fear she now lay dying or dead somewhere in the house kept him going.
The rose-hued stucco house was enormous, a multilevel faux-Spanish mission with sweeping balconies and a tall iron-studded wooden front door. Framed in colorful tiles, the door stood open, the space behind it shrouded in shadow. The driveway circled around a tiered fountain, its lower bowl ringed with splashes of striated pansies and orange mums, and its curved spigots misted the air with a delicate spray faintly smelling of chlorine. Trimmed juniper pines obscured most of the house’s front, providing a bit of a break from the wind coming up from the winding scrub-brushed cliff face. From what Dante could see, the house sat back from the property’s ridge, a narrow strip of land buffering the structure from the drop to the canyon below.
He drew his weapon, slowing his pace, and mounted the short flight of steps leading to the front door. There was a twinge in his shoulder and a bit of stickiness along his right leg. The wind bit through the wet, and he felt its chill on his skin, assuring Dante he’d torn the knee out of his jeans. An ache continued to stretch over his side, and he bit back a sardonic laugh, amused at the irony of mirroring Rook’s injury.
There was no guarantee the coupe’s driver had been alone or if he’d been fleeing nothing more dangerous than a breaking-and-entering charge, but the stillness in the house, the silent nothingness leaking from the open front door made Dante brace for the worst.
“Police! I’m coming in. Ms. Swann, can you hear me?” Pressing his shoulder to the door, Dante leaned toward the opening, listening intently for any response. “Mrs. Martin! Are you home? Can anyone respond?”
He stepped in, cautiously pushing the door open with his foot. A wail of a far-off siren was partially comforting, but Dante wasn’t going to wait. Sweeping the front hall with a pivot, he moved in, systematically working through a sitting room, then the library connected to it, all the while announcing his presence. There were signs of a struggle, an occasional table tossed to the marble floor or a vase once filled with sunflowers smashed into pieces against a wall, the blooms trampled to a flat mush in a pool of cloudy water. Books were scattered around an eating nook in the kitchen, the end of a glass table fractured from something heavy, but there was still no sign of anyone in the house.
Finally, Dante heard something. A low moan, gurgling and pained, came from somewhere farther in the house, and Dante stepped up his sweep, hurrying through the seemingly endless maze of rooms until he came to a screened-in patio. One of the french doors leading to the space was off its hinges, the frame ripped from its moorings, and two of its panes were punched out, a glistening spray of pebbled glass crunching under his feet. The patio ran the length of the kitchen and formal dining room, cluttered with rattan furniture and overturned palms.
He found Sadonna on her stomach, her sunshine-bright blonde hair tacky with blood, its matted strands trailing down her bare back. A plush white robe bunched up around her knees, its collar pulled down to expose most of her shoulders, and welts mottled the expanse of her back, their edges just beginning to yellow. More blood dribbled from several shallow gashes on her right arm, a serrated steak knife wedged halfway into a rattan club chair’s side.
Sliding his fingers over her neck, Dante breathed a sigh of relief at finding a pulse, its strong beat coursing beneath his touch. He had a quick debate on whether or not to holster his gun, knowing he hadn’t cleared the entire house, when Sadonna groaned again, feebly reaching out to grasp his ankle.
“Help…. Oh God,” she gasped, fighting to breathe. Turning her head, Sadonna winced, and her hair fell from her face. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut, and her lower lip puffed out, a corner split open and raw. “Hit my… chest.”
“Hold on. I need to make sure they’re bringing an ambulance.” The sirens were louder, and Dante reached for his phone, connecting through to Dispatch. He made the conversation quick, verifying an EMT team would be arriving on the scene, then ended the call just as he heard a deep voice shouting his name from the front of the house. Raising his voice, Dante yelled back. “Back here. Need medical assistance. First floor only half clear! There might be someone else in the house.” Leaning over, Dante pressed his hand on Sadonna’s shoulder, gently urging her to stay down. “Medics will be here soon. I need you to tell me if there’s someone else in the house. Is Margaret here? Or any of the staff?”
“Margaret,” Sadonna croaked out, trying to twist under Dante’
s palm. Then she collapsed back down, panting. “I heard… her screaming. Taking a shower, so I got… I came out and…. Oh God, poor Margaret. I think they killed her. I heard her yelling, and then… it all stopped. She just… stopped screaming.”
“SO STILL no sign of the Martin woman, and it’s what? Eight at night now? No one’s heard from her since before we showed up, and there’s no ransom call. I don’t like this one bit, Montoya,” Hank mumbled, rubbing at his face, then exhaled a heavy sigh. “Got word from the hospital Sadonna’s injuries aren’t life-threatening, but they’re keeping her for a couple of days. She got punched in the chest pretty hard, possibly with something more solid than a fist. Last thing the doctors want is Archie on their asses if she develops heart problems because they’ve missed something.”
“Archie’s probably lost his mind. I touched base with Rook to make sure he’s still at the house and not at the hospital. I’d rather he stay behind a wall of bodyguards and security alarms than go traipsing off to sit in a hospital room. He gave me a tentative… sure, okay. I threatened to sic Manny on him. Hopefully he listens.” Dante stared at the forensic team working over the mansion’s kitchen. “Between Vicks and the note to Rook and Margaret disappearing, none of this adds up. Why take her and not ask for ransom? Unless he needs her dead for some reason, but if he’s going to attack Sadonna, why leave her alive when he’s killed everyone else?”
“Probably because we showed up. There’s surveillance cameras at the gate and screens feeding live into the kitchen. I think us arriving and ringing the intercom scared the guy off.” Hank chewed on his lower lip. “Could have been he got Margaret into the car and was trying to subdue Sadonna but we interrupted him. She was fighting him off pretty fiercely from the looks of it. IT guys are going to pull the tapes so we can maybe catch a break. There’s eyes on the driveway too. We could have a good shot of the car’s license plate or even our perp. What do you think? You saw him. Could he have gotten Margaret into the coupe?”
“Guy I saw was pretty slender, a lot like Rook described as the intruder at Harold’s house. Vicks was a big guy. He’d have to be taken by surprise or… been incapacitated. The rest of them would be easier to take down. Harold wasn’t in good shape, Martinez was slight, and Margaret is bony, more angles than muscle. Vicks would have been a hell of a lot harder.” Surveying the damage scattered about the front rooms, Dante frowned. “Sadonna surprised him. He didn’t have time to take her out like he did Vicks, and he couldn’t overpower her. Or at least not easily.”
“Tox hasn’t come back from Vicks yet. Could have been drugged. We’re assuming the kill site was the sister’s apartment from splatter and just how hard it would have been to drag Vicks in there.” Hank moved out of the way when an attendant tried to slip past him. “Cranston asked if we needed her here, but I told her not to head up. She’s got a lead on the Natterlys. Parents owned a house out in Santa Monica. When they died, about fifteen years ago, the brothers inherited, and it was rented out up until about two months ago when the tenants left.”
“Two months is a long time to leave a house empty. Especially in Santa Monica. Rents out there are crazy. Even if they owned it free and clear, it’ll bring in enough income to pay property taxes and maintenance.” Dante whistled under his breath. “They’re rich enough to let it sit?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, Montoya. Might be too late for Cranston to get anything done tonight, but tomorrow’s good for that.” Camden cocked his head, turning when one of the techs called his name. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Got the video transferred over, Detectives. Looks like we’ve got about an hour of activity, but it’ll take us a while to go through it, and I don’t know what we’ve got. It’s pretty fried.” The tech’s frown crinkled his bald head, forming ridges around his brows and ears. “Problem is, someone tried like hell to erase it. Took me a bit to recover it from the drives, but I got some files. Give me a couple of hours and I can probably get you a face. Maybe even a plate off the car.”
“That’s really what we need. A plate.” Montoya patted Camden on the shoulder. “Especially since you lost the car.”
“Dude, garbage truck cut right in front of me. You should see the car. If that damned beater that asshole drove didn’t wipe out the front end, the sanitation scow took care of the rest of it.” Hank shoved at him lightly. “If we’re lucky we can make it home before—hold on, my phone. Why the hell do they call me and not you?”
“’Cause you’re the ranking detective.” Dante grinned.
“By like six months. Hold on, it’s the hospital. I think it’s O’Byrne calling to chew me out. Woman’s got informants, I swear to God.” Hank held the phone up to his ear. “Yeah? Camden here.”
He left Hank to the call, especially when it sounded like he’d been right and it was O’Byrne calling to catch up with the case. They’d cleared the front rooms out, working methodically through the connected spaces and gathering what little evidence they could. Upstairs was still off-limits, although there hadn’t been any blood splatter or even evidence of a gunshot, but considering the house had about a million bedrooms, the lab techs hadn’t processed everything they’d cordoned off for testing. There wasn’t much chance for fingerprints, but Dante held out hope, especially on the knife he’d spotted in the patio furniture.
There was still a feeling of discomfort along his spine, despite all of the time he’d spent in Archie’s house, surrounded by furniture and objects well outside of his income. Margaret’s house was a tasteful display of antiques and delicate chairs stacked with throw pillows, too fragile-looking for Dante to trust under him despite Hank testing one. Everything gleamed, polished to a sheen and dusted ruthlessly, daring a speck of dust to settle anywhere near a flat surface. Now a few of the sparkling surfaces were powder-speckled from the techs lifting latent prints as best they could, considering the heavily carved pieces’ turns and curves.
A baby grand piano ate up a good corner of the study off the foyer, and Dante wandered over, half listening to Hank’s side of the conversation with O’Byrne. The framed photos on the piano’s top were typical shots, poised family pairings of children and people Dante only half recognized. There were very few candid photos in the identical heavy silver frames arranged in a curved wave to follow the piano’s lines, but Dante could see a few. Picking up a shot of Margaret and Harold, he studied their fixed half smiles, clearly uncomfortably captured on camera during what looked like a child’s birthday party. There were no pictures of Margaret’s ex-husband, Archie’s son, but that wasn’t a surprise, judging from the bitter, sniping comments Margaret made about the man after one too many glasses of wine.
Unsurprisingly, there were no photos of Sadonna.
“But she let you stay here with her,” he muttered to himself. “Margaret hated you but moved you in. Because of Harold or something else?”
He was about to turn away to pay more attention to Hank’s grumbling when something bright green caught his eye. At first thinking it was something reflected on one of the frames, Dante peered into the thick cluster of smaller frames in the middle of the spread, finding the shot that drew him in.
It was of Harold, taken someplace tropical and, from all accounts, after he’d been out in the sun for more than a few hours, because his shoulders were as bright pink as the umbrella-and-pineapple garnished drink he held in his hand. The verdant gleam didn’t come from the lush palms framing Harold. Instead, Dante was drawn to the man standing next to Harold, his arm slung around the man’s tender-looking shoulders.
He was young, much younger than Harold, and his eyes were shiny, an intense green too vivid to be real. Classically handsome, he had gold-streaked blond hair long enough to brush his shoulders, his smile wide and sensual with promise. Dressed in a T-shirt with a logo Dante’d seen more times than he could count, the younger man looked happy and way too familiar.
“Shit, I know him. And not just because he’s wearing a Potter’s Field shirt. I’v
e seen this guy.” Fumbling with his phone, Dante dragged up the particulars of the case, rifling through the photos until he found the one he wanted. Turning around, he was surprised to find Hank about a foot away, tucking his phone into his jacket, a storm brewing on his freckled face. “Hey, I found something solid connecting the auction house with this damned case. Look. See this guy? With Harold? That’s Jeremy Natterly. With green contacts, just like the kind they discovered on Harold’s body.”
“Well, that’s good damned news, because we also fucking lost something.” Hank’s cheeks flushed, a sure sign of his rising temper. “Sadonna’s not at the hospital. ER docs patched her up and put her in a private room, but when O’Byrne got it into her head to hobble over to talk to her, she was gone.”
“Gone… how?” Dante’s thoughts grabbed at the possibilities. “Someone take her? She walked out? What? She didn’t have any clothes on her. She left here in a robe covered in blood.”
“That is another question to add to the pile we’ve got building up, because I don’t know, partner,” Hank replied. “But what I do know is she’s to the wind, and with her goes any chance we might have of finding out who the hell tried to kill her and what the heck happened to Margaret Martin.”
Sixteen
THE JAB along his side woke Rook up. That and the cold draft down his spine. As comfortable as the bed was, he missed his apartment… their apartment. He missed his own bed and the ambient light Hollywood slipped into the loft when he’d neglected to draw all of the blackout curtains closed. There was too much quiet in the hills, and he discovered he hated the silence of the rich, and more importantly, he couldn’t find the damned clock in the room to tell the time. All he knew was it was late—or very early in the morning—and Dante was not in their warm bed.