“Oh, give me a break, shorty,” I start, but Andrea wisely takes over, intervening with a more peaceable approach.
“Sam, if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather tag along. I mean, I’m sure the security people have gone over the house, but I just feel more secure out here with you. Maybe it’s a safety in numbers thing, but after all that’s happened, I just don’t want to be alone.”
You know, I have to admire a woman who can wrap a man around her little finger and bend him to her will so efficiently and with such an apparent economy of effort. Sam melts, as does Jeremy, and Scott—well, who could tell with him, but he isn’t arguing with us anymore. I make a mental note. Next time I will bait my trap with honey.
We approach the putting green that lies off to the right, behind the guest house, and stop when Scott holds both arms out like a crossing guard. In front of us two men stand under brilliant white spotlights, meticulously combing the emerald-green turf with a metal detector.
When they see Scott, they straighten, mark the area with a small orange cone and cross the green to debrief.
“It’s not a very sophisticated device,” a short, grey-haired man offers. “But it’ll do the job. I’m thinking former military. Actually, anybody who knows where to look on the Internet could’ve built it. There are four of them scattered around this hole. The others are clear, but we’re going to go over them again just to be absolutely certain.”
Scott’s lips form a thin, angry line and I wonder if he’s thinking like I am, that Dave has returned to have his vengeance on Jeremy.
While the men examine the small explosives, I begin walking around the area, skirting the green itself, trying to determine how the intruder got past the security guards and into a fairly open and well-guarded part of Jeremy’s home.
The spotlights illuminate the grass, highlighting the bumps and textures in the sod with eerie shadows and rough definition. Footprints rim the green and I examine them casually, trying not to appear too interested as I follow one set away from the others. I walk for about twenty feet, to the edge of the spotlight’s circle of light, and stop, puzzled. The footsteps abruptly stop and the grass is unbent by any sign of a waiting golf cart or means of transportation. It is as if the intruder simply vanished into thin air.
I squat down beside the last set of footprints and carefully study the area, drawn by a thin line of bare soil that cuts into the surrounding sod. A two-foot square is clearly visible when I look closely.
“Lose something?” Sam stands over me, blocking out my light. I ignore the distain in his voice and answer the question.
“No, I think I’ve found something. Step out of my light and look at this.”
He squats beside me and follows the outline of the square as I point it out to him.
“Footprints lead away from the putting green, see?” I point to the bent blades of grass clearly illuminated by the spotlight’s slanted illumination. “And they end here. They just disappear, so I knelt down to try and see if there were any vehicle tracks or something to explain why they just end, and voilà!”
“No, shit, princess!” Sam says with a soft whistle. “I think you might’ve found something.” He tugs at a piece of sod, and with a soft whoosh of air it lifts away, revealing a wooden trapdoor and a rusted metal pull.
A whiff of musty earth and salt air assails us and I begin to cough. Sam sniffs, looks beyond us to the cliffs that overlook the ocean and nods to himself.
“It’s a tunnel. That’s how our visitor’s been getting onto the grounds. Hey, Scott, come take a look at this!” Sam calls. “Good work for a debutante,” he says before Scott and the others can reach us.
But this is also his way of dismissing me. When Scott and the others arrive, I am shouldered aside as the men take over. Scott takes a flashlight from one of his men, makes a show of checking the gun inside the pancake holster he wears strapped to his waistband and cautiously begins his descent down a very ancient, wooden ladder into the tunnel.
“I’ve got the walkie,” Scott says to the two guards. “If I get into trouble, I’ll call.”
They nod, grim-faced, and Jeremy says, “Be careful!” Andrea rubs her hands over her bare arms, shivering in the chilly night air. I step up beside her and watch Scott disappear below ground before speaking to her.
“Let’s go back to the cottage and find warmer clothes,” I say. “I think they’ll be fine without us for a little while.”
We walk the short distance back to my cottage in silence. Once inside though, Andrea lets loose. “You know what you found, don’t you?” she asks, her face lit up with an excited glow that I hadn’t noticed outside.
“Yeah, a tunnel.” I am frankly more interested in kicking off my high heels and stepping out of my gown than I am in speculating on the obvious.
Andrea nods. “Yes, of course it’s a tunnel, but do you know why it’s there, or how it probably came to be on this estate?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer her. “This estate was built right before prohibition. I know this because I’m the one who found the house for Jeremy. It belonged to a mobster who worked in Tony Cornero’s rum-running operation. They smuggled liquor in from Canada in motorboats. I bet the tunnels were built then.”
“Andrea, how do you know all this?”
She laughs softly. “I suppose I’m the eternal student,” she says. “I just like to know things. I find California history to be fascinating.”
I look out the kitchen window and see that Scott has returned from his journey into the tunnel and is standing surrounded by the others, shaking his head and swiping dirt off the shoulders of his tuxedo. As I figured, he’s come back empty-handed.
Sam and Jeremy turn away from the tunnel opening and begin walking back toward the house as Andrea joins me to watch. She leans forward over my shoulder, raps sharply on the windowpane and motions them toward the guest cottage.
Jeremy is in the middle of pouring a second shot of tequila when Mark arrives with Marlena. It is almost 3:00 a.m. and Mark looks exhausted.
“Scott said to tell you the police are on their way back out,” he tells us.
“I’m going back out to see what Detective Saunders will tell me,” Sam says. His voice is husky with fatigue and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth have deepened with the tension of the night’s events.
“Scott’s with them, Sam,” Jeremy says. “Why don’t you call it a night?”
“I want to hear what they’ve found for myself,” Sam answers. He doesn’t need to tell any of us that he no longer trusts Scott to do his job. “The bomb squad’s cleared the main house. It’s safe to go back there. I figure everyone’s pretty tired. Maybe you should all try and get some rest. I think we’ll be pretty busy with the police investigation by morning.”
Andrea and Mark are the first to leave, followed by Jeremy who trails behind them with tequila bottle in hand, humming nonchalantly under his breath.
“I don’t buy that he’s not scared to death,” I say, watching Sam for his reaction. “He’s a good actor, but I’ve noticed he hasn’t stopped drinking since we got in the Hummer to leave L.A.”
Sam doesn’t answer this directly. “Your ear is bleeding,” he says softly. “Stand still.” With a practiced touch, he wipes the blood away from my earlobe, applying pressure to staunch the bleeding.
“Thank you.”
Marlena sniffs Sam’s hand, ever the curious ferret, and doesn’t take a chunk out of his ministering fingers. I consider this a minor miracle and am even further amazed when she decides three’s company and this new activity is boring. She leaps from my neck to Sam’s shoulder and down onto the ground to seek more interesting opportunities, leaving me to stand there with the cowboy ministering to my wounded ear.
I am aware that every nerve ending in my body has suddenly gone on full alert. I feel him behind me, smell the scent peculiar to him and feel the heat that seems to radiate from his body into mine. It makes me jerk away abruptly, uncomfortable with my feelings
and uncertain of how to handle them.
“I’d better get back out there,” Sam says, turning toward the door with an abrupt spin that lets me know he’s felt what I feel and is shoving it aside, just as I am. We have more important matters to take care of first.
“I’m coming with you.” I grab my black cashmere Armani sweater from the back of an armchair and hurry to catch up.
“No.” But it’s a half-hearted denial. Maybe it’s the determined look he sees on my face, or the fact that he’s tired and arguing with me is pointless that makes him give a resigned shrug of his shoulders and start walking again. It doesn’t matter. He couldn’t stop me. I have to know who’s trying to kill Jeremy Reins and not just because I’m a Gotham Rose working her first mission. It’s personal now. My best friend is lying in a hospital.
Chapter 13
A thin gray shaft of light illuminates my bedroom window, but that is not what has awakened me. Marlena has lost her mind, at least that’s what I think. It’s to be expected. She spent the entire day and most of the night in her crate in Jeremy’s penthouse condo. She’s witnessed a break-in and hidden to avoid injury or perhaps death. Why should I be surprised to see her running along the windowsill beside my bed, chattering and scratching at the glass? It’s not as if she can talk and get the trauma out of her system.
“Come here, baby,” I moan, patting the pillow beside mine. “Tell Mommy.”
I am impossibly tired. I raise my head to look at the clock and shudder when I realize I’ve only been asleep for a few hours. Marlena ignores my request and scratches again at the window, hissing and emitting a low growling sound I’ve never heard from her before. I may be exhausted, but I am also Marlena’s mother and I know something is wrong now.
“What is it, baby?”
I walk on my knees across the bed to the window and cup my hands around my face to peer out into the darkness. Marlena jumps on top of my head and squeals. Orange flames lick at the far wall of the main house. Thick white smoke billows up into the sky. I hear sirens approaching in the distance and can make out figures running across the lawn.
I stare horrified at the sight before me and almost ignore a flicker of movement that just registers in my peripheral vision. A figure darts out from the pool house and moves to the shelter of a utility shed just yards from the guest house back patio. Someone is outside and from his crouching run, I can tell he doesn’t belong on the estate.
I pick up the phone, punch in the main house number and hang up after only two rings. Everyone is already outside.
Marlena watches me struggle into jeans and throw on a T-shirt in the darkness. I don’t bother with shoes. There isn’t time.
For a moment I just stand there, trying to decide whether to run up to the house and signal the security people and police or try and follow the guy myself, hoping to at least give the police a description of the arsonist.
I hear a strange sound, like water hitting bricks, a splashing sound that seems to be coming from the right side of the guest cottage. A horrible thought suddenly occurs to me. What if he’s pouring gasoline around the perimeter of my quarters, in preparation for torching it? I can’t let him do this! Marlena’s inside.
What’re you gonna do, debutante, ask him how it makeshim feel? You’re a shrink-in-training, not a superhero! My inner voice does wonders for my confidence. I’m going to have to take this up with my own therapist when I get back to New York, but not now!
I look around for something to use for a weapon, but of course, no one’s left Mace or a gun lying out and there are no rocks. I slip quickly around the far side of the house and see an empty wine bottle sitting on the table along with two empty wineglasses. Bingo.
I grab it and ease back around the front of the cottage, listening and hoping to pinpoint my quarry’s location. The splashing has stopped, replaced by something that sounds like a soft scratching. I have to make my move before the guy throws a lit match and blows the bungalow up.
I take a deep breath, sidle up to the corner and quickly peer around. I can’t be seeing what I’m seeing. Dave stands with his back to me, apparently struggling to get something out of his pocket. A lighter or matches, I’m guessing. For a second I hesitate, uncertain. I don’t even have any upper body strength. I could kick myself for not working out! But when I think of Marlena, trapped inside what may become an inferno, my motherly instincts take over and I am flying the length of the cottage, bottle raised high in the air.
I bring the green glass down hard on top of burly Dave’s naked skull. For a terrible moment absolutely nothing happens. The bottle doesn’t break and Dave doesn’t drop like a rock. This is totally not like the movies, but I don’t wait around, either. I go right for the instant replay, lifting my weapon with both hands and swinging it like a baseball bat this time, high and inside the strike zone.
The bottle connects with the side of Dave’s head and makes a sickening crunch that turns my stomach. Dave sways, spins around on his heels and drops to the ground with a soft moan. It is then that I see what Dave had been trying to accomplish. His fly is half-open and the zipper is stuck on the fabric of his tidy-whities. Dave had been relieving himself against the wall of the cottage.
I look around, mainly from habit, and feel relieved that this will be one undocumented photo opportunity. I kneel beside my victim, grip his wrist and feel for a pulse, afraid that I may have unwittingly killed him. When I see the deep rise and fall of his chest, I drop the arm, relieved, and try to figure out what my next step should be.
Tie him up! Right. Tie him up. I scramble to my feet, run inside the bungalow and root furiously though my Gucci accessory bag until I produce two Fendi scarves and one Dior. Dave is still sleeping peacefully when I return and continues to breathe deeply even when I sit on his stocky back to get a better grip on his arms. He is hogtied, hand and foot, with beautiful silk scarves, and it only takes me five minutes to do it.
I stand up and survey my handiwork, proud of myself for making such short work of an obviously violent and dangerous man. Of course, he doesn’t look particularly dangerous or violent at the moment, but that may have some thing to do with the brightly colored scarves.
I nudge him with my toe and when he doesn’t move, decide it’s all right to leave him long enough to summon help. I run across the lawn, skirting the pool area and head for the small group of people assembled by the stables, watching the firefighters put out the blaze that could have reduced Jeremy’s palatial home to ash and cinder had it gone undiscovered.
Scott is standing beside one of the firefighters, his face and body covered in grime and soot. He is talking into a walkie when I arrive, distracted and busy issuing orders to whoever he has listening at the other end, but Sam sees me running and moves out from the crowd to meet me.
“Oh, God, I was on my way to check on you,” he says. “But I needed to make sure everyone was out of the house. I couldn’t find Andrea.” For the first time since I’ve known him, Sam appears rattled. “Did the sirens wake you up?”
“No I think the arsonist did. Marlena was scratching at the window and just going crazy, so I looked outside and saw the house was on fire. Then I saw someone run out from behind the pool area and thought maybe it was the fire-setter.”
“You didn’t happen to get a good look at him, did you?” He asks the question, but is so sure he knows the answer that he doesn’t even wait to hear it, just turns his head to watch the fire and only half listens to my response.
“Oh, better than that—I actually caught him, knocked him unconscious and tied him up with three of my very best silk scarves. I personally like Dave in the pink Fendi, but then we all know how partial I am to pink.”
“Oh, well, I suppose it was dark…”
“Porsche, what did you just say?” Andrea appears at my side, tugging Mark along with her. “Did you say Dave did this and you like him best in pink? I thought he was in jail.”
Finally. It takes another woman to actually pay attention.
“Yes, I thought so, too, but there he was. And when I came up behind him I thought he was pouring accelerant around the guest cottage. I knew I had to do something, so I grabbed an empty bottle of pinot grigio and hit him over the head. There wasn’t anything else to tie him up with but three of my scarves. I don’t know for certain that he started the fire….”
Now Sam’s on full alert. “Did you say Dave was pouring accelerant around the cottage?”
I shake my head, frowning. “No, I thought he was pouring accelerant around the bungalow. Actually, he was peeing and when his zipper got stuck, I bashed him over the head. He’s tied up behind the guest house.”
Andrea, Mark, Sam and two firemen are all staring at me, open-mouthed, eyes wide, clearly not sure they should believe what I’m telling them, but Sam is the first to break away and summon Scott and a nearby police officer. I can see Scott looking at me, then back at Sam, and know he’s having a hard time believing I could take down a seasoned security professional, but something apparently makes them decide to check out my story. They hop in a golf cart and go flying across the yard toward the cottage, leaving me to follow on foot. By the time I arrive, the cop and Sam are both trying to pull Scott off his helpless ex-boyfriend.
“Why?” Scott yells. “Why the fuck did you do that? You could’ve killed me, man! And the meds on the putting green, what in the hell were you thinking? You’re gonna kill me over this stupid shit?”
Dave is struggling and somewhat disoriented, but he manages to gasp out a barely intelligible defense.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I was here, but I wouldn’t do that to you, I swear to God! I posted bail and I wanted to talk to you, so I was waiting for you to come back to your quarters. You never came and then there was this explosion and I saw somebody running. It wasn’t me!”
“Dave,” Scott roars, losing complete control, “you were a fucking munitions expert in the army. What do you mean, you didn’t do this? Be a man. At least admit what you did to my face.”
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