Page 68 of Lone Wolf

Dirt sidewalks, white rail fences hemming in every last estate, no streetlights. The houses varied from oversize ranch homes to palatial modern farmhouses. Charmingly hokey street signs, capped with a Disneyesque logo of a rider atop a horse, pointed the way.

As he moved farther into the community, it rippled upward into hills and canyons, houses rimming the streets below and twinkling like castles above. Unwilling to forgo the Third Commandment after his adventures with the cane-wielding granny, Evan mapped everything as he drove in. A horse with a pale white face like a sun-bleached skull swung a morbid stare to follow Evan’s car as it drifted past.

The same country fence adorned the perimeter of Allman’s house, but a few feet behind it, sheer metal plates rose like castle walls, a nearly insurmountable security impediment. Rounded steel pipe topped the unbroken barrier, ensuring that grappling hooks would find no purchase. An imposing solid gate with a brown moss patina blocked the driveway and any view of the house. On an uplit sign sporting the same horse-and-rider logo, the address was lettered along with the house’s name: HOME, SWEET HOME.

Evan parked the Dodge Neon, climbed out, and pressed the button on the call box. “Dr. Stanley Leigh to see Mr. Allman.”

A voice crackled out: “Are you going to walk up or drive up?”

The cameras were well hidden. “You tell me.”

“It’s a bit of a long drive.” Attitude behind the words.

“Thank you,” Evan said, in his best cooperative-professor voice, and retreated to his car. He wore a rumpled suit and a stupid goddamned tie. He required the tie because it fit the costume and had the facial-recognition-thwarting properties of the shirts he generally wore. But he hated it. If his line of work had taught him anything, it was to never intentionally put a noose around his neck. At least he’d adorned it with a pin that he could ram through an eyehole should the opportunity beckon.

When he pulled forward, the gate eased silently aside, revealing a narrow inclined drive lined with funereal cypresses.

He drove up. And up and up.

Allman’s house was positioned on a ridge with views on either side. Evan parked and got out. The prime location and panorama cut some of Allman’s privacy. Best spots for visibility were a neighboring house to the east, a red barn halfway down the hill, and another house across the canyon with a back deck and an infinity pool.

Clouds boiled up over the opposing ridge, backlit and tumultuous. A scorched violet sangria sky breathed its last breaths. Nighttime had dusk in its teeth already, choking it out. There was electricity in the air, and the sky was vast and dangerous, and somewhere far to the west over the Malibu hills, the tide thrashed against the coast. Alone for a moment on this spot, Evan had the feeling of standing on the planet itself.

Battered soft briefcase in hand, he crossed to a surprisingly run-down house that had no discernible style. A bit of stucco, a bit of decorative stone, the front gardens routed by gophers. A six-foot trench to the side of the porch spoke to halted construction, a decaying cast-iron sewer pipe exposed below. The welcome mat, a triumph of innovation, read WELCOME.

Before he could ring, the door was opened by a well-built man who was insufferably New England handsome. A smugness in the blue eyes, a right-angle jaw, and a chin dimple of Photoshop perfection. High forehead, lanky hair that flopped just so. A broad chest and tapered lats spoke to gym time tailored to appearance. He wore a fucking cardigan.

“My name is Mr. Biltmore,” he said, stepping aside so Evan could enter the dimly lit foyer. “I manage Mr. Allman’s affairs at the house. But I’m more than some personal aide. I have a law degree from Georgetown and I worked extremely closely with him at Solventry helping launch several new divisions and making a half dozen acquisitions. He needs me here now and I look after him and I’m quite protective of him.”

Evan appreciated Biltmore’s willingness to put his insecurities on such clear display. The guy was up in Evan’s space, not enough to be overtly threatening but enough to make the point. He was a good four inches taller than Evan and took up room. Seemed like the toughest kid on his football team, which was plenty tough if you were playing football at a prep school in Connecticut.

Evan tried to think of what a Harvard professor would say. Probably not: How very nice for you. So he nodded.

Mail overflowed on a chipped side table, and kicked-off sneakers were mounded mulch-like in one corner. In an enclave off the foyer, a security screen was on display along with a barstool. The vinyl seat bore an ass impression where no doubt Mr. Biltmore had perched moments before, studying the footage and stroking his chin dimple. Evan considered the arrogance of Allman to put an executive type in charge of security.

Biltmore said, “It’s my understanding that you’re interviewing Mr. Allman but will keep all matters anonymous and that you will quote him neither by name nor by station.”

“Nor by anything else that will be identifying,” Evan said, delighted at the chance to add his own “nor” to the exchange.

Mr. Biltmore produced an iPad Air, which he handed to Evan. “Then you should have no problem signing an NDA.”

Evan peered down at the dense legal text.

“Permit me to help you,” Mr. Biltmore said, scrolling for Evan through countless paragraphs. “Tap to initial here. And here. And here.”

Evan complied. “This’ll just be a general conversation. My past research deals with the correlation between Big Five personality traits and innovative performance. I’m now interested in the question of genius—how we define it, how we—”

“Here.” A throaty voice spoke from behind Evan. “I’m here.”

He turned.

Allman looked like the frog you’d kiss to get Biltmore.

A tall ovoid face with distinctive sides, like a softened shoe box. Mushy features, cheeks padded with fat, a sheen of sweat on a forehead squiggled with Charlie Brown lines. Above translucent amber rectangular full-rim glasses, bushy brows drew the focus, guarding heavy-lidded eyes that looked to be closed. It didn’t help that Allman held his gaze low as if observing a spot on Evan’s shirt. He wore a stretched polo faded to a sallow yellow and shapeless sweatpants, the old-fashioned kind with elastic at the waist and ankle cuffs. Chest hair bubbled through his shirt collar, and skin tags sprouted from his neck like ruffles on a bearded dragon. He smelled strongly; personal hygiene seemed not to be a priority.

“Mr. Allman,” Evan said.

Allman shuffled behind a dated pony wall made of decorative wood, and it took Evan a moment to realize that he was to follow him. Beyond the foyer was a capacious living room with rumpled couches and coffee tables positioned seemingly at random. Mugs and dishes rested on various cushions, not enough to constitute a full-blown mess but enough to put Evan’s OCD on notice. Myriad items were set out of place—a Blu-ray without a case, a tube of toothpaste near the television, a funeral pyre of recharged-too-many-times rechargable AA batteries languishing beside a smart remote. An uninhabited fish tank burbled listlessly, glass turned opaque with calcium and algae. It was hard to imagine why anyone with Allman’s net worth would choose to live like this.