Page 45 of In the Dead of Night

“This way.” He led them down a flagstone path toward the side of the mansion where a fountain spewed water high into the air and oleander bloomed in profusion. At a side door, Lewinski turned to Nick. “Raise your arms. Gotta pat you down.”

Nick arched a brow, but did as he was told. “Does Mr. Stocker subject all his visitors to a frisk?”

“Just the ones he doesn’t know.”

The man turned to Sara. Her heart began to pound. She didn’t want to blow this, but she didn’t want him to touch her.

“Take off your jacket and give him your bag,” Nick said to her as if reading her mind. He took her purse and handed it to Lewinski. “She’s clean,” he said.

Frowning, Lewinski rummaged through the bag, even digging into the zipper pockets on the inside.

When he was finished, Sara held up her jacket. “I’m not armed,” she said.

Scowling, Lewinski took the jacket and quickly searched the pockets. Evidently convinced the pair were unarmed, he opened the beveled-glass door and ushered them inside.

“This way.”

He led them through a wide foyer adorned with fresh-cut flowers, a chandelier the size of a small car and marble-tiled floors as shiny as wet glass. From there they proceeded down a narrow hall with tall ceilings and arched doorways. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed photos of Hollywood celebrities. Sara took in a black-and-white shot of a handsome man in a white tux embracing a youthful Marilyn Monroe. James Garner in a cowboy hat and boots astride a beautiful spotted horse. Sara recognized Sharon Tate. Liza Minelli. There were dozens of other Hollywood big shots she didn’t recognize.

Then they were standing in a huge room paneled in dark wood. Two walls were comprised of books. A hearth dominated the third wall. The west wall was constructed totally of mullioned-glass windows and a series of paneled French doors that opened to a patio that offered a stunning view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.

A woman in a designer suit with tastefully coiffed silver hair stood at the window like some elegant sentinel. Sara guessed her to be well into her seventies, but she had a powerful presence. Dark, all-seeing eyes swept from Nick to Sara and then back to Nick.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked in a deep and cultured voice.

Nick stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Tyson, Chief of Police up in Cape Darkwood.”

An emotion Sara didn’t quite recognize flashed in the woman’s eyes as she accepted his hand. “Are you any relation to Nicholas Tyson, the true-crime writer?”

“He was my father.”

“You look very much like him.” A smile overtook her face, then she turned her attention to Sara. “And you?”

“I’m Sara Douglas.” She shook the woman’s hand, taking in the firm grip and cool, thin skin.

“My God, you’re the picture of Alex.”

“You knew my parents?”

“Everyone knows everyone in Hollywood, darling.” The woman lifted an elegant shoulder. “We ran in the same circles.”

“You must be Channing Stocker,” Nick ventured.

She gave them a regal smile. “May I ask what brings you all the way from Cape Darkwood?”

“We’d like to ask Mr. Stocker some questions,” Sara said.

The woman’s attention snapped to Sara. “What kind of questions?”

“About something that happened twenty years ago,” Nick put in.

Channing’s eyes narrowed. “Are you talking about the murder-suicide at the Douglas mansion?”

“Is Mr. Stocker available?” Nick asked.

The woman studied them for so long that Sara thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she turned with the grace of a dramatic actor and swept to the French doors and pulled them open. “I’m not sure how much help he’ll be. You see, he had a second stroke last month.”

Sara stared at the frail old man sitting in the wheelchair. His spine curved so that his chin was nearly to his chest. A thin line of drool dribbled onto his silk smoking jacket. With the poise of a highly paid model, Channing strode to his chair, bent to blot the saliva, then positioned herself behind the chair and pushed him into the room.