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“No, the license plate light was out-deliberately, I’m sure.”
“Plain vanilla sedan,” the man said. “I didn’t even get a make.”
“Maybe we’ve scared him off for the night,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s walk the rest of the perimeter.”
They trudged on, lighting their way with the flashlights. As they were passing a point behind the guesthouse, the security man said, “Wait.” He pointed his flashlight at the top of the fence and spotlighted something hanging on one of the sharp spires that rose from the wrought iron barrier. “There.” He parted the hedge, pulled himself up on a crossbar, and retrieved the object. “Piece of blue cloth,” the man said, turning his light on it.
“Cotton,” Stone said. “Maybe from a shirttail.” Then, from behind them a shot fractured the silence. “Come on!” Stone said, drawing the pistol from his belt.
They both ran, flat out, toward the house. Stone opened the rear door and started to run down the central hallway. Then they saw a man crumpled on the floor. The other security man stepped from the living room into the hallway, weapon drawn.
“I hit him,” he said, keeping his gun on the inert figure. The first security man bent down, turned the man over, and kicked away a silenced, small-caliber pistol. He felt for a pulse at the neck. “Nothing,” he said. “He’s dead.”
The man was mid-thirties, dark hair, dressed in a tail-out dark shirt, jeans, and sneakers. The bullet had exited his chest near the heart.
Stone bent and found where his shirttail was torn, then went through the man’s pockets. “Nothing,” he said, “absolutely nothing-not a cent, not a wallet, nothing.”
“Get the fingerprint scanner from my car,” one security man said to the other. “We’ll get his prints before the cops get here. Then you can call nine-one-one.”
Arrington came out of a door across the hall and stopped.
“Oh, my God,” she said.
Stone led her back to her bedroom. “Everything’s all right,” he said. “You’re perfectly safe.”
“I wasn’t for a while, though, was I?” she asked.
Stone didn’t answer, just hugged her.
31
Stone was standing in the driveway when the police cars-three of them, one unmarked-pulled up and stopped. He flashed his badge: “NYPD, retired,” he said. “Please turn off the flashing lights; let’s not disturb the neighbors any more than necessary.”
Dino came walking up the driveway, followed by another man. He introduced Sergeant Rivera to Stone, and Stone introduced them to the lead detective.
“We’ve got a man down in the central hall of the house,” he said to the detective. “One gunshot wound to the back, exiting the chest, DOA. We have security people here to prevent such a thing, but we found where he came over the rear fence, leaving this.” He handed the scrap of blue cloth to the detective. “You’ll see where it came from his shirt. We kicked his gun to one side when we turned him over to see how badly he was hurt, but nobody has touched it since.”
“Motive?” the detective asked.
“Uncertain,” Stone said. “Maybe robbery, maybe something to do with a business deal. This is the home of the late Vance Calder; his widow is in the house, but she saw nothing.”
The detective nodded. “I’ll need to talk to her.”
Stone went and brought Arrington out and introduced them. Then he sat and listened as she was interviewed. When they were done, he took her to her room. “You get some sleep,” he said, kissing her.
Somebody from the medical examiner’s office showed up, followed by two EMTs in an ambulance. They began to do their work.
Eventually, the ME joined Stone and the detective. “Deceased, probably instantly; gunshot wound, through-and-through, fresh corpse, been dead less than an hour.”
“I’ll need the gun that fired the shot,” the detective said, and Mike’s security man handed it over, along with his gun permit and a business card. The detective made some notes, then returned the permit to him. “Remain available,” the detective said, and the man nodded.
Mike Freeman turned up shortly. “I’m sorry I was so long; I was having dinner in Malibu,” he said.
Stone silently wondered where in Malibu.
“With Charlene,” Mike said.
Stone nodded and brought him up to date. “Your people did well,” he said, “but I didn’t. I took Arrington to dinner, and a car followed us, but I thought it was your people. Turned out, I was wrong.”
