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Chapter Three
Home sweet home.
Jason stuck his key in the side door lock of the little blue house. Summer sounds drifted from the canal behind the house: the quacking of ducks, the splash and paddle of little boats, laughter. Warmth radiated from the brick walkway, and the sweet honey smell of the bougainvillea covering the pergola filled the air.
He was very glad to be home, but it had been a good trip. The Netherlands—Delft, in particular—had been beautiful, enchanting. Like Venice, Delft was bordered by canals, but unlike Venice, Delft was a city of ancient architecture, medieval gardens, and churches that actually felt hallowed. Anyway, he didn’t mind travel—it was part of the job—but there was something to be said for home and hearth and a really good mattress.
He’d been living in the quirky but charming 1924 bungalow on Carroll Canal for just about two years. It was his first real home, and he loved everything about it: the blue shake siding, angled rooms, sloping ceilings, all the windows offering picturesque views of the canal, and the small but luxurious garden that led right down to the water. A wall of bamboo and tropical banana palms created a tall hedge, though it was only useful from the ground up. The new multistory homes towering on either side of the cottage had a perfect view right into Jason’s backyard.
He turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and jumped back as someone charged around the corner of the house, shouting, “You! Halt!”
A stocky middle-aged man in a blue security-guard uniform pointed a semiautomatic at Jason’s chest.
“Hands up!”
Jason let go of his suitcase handle, raised his hands, and, over the hop, skip, and jump of his heart, demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
The security guard’s beady gaze was veering from Jason’s suitcase to his expression and back again. “You’re Jason? Let’s see some ID.”
“Are you kidding me? Who are you?”
“ID. Slowly.”
Swearing quietly, Jason reached into his jeans pocket and slowly withdrew his passport. He flipped it open, held it up.
The guard studied it, nodded at last, holstered his weapon, and said, “Sorry about that, Jason. I didn’t recognize you with the beard. We weren’t expecting you back until tonight.”
Jason shoved his passport in his pocket. “We? Who’s we? Who are you?”
“Horace Pratt. Your family hired me to watch this property.”
“You’re fired.”
Horace looked slightly—only slightly—apologetic. “The thing is, you’re not my employer. You can’t actually fire m—”
“Get off my property.”
Once again, Horace seemed mildly apologetic and mostly unfazed. “Okay. You’re upset. But you might want to phone Mrs. Baldwin.”
Mrs. Baldwin, AKA Charlotte, was Jason’s eldest sister.
“You’re damned right I’m phoning her. Get your gear together.”
Jason retrieved his suitcase, lifted it over the doorstop, and slammed shut the kitchen door. Through the kitchen window he watched Horace turn and disappear around the back of the house.
Jason expelled an exasperated breath and phoned Charlotte at Le Cottage Bleu, the vintage home boutique shop she owned.
Charlotte greeted him with a cheery, “Hey there! How was your trip? Did you go to a lot of museums?”
“Fine. Yes. Did you hire a security guard to watch my house?”
“Oh good, you’ve met Horace.”
“Not good. Horace pulled his weapon on me. I don’t like people who point pistols at me.”
“Oh dear. Of course not,” Charlotte soothed. “No one does. But now that Horace knows you, it won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t. Because I’ve fired him.”
This seemed to amuse his sister mightily. “You can’t fire him. You didn’t hire him.”
“I can sure as hell forbid him access to my property!”
She sighed. “Yes, you can, and it will make his job more difficult.”
Jason struggled for patience. He knew she meant well. They all—his family—meant well. “Charlie, I don’t want or need a bodyguard—”
“He’s not. He’s a security guard.”
“I don’t want or need a security guard! For God’s sake. I’m an FBI agent. This is ridiculous!”
“Listen, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I didn’t say I was embarrassed. I said—”
“I talked it over with Daddy, and we’re agreed that having someone there to keep an eye on the house is the ideal solution. It’ll give you a little peace of mind. And it’ll give us a little peace of mind.”
“I appreciate your concern, but no. No.” Phone balanced precariously between cheek and shoulder, he unzipped his suitcase and began pulling clothes out to do his laundry. He had an appointment with former senator Francis Ono in a couple of hours, after which he was supposed to take up residence in Georgette Ono’s former apartment on Wilshire Blvd. and prepare for Monday’s classes.
It was a little over a week since his meeting with the chief of the Major Theft Unit of the Criminal Investigative Division, and her warning not to screw up again was still ringing in his ears.
Meanwhile Charlotte was still coaxing and cajoling. “Anyway, it’s not forever. Just until this situation with the mad doctor is resolved. You have to be able to relax sometimes.”
“I was perfectly relaxed until your rent-a-cop pulled a gun on me.”
Charlotte said sweetly, “You don’t sound very relaxed.”
