“That’s it,” Dietrich said. From a distance the top level of the house looked like a midwest funeral home with a modest square exterior and a simple porte-cochère. As they got closer they saw that what appeared to be rough marble or stucco was actually formed cement with etched, parallel ridges—retro-brutalist, like college libraries and student centers from the early seventies. Softened somewhat by the blooms on the rose arbors around the windows, the basic structure and materials suggested a mausoleum or medium-security prison. They heard the gravel crunching under the wheels of their sedan as they drove up to the front of the house.
Dietrich led the way, his posture all boredom and nonchalance. Brighton stood at his side, with Tom and Diana in the rear. He pulled the steel handle for the bell and waited, his eyes on the red and yellow roses around the windows, his hand near the grip of his automatic.
After fifteen or twenty seconds the door opened. A young woman greeted them. She was wearing a white lab coat. Her eyes were silver blue, her hair a stark straw blonde that could have been mistaken for dyed were it not for her faint, nearly white eyebrows. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” the Chief said, showing her his badge. “My name is Dietrich. I’m from the Laguna Beach Police Department. This is one of my lieutenants, Bill Brighton, and these are consultants on a case, Mr. Deaton and Dr. Bennett. We’d like to speak with Mr. Alec.”
“Come in, please,” she said. She took them through the entryway which Hector had described and down a short flight of stairs to a semicircular sitting room. The front of the room was underground, the rear looking out over a garden with desert plants. A narrow stairway at the side of the window descended to the level below. In the center of the room was a curved leather couch. Except for a table on the rear wall and parallel sconces on either side of the window there were no other furnishings in the room.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “It will take me a moment or two to bring in Mr. Alec.” She opened a door that was flush with the front wall and closed it behind her. Dietrich looked at them and signaled with his eyes to spread out. Tom and Diana sat on the couch, while Dietrich and Brighton stood by the windows. “The view is really exceptional,” Dietrich said, folding his hands behind him and continuing to project a sense of detachment from the case.
It was at least a minute and a half before the door opened again. The blonde came through first. Tom was thinking of her as Lorelei now. It seemed like a good name—half Rhine maiden, half moll. Behind her was an elderly man in a wheelchair with an attendant behind him. The attendant had a stethoscope around his neck and a thermometer next to the pens in the pocket of his lab coat. He looked sufficiently Nordic to qualify for the Hitler-Jugend, but the hornrims and pony tail were more west L.A. and the hint of a tic might have posed a problem for the Third Reich. He wheeled the man who called himself Wilfred Alec toward the front of the couch as Dietrich and Brighton walked forward and took up positions behind it. The man was old and frail, dressed in a purple silk robe with matching silk pyjamas that fell away from his shrivelled neck. His skin was practically translucent, his few gray hairs dotting his head and the top of his chest like so much chance growth. His eyes were closed, his liver-spotted hands folded peacefully in his lap. He seemed to be either napping or readying himself for the embalmer.
“Grandfather,” Lorelei said, putting her hand on his shoulder, “this is Chief Dietrich of the Laguna Beach Police Department.”
Alec’s chest and shoulders lurched slightly to the left as he shifted position, unfolded his hands and raised his head. As his eyelids moved they realized he was staring blankly through glazed sockets that looked like shattered, blue-veined eggshells. The scars around his eyes were now fully visible, the remaining adhesions distorting his face into a twisted mask. He waited for the image to take its full effect—raising questions, casting doubts. “How do you do. And please don’t be concerned; I expected your silence. I lost my sight in a fire . . . saving beautiful things. You needn’t be shocked or feel any embarrassment. I assure you that I am reconciled to my condition. It was many years ago, but as you can see it managed to change my life forever. A terrible but somehow necessary moment. Who of us knows what he would do in a similar situation? Impossible choices. I had the courage to make the choice, but now, as you see, I live with the result. But you did not come here to talk about my blindness. What did you come here to do, if I may ask? Please, you will have to identify yourselves.”
His voice was high-pitched and annoying. It was the voice of an opinionated lecturer, raised to an uncomfortable level by either hearing impairment or the desire to luxuriate in the sounds of his own speech.
“I’m Dietrich,” one voice said, the others following in turn from the darkness. He tilted his head at each sound, recording the location, the timbre, the associated name.
“And what division of the Laguna Beach Police Department are you with today, Chief Dietrich?” Alec asked, his voice surprisingly strong considering his physical appearance.
“The investigations division, Mr. Alec. The case is robbery/homicide.”
“And which are you investigating, Chief Dietrich, a theft or a murder?”
“We’re investigating both.”
“And how may I be of service?”
“We have a number of questions to ask you, but we would prefer to do that downtown. Your attendants can come with you, of course.”
“My attendants? Yes . . . well . . . I am afraid that is quite impossible, Chief Dietrich. I am an elderly man and a sick man. I never leave my home. You will have to ask your questions here. How many questions do you have, if I might ask?”
“We’ll bring in an ambulance,” Dietrich said.
“I already told you no,” Alec said, insistently. “If you persist in not listening to me we will have a difficult time of it, Chief Dietrich. Karl . . .”
The attendant’s hands came out from behind the wheelchair, accompanied by two Glock pistols. Lorelei simultaneously pulled a .32 automatic from beneath her lab coat.
“We’ve actually been expecting you, Chief. Perhaps I should have said something earlier, but you were playing your part so well that I thought I might play a part as well. At this age and under these circumstances one has so few amusements. By the way, we know about the other men accompanying you. I suspect my neighbors are already calling your superiors to complain about the illegally-parked cars on their streets. They’re quite protective, you know. These homes are not inexpensive and every bit of land is precious.”
“You’ll need more than a few handguns to keep them all out,” Dietrich said.
“Will I? I don’t think so,” Alec said. “They wouldn’t be coming in for a few minutes in any event and a few minutes is all we’ll really need. If they attempt anything earlier I’ve made contingency plans. I can jam their radio and cell phone signals and I’ve posted marksmen at both ends of the lane if they attempt to escape. They’re quite cut off, you see. It is always striking when one thinks what a little planning can do, don’t you think? You shouldn’t have sent that delivery man in the other day by the way; did you really believe we would fail to see through such obvious theatrics?
“So, as I said, you can put away any thoughts about the men you believe to be in reserve. We have you here and they’ll be of no help to you. By the way, there are more surprises coming, surprises you would be too naive to anticipate.”
“There are too many of them for you,” Dietrich said.
“Yes, of course, but that will be no problem, for all will go as planned. When all of this is over I’ll have someone contact the mayor and explain to him what has happened. The mayor is a reasonable man. He’ll find the story quite plausible. I’m well-acquainted with him, of course. Are you? My charitable work, you see. This will be an extension of that work, as it were.”
Tom was watching his lips and hands, seeing how he twisted his fingers t
ogether, relishing the silence of his audience as he spoke each word. Karl and Lorelei were listening too, their attention fixed on each successive syllable. Tom looked at their hands. They each had a firm grip on their weapons but from moment to moment they broke eye contact with their captives, charmed somehow by the sound of the old man’s voice. Tom felt like a bored student in the class of a martinet, while they, the teacher’s toadies, listened worshipfully.
“Worried about stolen art, are you?” Alec asked, initiating more conversation.
“And about the men who died because of it,” Dietrich said.
“You shouldn’t concern yourselves with them,” Alec said. “Life is short, art is long. They were tools that, unfortunately, became impediments.”
Tom waited and listened, hoping for a pause, an opening, some sudden opportunity. Alec droned on, his tongue curling around each syllable. Tom continued to wait, holding his expression. Alec spoke of civilization and the current, unpleasant lack of it, implying that his house had been invaded by philistines who must now pay for their impertinence. He was delighting in every word. Tom’s eyes were on those of Karl and Lorelei. As they exhibited the hint of a smile at Alec’s choice of words and nodded at one another in self-satisfied agreement, Tom found his moment. He threw himself forward from the couch, driving the wheelchair into Karl and throwing him against the wall. Lorelei jerked toward him, raising her weapon, as he whip-kicked her right arm. Her automatic discharged as she fell off-balance, but the rounds hit the ceiling and wall. Diana was up in an instant, driving her fist into her cheek and eye and sidestepping her before she had a chance to recover. By now Dietrich and Brighton had taken out their weapons as Karl opened fire on them. Tom and Diana dove toward the narrow, curving staircase beside the picture window as Lorelei spun around to shoot them. Overhead they heard the rounds penetrating the stairwell. A split-second later they heard multiple additional gunshots. Tom’s gun was out as he tripped down the final set of stairs, Diana right behind him. When he rolled behind the stairs and out of any possible line of fire Diana could see that his pantsleg was spotted with blood.
The shooting stopped momentarily. “I’m going up,” Tom whispered. “You stay here.”
“No, I’m coming with you.”
“Somebody has to escape and counter their story,” he said. “That’s you. I’m going up to see if I can help Bill and the Chief.”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds and then I’m following you,” she said, her Walther in her hand now. Tom looked at her as if to ask whether or not she knew how to use it. She bent her wrist and showed him that the safety was off.
Taking his time initially, his .45 aimed at the top of the stairs, Tom took the last steps three at a time, bolting into the room with his weapon extended at arm’s length. There was no one there, but the wall behind the couch where Brighton and Dietrich had been standing was splattered with blood. Tom went to the door through which Lorelei and Karl had brought Alec. Standing to the side he threw it open with his left hand, his leg now throbbing with pain, his sock wet with blood.
There was no response. Beyond the door was a short semicircular hallway leading to a large steel door with a call-button beside it and a small light above the button. An elevator. They had brought Alec up from another level. Tom hit the button but there was no response. The door or gate on the car were ajar or the elevator’s electrical connection had been broken. Tom came back through the sitting room, heard movement on the steps and as he turned he again felt the pain shooting down his leg through his ankle to his foot. Lightheaded at the loss of blood he hobbled toward the stairs. Diana was nowhere in sight as he braced himself with his left arm, making his way down as quickly as he could before his vision began to cloud and he felt his leg give out beneath him.
Chapter Fifty-One
San Clemente
Tuesday, 9:52 a.m.
Tom awoke a few moments later to find himself beneath a long walnut table. He couldn’t remember dragging himself across the room in search of cover, but he was there. The French silk carpet that filled three-quarters of the room was stained with uneven streaks of his blood. He turned abruptly, looking for Diana, but she was nowhere in sight. He crawled to a sideboard, found a drawer filled with linen napkins, pulled up his pantsleg, and tied one of the napkins around his leg. He kept his hand pressed firmly against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He started to stand but his leg would not yet support his weight. With his back to the bottom of the sideboard he looked around.
The second level was the kitchen and dining area. To his left was a door leading to the elevator. To his far right was a door leading, he imagined, to a bathroom. The dining room proper overlooked the garden. To the left front was a kitchen with what appeared to be oversized work surfaces and large appliances. Copper pots and pans were shelved in the open, side-compartments of a large island that included a sink with a goose-neck faucet. He could see the outline of a black, Aga oven and the break in the cherry cabinetry that marked the doors to a Sub-Zero refrigerator. The slight whirr of its motor was the only audible sound on that level of the house.
Where was Diana? She would not have left him voluntarily and she would not have allowed herself to be taken easily, but there was no blood visible except for his own and there were no signs of a struggle. The sounds he had heard on the steps were faint—the slightest shuffling. Perhaps she was coming to help him when she was seized from behind. It would have taken two people to do that so quietly. That meant that either Karl and Lorelei were free to take Diana (and Brighton and Dietrich were down) or there were others in the house working for Alec. She wouldn’t have abandoned him. She couldn’t.
Perhaps she had heard or seen something on the dining-room level. Coming up the steps to help him she turned abruptly and hurried back down the steps to . . . where? To escape? To pursue someone or something? Perhaps she had barricaded herself in the room he assumed was a bathroom. He dragged himself across the carpet, sat at the side of the door to that room and whispered her name.
There was no response. He whispered her name a second time but still there was no answer. Wedging his back against the wall and putting his weight on his good leg he got to his feet, raised his pistol, and threw open the door. He had been right. It was a half-bath with sickroom support bars on either side of the toilet and a call-button on the wall above. The room was papered in a floral pattern with tones of peach and yellow. The hand towels on the sink bar accented the colors of the walls and a wooden shelf above the sink contained a pair of stacked wash cloths and a tray of scented soap with hints of lilac and cinnamon. Diana, however, was not there. Either she was waiting on the floor below, she had been taken prisoner, or she was indulging in the kind of heroics against which Dietrich had warned.
As he started to make his way back to the dining room he heard a sound. At first he thought it could have been the motor of the elevator, but it seemed intermittent, less steady. Either way it was too distant to be identified. Balancing himself on the backs of the chairs around the walnut table he moved as quickly as he could to the opposite side of the room and opened the hallway door leading to the elevator. The light above the call-button was dark. He touched it. It was still slightly warm. He hit the call-button but there was no response.
Returning to the dining room he leaned against the wall, listening. He could hear nothing. Again balancing himself on the backs of the chairs he hobbled toward the stairs to the next level below. Perhaps they were waiting for him there. There was no sound above him. If they had returned to the top level they were able to do so in absolute silence. He sat down at the top of the stairs, raised his pistol to his cheek, and slipped down a step at a time, denying them an easy shot if they were waiting for him.
It suddenly struck him that something was radically wrong with the house of Wilhelm Eichen, aka Wilfred Alec. There were no artworks anywhere. Even though the view of the garden commanded attention in each of
the rooms there was ample wall space to carry the works of art which Alec presumably possessed. Had they all been sold after he lost his sight? At the bottom of the stairs to the lower level there was a large foyer, another door to the elevator hallway, and doors leading to what he expected to be bedrooms. In the foyer was an ornately-carved walnut table with fauns and satyrs serving as supports for the flat surface, also a set of brass wall sconces, and another silk, French rug. The items were all rare and expensive, but nowhere near the price bracket of old master paintings. They were the kinds of things you would find in every San Clemente home, not the kinds of things you would find only in museums and the homes of billionaires.
Moving behind the stairs and against the wall, Tom continued to listen. There was nothing audible except the tick of a small brass clock on the carved table. Tom explored each bedroom in turn. There were three. None of them had windows, since they were at the front of the house and hence, underground. Recessed lighting and floorboard electric heaters had been installed in each room and each had a separate bath.
The first was done in simple fruitwoods with dark wool carpeting and leather-upholstered chairs. Karl’s no doubt. The second was much larger, with bright lights and pastels. Lorelei’s. She had installed a corner greenhouse with artificial light and tropical plants. The enclosure was warm and slightly humid, with condensation clinging to the glass walls. Tom could hear the buzz of the lights. There was a dehumidifier on the floor beneath the greenhouse but it had been turned off.
Lorelei’s bathroom was in yellow, with complementary wallpaper, tile, fixtures, towels, and soap. Above the tub was a window box with indirect, artificial lighting and some small plants. It glowed like an oversized nightlight.
INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL Page 26
