nineteen

Bear wheeled his unmarked cruiser off the street onto a short cobblestone driveway. He never would have found it except for Cal’s cell phone map directions—they argued about them like a married couple. He pulled to a stop in front of the three-story, white-brick Colonial home and waited for the Winchester police to pull in behind him.

William Mendelson’s home loomed in front of them. It was guarded from the street by tall, aged oaks that had been growing for over one hundred years. The home’s Civil War structure was two stories with twin gabled dormers facing the street. To the east was a framed glass sun porch, and to the west, a detached three-car, brick garage. The house and garage were in poor repair—paint was chipping, shingles missing, and the stone walk was in need of a mason for surgery. The two acres of landscaping were bleak in their winter undress. Barren trees and perennials, overgrown shrubs, and matted leaves in the gardens said the gardener had taken last season off. What had once been a garden tour stop for Winchester’s elite was now a saddened, ill-kept shell whose owner’s passing might be its salvation.

“All right, Cal,” Bear said, taking long, slow eyefuls of Mendelson’s estate. “Put one man in front and one in back. Have them search the grounds for whatever doesn’t belong here. You and I will go inside. I’ve got the crime boys coming when they can, but let’s get a head start. Maybe we’ll find the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?” Cal waved to the uniformed officers climbing out of their cars.

“Yeah, like the reason this old rich guy was killed in a private vault at oh-dark-thirty this morning.” Bear started for the front door. “I guess the killer’s confession would be too much to ask for.”

Cal snorted. “Stranger things, Bear. You got the keys?”

“I’ve got William’s key ring from his desk. I’m hoping it’s on that.”

At the front door—a wide, tall, double-wood door with large, beveled glass windows—Bear tried several keys before finding the right one. When he turned the lock and pushed, nothing happened. The door didn’t budge; it was dead bolted from the inside and there was no keyhole to unlock the extra lock.

Cal watched him. “What gives?”

“Door’s locked from the inside. Go around back and see if you can get in.” He tossed him the ring of keys. “Pronto.”

“Right.” Cal disappeared but was gone little more than five minutes. “Same thing, Bear. I unlocked the lock but the door’s not budging. I was able to see inside and it looks like there’s a high-security dead bolt on the inside there, too.”

“Locked from the inside?” Bear cocked his head. “Since he’s dead at the bank, how’d he manage that?”

At the front of the house, Bear worked his way across the four windows looking for a way inside. He found none. He did the same around the side of the house as Cal worked along the sun porch. They met in the rear of the home on a stone patio, where summer furniture, uncovered and badly weathered, was still sitting in the December chill. Neither of them found a way in.

When Bear walked the rear grounds beyond the patio, two floodlights turned on. Then, as he walked deeper into the yard toward a garden solarium at the rear of the property, a floodlight turned on above it, too.

At the rear patio door, Cal pressed his face against the glass. “Can’t see much, Bear. But it looks like all the windows and doors are alarmed. Old Willy was one paranoid dude.”

“He was. He’s got motion sensors on all the outside floodlights. You can’t move without setting them off.”

Cal shook his head. “Man, that’s paranoid.”

“Paranoid or scared?”

“What’s the difference?”

Bear frowned. “Paranoid is worry. Scared is dead.”

“Looks like we break in.” Cal went to another rear window at the corner of the house. “I’m smaller, so you do the breakin’ and I’ll do the snakin’.”

“Deal.” Bear pulled a short, six-inch black metal peg from behind his back and snapped his wrist, whipping it toward the ground. The telescopic baton extended out to its full sixteen-inch length. With a quick flip of his wrist, he shattered the small rear window and cleared the glass shards from its frame. He found the inside lock and released the window, boosted Cal up, and stuffed him through the opening.

Cal slithered through the window and dropped on the carpeted floor inside. He drew his handgun and listened. “Hey, Bear. You know what’s weird?”

“Yeah, lots of things in this town. What in particular are you talking about?”

“Listen.”

Bear did and shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.” Cal frowned. “For a scared old dude with high-security dead bolts, motion lights, and an expensive security system, he didn’t arm it last night.”

No, he didn’t—no beep-beep-beep, no shrill siren—and still the doors were locked from the inside.

“Be careful and get the back door open.”

Cal disappeared from the room and a moment later unlocked the rear patio door leading into a large country kitchen. His face was tight and anxious. He held his 9mm at his side. He tipped his head toward a wide, grand hallway leading deeper into the house.

“Bear, somebody beat us here. The place is a mess.”

Inside, Bear exchanged his baton for his Glock. Every kitchen drawer was open, every cabinet door ajar. “Okay, let’s …”

“And they’re still here.” Cal pointed at the floor. “Somebody’s moving around downstairs.”