Outdoor spotlights streamed upon the stately baroque-style château. It was truly magnificent and Jack could easily see why it possessed Brooke and her paintings.
As they approached the towering wrought-iron double gates, Sean mused, “Do you have any idea what a property like this in prime Napa Valley goes for?”
“Enough to make a super unicorn jealous?” Jack teased.
“Maybe even enough to make a greedy sociopath deadly,” Sean said. “Do you know anything about English primogeniture laws?”
“I’ve streamed every season of The Tudors and Downton Abbey,” Jack admitted. “I know their inheritance laws favor the firstborn child.”
“Right. It’s all about birth order. If the eldest dies before they transfer their property from one generation to the next, it goes to the second child. Clinton and Stella were twins, they would have to split the estate, right?”
“I suppose, why?”
“There’s a lot at stake here,” Sean said, as Jack peered through the iron gates at the massive property. “This place is enormous.”
“I’m going inside.” Jack walked over to a bronze lion pillar and peered over.
“I’m sure there’s an alarm,” Sean warned. “A place like this would have dogs and armed guards.”
Jack hoisted himself up. “I don’t hear any dogs. I don’t see anything either. I’m going in. If you want to wait in the car, I totally understand.”
Sean watched Jack hop over and land on the grassy knoll. There was about an acre leading up to the home, but it was dark.
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Sean said as he reluctantly joined Jack on the other side.
“Just look at this place,” Jack said.
The traditional English gardens were glorious, rich in immaculate topiary forms, with splendid herbaceous borders and thick rosebushes, which lined the pathways leading around the grounds, a lovely maze peppered with ancient marble statues and fountains.
“It’s spectacular,” Sean agreed. “Imagine what it costs to keep this place up.”
“Probably quite a bit,” a husky voice answered from the driveway. The iron gates opened easily and two frumpy older men in ruffled tweed suits came through. “I always prefer to walk through the front door than scale a wall,” Detective Ramsey said. “It’s much easier and less likely someone will shoot you.”
Detective Johnson pulled out his badge. “Big Sur Police Department. What are you doing here?”
“We might ask you the same thing,” Jack said. “What are Big Sur cops doing all the way up in Napa?”
Ramsey walked closer to Jack. “This is the twin brother, the one that shaves.” He turned back to his partner. “This is our killer.”
Jack took a few steps back. “The FBI cleared me. Call them—”
“It was already on the news,” Sean told them, assuming Curly Hair in Carpe Diem bar was right.
Johnson put his hand up to his ear as if he were making a call. “Hello FBI, is it true? Did you decide that it was self-defense? No trial? Can we bring them in for breaking and entering then? Great, thank you so much for letting us do our job.”
“What are you doing here?” Ramsey asked again. “This is private property—”
Just as Jack was about to answer, a gun fired.
Detective Johnson’s head cocked. Blood splattered. His knees buckled. He went down.
And out.
Sean tried to scream but nothing came out.
“Get down!” Jack ordered.
Sean tried but his legs wouldn’t move.
Ramsey pulled his gun and took cover behind a tree.
Jack grabbed Sean’s arm and pulled him behind the nearest cluster of bushes, just as another shot rang out.
Jack put his finger to his lips and they waited. It was quiet, but Jack heard a pounding sound. His head throbbed and he felt disoriented. At first he thought it was from seeing another man die. But then he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. When he looked up at Sean’s face, he knew he’d been hit. Sean grabbed Jack’s good arm and propped him up against a marble garden statue. Jack looked up and smiled. “An angel cherub is staring at me. Not a good sign.”
“Don’t make jokes now,” Sean said as he searched the yard.
“Am I dying?”
“It just grazed you,” Sean assured him as he examined his wound. “You’re going to be fine.”
“You look like George Clooney on ER,” Jack teased. “You should have gone to medical school.”
“No money in the doctor game,” Sean said as he peeked around the cherub. “There are two guys behind that fountain in the garden. They look like skinheads, covered in tattoos.”
Jack pulled himself up and took a look. “Those are the guys that jumped me, from the van. The one with the shaved head was the driver, they called him Ace. The other one is Dale.”
They heard Ramsey shout from behind the tree: “This is the police. Come out with your hands up—”
Ace and Dale fired.
Ramsey responded like a trapped animal. He burst out with a guttural cry and fired back.
Ace was hit square in the chest and fell face-first. He twitched like he was being electrocuted, then exhaled his last breath.
“He got the driver,” Sean whispered.
“Good riddance,” Jack whispered back.
Dale didn’t go to help his fallen comrade. He did an about-face and slid back behind the garden like he was caught trying to steal
a base.
“My gun is aimed at you,” Ramsey announced. “Come out, hands up, or I’ll spray you with bullets.”
Dale didn’t like either option so he tried the same Kamikaze-style warrior cry and charged at Ramsey, firing haphazardly, wildly.
Ramsey squeezed his trigger in rapid succession.
These were front row seats Jack never wanted.
Bullets discharged and pummeled both men; Ramsey tumbled; Dale flailed. It seemed to take forever, like it was slow motion, until they both collapsed, and then everything went still.
Dead quiet.
Sean couldn’t speak. Jack didn’t want to. Then they both noticed something near the entryway.
The front door was ajar.
“Maybe she’s inside,” Jack suggested.
Sean found his voice. “Unless it’s her brother.”
“Let’s find out.”
“You’re hurt,” Sean reminded him.
“Details,” Jack said, heading inside.
—
Ethan had been waiting inside the sprawling labyrinth for nearly an hour earlier, hopeful that Brooke would eventually come. When he heard the gunshots, he prayed that she hadn’t. He peered out the window in the servants’ quarters, just off the kitchen, and searched the massive lawn. He couldn’t see anything, or anyone, so he moved through the kitchen pass-through where he had a view of the front door. He felt relieved when he saw Jack and Sean come through, and just as he was about to call out to them, there was a loud thumping noise from around the corner. Someone else was inside. Ethan tucked behind the kitchen door.
Jack and Sean scrambled into the first room on the left—a study with high bookshelves and large paintings of kings and queens who seemed to be watching.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Sean whispered.
“It might have come from upstairs,” Jack said, noticing that the foyer ended with a grand winding staircase leading up to a second and third floor.
“God knows how many rooms are in this place,” Sean said as if it were an inconvenience. He noticed that Jack’s hand was on his wound and he was losing blood. “Let’s get out of here,” Sean said. “Put your arm around my shoulder and we’ll make a run for the door—”
Just then, a dark shadow emerged from behind the giant armoire in the living room, and a thickly accented Englishman spoke: “I am Clinton Godeaux. And you are trespassing.” With that introduction and his affected highbrow British idioms, he sounded just like a James Bond villain. “I have the right to keep and bear arms and defend myself and my home…”
The engorged full moon shedding through the high windows above formed a giant gun shape on the wall as Clinton raised his arm and stepped into view.
“God bless this beautiful country.”
And he gripped the trigger.