FOURTEEN

When he reached the landing, Monk saw that the second floor was every bit as impressive as downstairs. A wide corridor stretched in both directions. Crystal chandeliers hung in a sequence that carried all the way to both ends, creating a gentle light that made the crimson Persian carpets seem to shimmer underfoot.

He followed the two couples he’d come up the staircase with as they started down the corridor to the right, but no longer bothered to laugh at their wisecracks. He stayed with them just far enough to verify that William’s mole had been right about the second level, that the sitting rooms and galleries were primarily display areas for the billionaire to show off his art collection.

He hurried back to the staircase leading to the third floor. There was a small white sign hanging from a blue velvet rope across the bottom of the steps. PRIVATE, the sign read. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. Monk glanced around. He saw no one looking his way, but he found himself hesitating anyway. From here on he was trespassing, which was an extremely polite word for what he was really doing. He straightened to his full height and felt the “juice” rise through his body.

Life’s a gamble, he reminded himself. Sometimes you just have to let it ride.

He stepped over the low velvet rope, and started up the staircase. The temptation was to skulk, but the trick was to do just the opposite. The only way to go up these stairs was to march up with his head up and shoulders back. When you act like you belong, people take if for granted that you do. But halfway up he couldn’t help pausing anyway, as he listened for the voice of anyone trying to stop him. Better now than later. Better here on these steps than deeper inside the privacy of the mansion.

He heard nothing as he mounted the remaining stairs, his eyes scanning the brilliant white crown molding. He didn’t see any cameras, but that didn’t mean much. These days the cameras weren’t much bigger than the head of a match. There could be dozens of them built into the woodwork. Whatever the case, there was no point worrying about it. He’d know soon enough if he were being watched.

On the landing he turned right again, but this time he hurried straight toward the tall double doors at the end of the corridor. The doors to the master bedroom, he was willing to bet. When he got there he reached for the gold-plated knob on the right-hand door, twisted the knob and pushed, but it was locked. A run-of-the-mill Schlage keyed-tumbler, Monk saw, not even a deadbolt, and not meant to do much more than keep the doors closed. He reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket for his picks, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly before dropping to one knee.

Long and skinny, the two black-steel extrusions looked like dental instruments. Monk inserted the first one—the torsion bar—into the keyway of the lock, followed it with the second pick. He used the second one to move the tumblers out of the way and the torsion bar to hold them there, exerting gentle pressure until twenty seconds later the lock turned. Monk straightened up, then stepped to his left, to an immense ceramic pot containing a leafy green tree he couldn’t identify. He bent to the pot, picked up a handful of sphagnum moss, laid the picks under it and replaced the moss. Now no matter what happened, the burglar tools wouldn’t be found in his pocket.

Back at the doors, he pushed them open and stepped through before stopping to stare. Franklin’s master bedroom gave new meaning to the word “master.” You could play a pretty good game of tennis in here. The ceiling wasn’t quite high enough for a desperation lob, but there’d be plenty of room behind the baselines. Through an enormous skylight came more than enough moonlight to see everything. A platform dominated the room, on which stood a bed big enough for half a dozen Samoans. Oil paintings littered the walls. Narrow alcoves featured life-size statues and other sculpture. Antique French nightstands flanked the bed, each of them bearing a museum-quality bronze lamp.

Monk was on his way toward the far end of the room when he saw it.

On the far side of the bedroom, past the bed and in the corner, was the doorway into a second room. One of those “panic rooms,” Monk realized, although he’d never actually been inside one. The newest fad of the superrich, it was a last-resort hiding place in case of criminal invasion. Monk started toward it. The door was open, of course, it was the way these rooms were designed. When the bad guys were chasing you, the last thing you needed was to stop and open the door.

Moments later he was standing in front of the opening.

From up close the enclosure looked like a bank vault. The door jamb was solid steel, at least four inches thick, and contained the recessed door that was ready to slide out and slam shut to seal off the entrance. Monk didn’t need to go into the room to see the layout, to realize he couldn’t see all of it from where he was standing. Shaped like an L, the rear section was hidden from view around a corner. The wall to his right was filled with TV screens, computer equipment, and a telephone console with dozens of buttons. A suite of comfortable furniture—leather couch and matching chairs—sat across from the electronic gear. The wall behind the couch bore a number of paintings, oils and watercolors, but no Madonna, not in the front part of the L at any rate. He stood there for a moment, thinking.

He had to see the rest of the panic room, had to go inside to do that, but what was the mechanism that would close the door behind him? Was there a switch inside—just on the other side of the door—or was it automatic, a sensor beam that slammed it shut whenever the beam was broken? Probably a switch, Monk decided. Sensor beams were notoriously unreliable. A number of things could trigger them. Worse, a beam might close the door too quickly, injure somebody before they could get all the way into the room. Then Monk realized he was wasting time. No matter what the setup was, he couldn’t leave here without seeing every inch of the place.

He stepped over the threshold and into the room. From his left he heard a loud click, followed by a swoosh as the door shot out of its enclosure, then a solid chunk as it slammed tight against the other side. He turned to his right, looking for the switch, but saw nothing. Damn it … nothing was ever easy. He hustled to the corner of the L. The other section of the room was smaller than the first, and the Madonna wasn’t there, either. The walls were completely bare.

He dashed back to the electronic gear on the right-hand wall near the door, searching for the door-release switch, but he didn’t see anything obvious. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He could have explained his presence upstairs, in the bedroom even, but in here? He looked above the door for a camera, didn’t see one, and realized there wouldn’t be one in here. The reason was obvious. There’d be a security room downstairs, more monitors just like the ones in here. In a home-invasion situation you wouldn’t want the bad guys to be watching what you were doing in this room. He turned back to the electronic array. There were too many switches, none of them marked, no way to tell what they controlled. So he tried them all. Pushed, pulled, toggled, pounded, and swore at every last one of them.

Nothing.

Then Monk saw the computer keyboard on the shelf beneath the video monitors. Grabbing at it, he began to punch the keys. Enter and Shift and Delete and Backspace, then the F keys, one after another, until he got to F8, when he heard a sound from around the corner of the L. He hurried back to the corner. The sound he’d heard was a door opening at the rear of the back section. The panic room had two exits, he realized. He was halfway to the opening when he saw that he was wrong … that this was no exit. He continued into what was yet another room. Lights had come on when the door opened, and Monk felt his eyes widen.

The room was huge, and stuffed with works of art. Like a museum, the space was crammed with paintings and sculpture. Directly in front of him stood a life-size female nude, beyond her at least a dozen Greek and Roman statues. Oil paintings covered the walls and stood on easels throughout the space.

Monk’s eyes swept the room for the Madonna, for the muted colors of the picture of Mary with the Christ Child. He didn’t see it, but the da Vinci had to be in here. He started toward the rear of the room, but hadn’t gone three steps before he heard a shout behind him.