Wednesday, October 16
5:15 P.M.
Preston Hollow, Texas
“THE BUREAU MUST be paying you fellas a hell of a lot more than the Dallas PD pays me,” Detective Sheridan spread his arms indicating Dutch’s luxurious Preston Hollow home, then slammed the door to his unmarked cop car and caught up to them as they approached the house from the motor court.
Sometimes people improve on longer acquaintance, but Spense didn’t hold out much hope that Sheridan would turn out to be one of them. The detective had followed him, Dutch, and Caity from the Worthington Mansion. No denying the Langhornes lived in one of the most exclusive suburbs of Dallas—or the whole of Texas for that matter. The two-story country French residence sat nestled among mature trees on an acre lot. The motor court had four bays, one of which housed Mrs. Langhorne’s red Maserati.
“Looks like I went into the wrong branch of law enforcement.” Sheridan didn’t give it a rest.
“It’s my wife who has the money,” Dutch said.
Sheridan undoubtedly knew that already, but for whatever reason, he seemed to want to make Dutch say it. From Spense’s point of view, it was just one more of the digs he’d been subjecting Dutch to all day. No doubt a thinly veiled accusation would follow.
“Your wife had the money, don’t you mean? It’s all yours now that she’s gone. You really married up, man. No wonder you don’t care who she screws.”
Spense was just about to issue Sheridan his second warning of the day when a dog began barking like he’d cornered a squirrel. Sounded like it came from the south neighbor’s yard. Spense held up one hand in a stop sign. “Everyone stay put.”
“Just a dog, Spenser. Heard our cars drive up.” But Sheridan halted along with the rest of them, casting a wary glance around. “You always this jumpy?”
Spense pushed back his jacket but didn’t draw his Glock. “Anything look off to you?” he asked Dutch.
“Not so far.” Dutch took a few steps closer to the house.
“A place like this? He’s got a security system. If there was a break-in, we’d know it. I don’t suppose you called ahead, and now you’re just stalling to give the staff time to hide that diary.”
“I thought you had a date with October baseball, Detective,” Caity said.
Her patience with Sheridan seemed to be growing thin. It was obvious she’d been trying to keep the peace all day, but this last accusation, leveled at Dutch, must’ve been the straw that broke her back.
“I’m the one who suggested there might be a diary to begin with. We offered to look for the journal, and bring it to you if one happens to turn up. But you insisted on following us and poking around yourself. And even though you have no warrant, Agent Langhorne agreed. Now you’re accusing us of obstructing your investigation.” Spense heard Caity’s breath hiss out from between her teeth. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go suck an egg.”
Sheridan put both hands in the air feigning surrender. “Damn the lady’s got a mouth on her. She sure put me in my place.”
“Dr. Cassidy is plenty capable of putting you anywhere she wants you.” Spense knew Sheridan could never take Caity in a verbal sparring match—he didn’t have the vocabulary or the wit. But go suck an egg was the most she’d toss at him because she thought they needed to establish a rapport with the locals. Spense, on the other hand, would take the guy down without a second thought. But at the moment, he couldn’t afford to let Sheridan distract him. “He’s got a point about the security system.” Still something didn’t seem right. That was one, unhappy canine out there.
“Didn’t set the alarm. And I gave the staff a month’s paid leave. They’re torn up about losing Cindy, and I got nothing for them to do anyway.” Dutch paced back and forth in front of his house. “Looks okay from out here, but Gizmo’s not usually a barker.”
“Why didn’t you set the alarm?” Sheridan eyed Dutch suspiciously.
“The security system is there to protect my wife—not our possessions. And if her killer wants to come gunning for me next, I can handle myself fine. In fact, I hope he does because I’ll be ready and waiting.”
Spense held out his hand for the house key. “I’m going in first. Everyone stay here until I give you the all clear.”
“I’ll cover. You clear.” Dutch fished out the keys.
Spense kept his palm open, waiting. “No. You stay here. It’s probably nothing. This is just a precaution, but in case it does turn out to be real, I need you to stick on Caity.”
“Consider me Super Glue.” Dutch tossed him the keys. “It’s the one with the Rangers logo.”
“I can cover you.” Sheridan’s offer came late and halfhearted. Spense ran an assessing gaze over him and decided he looked nervous. He just might be one of those cops who’d never fired his service weapon outside of the range, in which case, Sheridan would be more liability than help if there was an intruder on the premises. “Like I said, just a precaution. If you wanna help, you can wait here and keep an eye out for a rabbit.”
Sheridan’s shoulders dropped, and his face relaxed. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Sure he could handle it better without having to worry about the detective’s doing something stupid, like he’d proven himself capable of doing with Aaron earlier in the day.
As Spense headed for the door, he tried to tune out Sheridan and Dutch in the background. Their arguing made it hard for him to focus.
“This is a setup, isn’t it?”
“No idea what you mean.”
“You probably tossed the place to make it look like a break-in.”
“How’d I get the dog to bark?”
“I’m just saying it’s convenient. You suggesting I stop by the house, and now something’s up. I’m just theorizing of course.”
“You insisted on coming over.”
“You lured me here with that story about a diary.”
Spense turned the key and breached the doorway uneventfully, leaving the two men behind, still bickering. He exhaled a long, relieved breath, as their voices faded. His brain sharpened itself on the quiet. One slice at a time, he cleared the downstairs. Cut the pie, his instructor at Quantico used to say.
Room after room, he made his way methodically through the home. Finally, the downstairs was clear. But this was one mother of a house. Luckily, the upstairs would have less square footage. It should go quick. Especially now he had his rhythm. He heard the whirr of the air conditioner cycling on and ignored it. That was a right sound. He only cared about the wrong ones.
He started upstairs, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, moving as noiselessly as possible. On alternating steps, he checked back over his shoulder. Yeah. He’d cleared below, but nothing is ever one hundred percent. He kept moving forward. Stairs were tricky. Couldn’t slice them like a pie—couldn’t always see ahead. At some point, you just had to go.
He was there now.
Pistol out front, he dashed up the rest of the steps. Made it safely to the landing. Now for more pie. Leading with his gun and his eyes, he made his way down the hall and into the master bedroom.
Shit.
The room had been tossed. A painting lay shattered on the ground, its backing ripped away. He dodged bits of broken glass, the emptied drawers, and overturned chairs. The door to a walk-in closet stood slightly ajar. He kicked it open the rest of the way, and leapt aside.
Silence.
He cleared the closet—also tossed, before moving on. Upstairs, everywhere he went, the intruder had left his mark. This must’ve taken time. Whoever did this knew Dutch would be gone a good while. Spense stowed that away for future reference. No time to process clues now, but then another salient thought occurred. The intruder started upstairs. The downstairs was clean—they’d interrupted him before he made it there. Either he’d just left or was still in the house . . . somewhere.
A river of cold air rushed over Spense’s skin, but he no longer heard the mechanical sound of the central air. He was in his zone. That place where the adrenaline pushed out all the distractions that lived in his head. That place where all sounds disappeared—except the ones that mattered. Even the dog’s barking was a shadow of its former self . . . and then he heard the creak. That wrong sound he’d been waiting for.
Footfalls.
Other room.
Then scraping. Behind that next closed door, someone waited. Spense felt another’s presence, and he knew whoever it was could feel him, too. They were too close not to be aware of each other. He stuck his gun out the door and followed it into the hallway, keeping his back off the wall where a ricochet might hit him. He arrived at the closed door. Kept to the side. The wood wouldn’t protect him from a bullet if the intruder decided to shoot through it blind. Spinning, he kicked the door open and burst through. “Police! Freeze!”
He looked left, then right. Clear. The window stood open, curtains knocked to the ground. He flashed across the room and scanned the area outside the window. A giant weeping willow guarded the back of the house, its branches strong enough to hold a man’s weight—long, thick, and perfect for climbing to the ground. He heard a soft thud, and looked down. A figure, tall and muscular, rolled down an incline, jumped up, and took off running.
Spense shoved his pistol in its holster, freeing both hands. As he crawled out, his head cracked against the windowsill, sending dull vibrations ringing through his skull. With his body half-out the window, his knees hooked over the sill, anchoring him, he stretched out his arms. But he couldn’t grab hold of that supporting branch. No time to doubt himself, he scrambled back, threw his legs in front and got himself into an upright sit in the window. He concentrated on the branch.
See the branch.
Get the branch.
Jump!
His chin hit something hard, slamming his teeth into his tongue. Blood trickled down his face. He wrapped his arms around the tree’s fat trunk, monkeyed his way from branch to branch. The rough bark tore his flesh as he slid down, down, down. He scrambled just far enough to know the fall probably wouldn’t break his legs. Braced his feet together.
Jump!
He landed feetfirst, and his knees absorbed the first brunt of the impact, then his shoulder slammed into the ground. Something burned, but he didn’t care. Adrenaline propelled him onward. Back on his feet, his pistol drawn, he gave chase. “Stop! Police!”
A male figure dressed in jeans and a dark shirt scrambled over a tall masonry fence into the neighbor’s yard. The intruder had a good head start, but Spense wasn’t far behind. His senses went on highest alert—for innocent civilians and kids. And for new threats—like that barking dog.
How dangerous could a Gizmo be?
His mind raced as he hurtled over the fence, a few beats behind his rabbit. He dropped into the next yard, where a blue pool glistened in the evening light. Shadows fell across the neighbor’s back lawn, heavily edged with bushes. The intruder could be anywhere . . . then a man darted out from behind a fountain, spotted Spense, and froze. He’d have to run right past him to make it to the gate.
Advantage: good guys.
Spense held his pistol steady and aimed, while, at light speed, his hyperaware brain catalogued details of the man’s appearance. Dirty blond hair. Scar on right cheek. About six feet. Gym rat. Late twenties. Their gazes connected—and Spense knew if he ever saw the guy again, he could easily recognize him by the bizarre emptiness behind his blue eyes—painted orbs, jerking around with no human purpose.
“FBI! Hands behind your head. Get on your knees.”
Crazy eyes raised his hands slowly. Took a step backward.
“On your knees! Now!”
Bam!
From nowhere something knocked Spense’s feet out from under him, and his pistol to the ground. He flew backward into the pool—the water like concrete when it met his back. His head hit the side of the pool. Then darkness enveloped him, filling his eyes, his nose, his mouth. As consciousness receded, weird images passed across his mind: eyeballs on springs, bulging from their sockets, a canine missile launching into outer space, a bathtub filled with black blood.
Fight it or die.
Battling the instinct to inhale, he made a fist and thumped his chest, forcing himself to exhale the contents of his burning lungs. Bubbles floated up around him. He kicked hard, shot to the surface, and gasped a breath that stung like hell. That first gulp of air went down like a shot of straight bourbon. His brain jolted into awareness, and he swam toward the edge of the pool. Then his foot hit the plaster bottom. He’d made it to shallow water. He stood up. If his head weren’t throbbing like the devil, if he didn’t know that his rabbit was long gone, he might’ve laughed. He’d been knocked into a pool by a dog named . . . wait . . . could that be Gizmo?
Shaking his head, he blinked water from his eyes. Dutch should’ve warned him that his neighbor’s dog, Gizmo, was a Doberman. He braced his arms on the side of the pool and was just about to hoist himself out of the water when someone called out. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
The trembling voice came out of a bald guy wearing nothing but a pair of lime green boxers. The Glock shaking in his hands looked a lot like Spense’s.
Spense lifted his hands. “FBI. You think you could put down the gun, sir? I can explain everything.”
A gentleman in a dark suit appeared behind boxer guy. Boxer guy passed him Spense’s Glock.
“You in the pool. Hands behind your head, then turn around. Ease on over to the steps and get out of the pool nice and easy. Keep your back turned.”
Spense did as he was told, then, anticipating the next command, he knelt on the ground. “FBI. Creds in my pocket.”
Boxer guy stuck his hand in Spense’s pocket, fumbled around then pulled out his wallet.
Seconds later the suit said, “You can get up, Agent Spenser. Sorry about that.”
Spense got up and turned around. He knew a government agent when he saw one. What the hell? “You Secret Service?”
Suit didn’t answer, but boxer guy pointed to his right and squinted. “See that gate down yonder?”
Spense nodded.
“Behind it, that’s George and Laura’s place.”
As if that explained everything. Gizmo nudged Spense’s wet crotch with his cold nose.
“Sorry, again.” The owner motioned the Doberman to heel. “I’m talking about Dubb ya.”
“Dubb ya?”
“You still got water in your ears, son. I say George. Dubb Ya. Bush. Lives right down yonder. So we got a hell of a neighborhood watch around here.”