AN EXPENSIVE-LOOKING WALNUT front door splintered and then gave way. SWAT was inside with no difficulty. I had my Glock out, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. The last time Ned and I had worked together, we’d both been shot.
Not this time, I hoped. This was white-collar crime, wasn’t it? As soon as we got the “all clear” from SWAT, Ned left two men at the door, then led everyone else inside.
My first impression was just, well, money.
The foyer was three stories high, with a checkerboard marble floor and huge chandeliers dangling like outrageous jewels overhead. The furniture was gleaming antiques, and there was something odd about the light. It looked like gold in here.
The second impression I got was of stunningly beautiful women—a lot of them—some in evening gowns, others in various stages of undress. Three were naked and not being very shy about it, hands on their hips like we’d just busted into an apartment they all shared.
The escorts, expensive ones. From clean-cut all-American to exotic Far Eastern.
I moved through the foyer and turned right, past another agent shuttling two dark-skinned men speaking Arabic and a tall black woman toward the front. All three were naked, and they were cursing out the agents as if they were household help.
I passed open, empty parlors on either side, then came to a glass-walled smoking room at the end of the house. It stank of cigars and sex, but nobody was inside at the moment.
When I doubled back, I could hear shouting from near the entrance. Somebody was objecting to our presence—and loudly.
“Get your hands off me! Don’t touch me, you wanker!” A tall blond man with an English accent was attempting to come down the big main staircase while two FBI agents held him back.
“This is an illegal search, goddamnit!” The Englishman had some spine; I could see that much. They finally had to put him down on the marble landing just to get a zip tie around his wrists.
I took the stairs two at a time, to where Mahoney was trying to question the guy. “Are you in charge here? You’re Nicholson, right?”
“Piss off! I’ve already called my attorney. You’re trespassing, every one of you.” He was well over six feet and didn’t seem to be losing steam. “You’re breaking the law just being here. This is private property. Goddamnit, let me up! This is an outrage. This is a private party in a private house.”
“Keep him separated from the others,” Mahoney told the agents. “I don’t want Mr. Nicholson talking to anyone else.”
We quickly established a couple of holding areas on the first floor and started working through the house, culling the paying customers from the staff, taking names as best we could.
“Yes, my name is Nicholson—very soon you won’t be able to forget it!” I heard from one of the rooms. “Nicholson, like the moving-picture star.”