himself. I gave him back the picture of Mary and he stared sadly at the bright face of his sister. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“One more thing.” I felt like a rat, a war profiteer myself, but this was a business, after all. “Here’s my bill.” I slid the invoice across the desk.
“I don’t get paid again till the end of the month. But I’ll be back with it.”
“Okay, Navy, I trust you.” We shook hands and he walked out into the sunny afternoon. The bay was still sparkling.
GOLD SHIELD BLUES
BY JEFFREY J. MARIOTTE
Mount Soledad was a cushy gig.
Mostly, it was a matter of driving around in a company car with a light bar on top and the Gold Shield Security logo emblazoned across the doors. Occasionally, I had to interrupt drag-racing teenagers, and even more occasionally respond to a dispatch call, which more often than not turned out to be raccoons or feral cats, rather than genuine intruders. What security companies never tell their customers is that most actual break-ins take place in lower-middle-class and poor neighborhoods, where the loss of property can do real damage to a family’s shaky financial status. The rich have fences and walls and alarms, buttressed by decent police response times and private security companies like Gold Shield. The bad guys know that, and since your high-class cat burglars are mostly fictional, most real-life burglars don’t bother trying to hit the mansions of the rich.
So when I got a call from dispatch, one overly warm August night, sending me to a house on Via Capri—a reported intruder—I wasn’t too worried about what I’d find when I got there. I knew the place from the outside, high up on the hill, facing west-northwest for the primo ocean view. An eight-foot masonry wall, spiked on top, surrounded the property, and a cobblestone drive led through double wrought-iron gates before sweeping up to the house.
When I arrived, less than five minutes after taking the call (my strobes slicing the darkness into ribbons of tinted black), the gates were closed. I pulled up to the call box mounted on a post, and pressed a button. In a moment, a crackly voice responded. I identified myself and was buzzed in. The gates parted with a slow majesty, and I drove through into a lushly landscaped estate full of mature trees and what looked like enough lawn to graze cattle on.
It was hardly unique in that. Some of the priciest real estate in La Jolla—itself one of the most expensive enclaves in the United States—was on Mount Soledad. Dr. Seuss had lived here; I sometimes saw his widow out and about in their Caddy with the
Every light in the place was burning, showing me a three-story Tuscan-style home, all vast slabs of stucco in a dark mustard color with turrets and red-tile roof and all the extras. I parked between the house and a fountain that looked like it belonged on a postcard from Rome. By the time I was out of the car, flashlight in hand, a front door opened that two Los Angeles Lakers could have passed through, one standing on the other’s shoulders.
A man stood in the doorway. He was probably in his late sixties, trim, with neat gray hair, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back over his forearms, dress pants, and leather slippers. Well put together, the way wealthy men often are; plenty of time playing tennis or golf helping keep them in shape. I couldn’t tell if his tan had come from the sun or a spray, but it was rich and even. I had checked the dispatch report as I made my way down the driveway, and the homeowner’s name was Terrance Paulson.
“Are you Mr. Paulson?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’ll need to see some ID, please. We had a prowler report for this residence.”
“I look like a prowler to you?”
“No sir. But I need to make sure. If you’re really Mr. Paulson, you wouldn’t want me to take any shortcuts, would you?”
“No, that’s true.” He fished around in his pocket and came up with a slim leather wallet. I had never understood why the richest people didn’t have the fattest wallets, but his looked like the addition of even a single dollar bill would stretch it out of shape. He slid a driver’s license from it and handed it over. The picture matched the face, and the name matched what I’d been given. “I’m Terry Paulson, as you can see.”
“Very good, sir.” I handed back the license.
“And you are … ?”
“Mike Rogers,” I said. “The police have been alerted and they’re on the way. Do you know if the prowler is still on the property, Mr. Paulson?”
“Call me Terry, Mike. I don’t know if it was really a prowler, in retrospect. My wife heard a noise. She thought it was a prowler. I didn’t see anything but thought it was safest to trigger the alarm.”
“That’s the best thing to do. Let us take a look for you. Where did she hear it?”
“She can tell you best herself.” He stepped back through the door, into a foyer that appeared to be floored with fine marble. A staircase curled up from there. “Sharon!” he called.
She came out of a side door, wearing a shy look and not a lot else. When I saw her I forgot why I was there, forgot everything for a few seconds. I had never seen a woman like her, except on a movie screen, or a computer one. She had plump lips, a slightly olive complexion, and smoky gray eyes. Long dark hair framed her face in ringlets and then curled off the tops of breasts that were high and round and barely contained by a low-cut, silky blue nightgown that more than hinted at the rest of her impressive curves. A ring glinted off the little toe of her left foot. She could have bracketed my thirty-one years by five in either direction.
“Hello,” she said, and her voice was low and frank and warm and not at all shy. “I’m sorry I got you out here. It’s probably nothing.”
“Don’t worry about that, it’s what I’m here for,” I replied. “If it’s okay, I’ll look around just the same. Where did you think you heard something?”
