From the dining area Judy Danforth’s laugh rose in response to one of Philip’s witticisms.
The thought flickered in Barbara’s mind that the Danforths had been married fourteen years, nearly as long as she and Charles.
When was the last time Charles had made her laugh
She pushed the question away. “Someone’s out there. I’m calling for a patrol car.”
“Nobody’s in our yard, for God’s sake.”
His hands were shaking slightly. He had been tense all day. The party, long-planned, was important to him, as he’d never tired of pointing out. Philip Danforth was rumored to be looking for partners in a new investment scheme likely to prove as profitable as his previous ventures. Charles wanted desperately to be in on it.
Now he must be worried about how it would look if a squad car showed up at the front gate just as the Danforths were finishing dessert.
Admittedly, it would put a rather unpleasant spin on an otherwise faultless evening. Later, the visit by the police would be what Philip Danforth remembered, not the filet mignon brushed with creamy Barnaise, not the baby carrots in sweet butter, not Ally in her white dress with her white smile.
Barbara understood all that, but still, facts were facts, and she was her daddy’s level-headed child.
“I saw something,” she said evenly.
Charles seized on the last word like a terrier snatching a bone. “Someone, you said a moment ago. Now it’s something. What did you see, exactly”
“I think it was a prowler.”
“You think.”
“I can’t be sure, but there was movement by the gazebo.”
“Movement.”
“Yes, movement, damn it.” He was pushing her buttons, as he did so well.
Charles released a little snort of disbelief, a haughty aristocratic sound typical of him. He glanced out the window at the floodlit yard. “Well, no boogeyman’s out there now.”
“He’s hiding.”
“Or maybe he never existed.”
“I saw him.”
“The system’s armed. Nobody can penetrate the perimeter.”
She hated it when he talked that way, in pseudo-military jargon, as if he were a CIA intelligence officer fresh from the Peruvian jungle and not an overpaid defense attorney, his manicured nails innocent of dirt.
Still, she hesitated, wondering if he had a point.
“I thought,” she said slowly, “you turned off the system to open the gate when the Danforths arrived.”
“I did. But I reset it afterward. Look.”
He gestured toward the kitchen doorway. Barbara peeked out, looking past the dining area, across the spacious living, to the foyer. A wall of shelves hid the front door from her view, but the alarm-system keypad was visible, mounted alongside the intercom box and the remote front-gate control.
The foyer was dimly lit, and in the shadows a red diode glowed faintly beside the controller’s alphanumeric display.
“Satisfied” Charles added with his smirking smile.
A reply was unnecessary. In triumph he darkened the yard light and left the kitchen, toting a tray of demitasses.
Barbara wondered how she ever could have found that smile attractive, even manly. It was his good looks that had done it, she supposed-the high, patrician forehead and sculpted jaw. At twenty-six she had been young enough to assume that the outer man must reflect the man within.
Well, she was forty-three now.
Alone, she thought about the alarm system. It secured only the fence and the front and rear gates-the perimeter, as Charles liked to call it. She had rejected the idea of additional zones covering the house itself. Living in a fortress was not her style. She liked open windows and doors, moving currents of air, the fresh breeze off the lake.
Now she wondered if a fortress wouldn’t have been a better idea.
True, the boundaries of the property were protected. But if an intruder somehow got onto the grounds, he would face no further obstacles except the locks on the doors and the latches on the window screens.
In the dining area Charles started telling his story about the tennis tournament in Ojai. He thought the Danforths hadn’t heard it, but in fact he’d recounted the anecdote to them just last month at the country club.
Maybe he was wrong about this too.
Her mind made up, Barbara lifted the cordless handset and touched 9-1-1.
8
Crawling again, dragging the duffel bag, Cain approached the front door.
Through the bay window he could see Charles Kent, having returned to the dining area, serving coffee to his guests. A well-dressed man, Mr. Kent, tanned and urbane.
Nearly time to strike. By now the others must be ready.
Tyler and Lilith were at the northwest corner of the house, where a side door opened onto an east-west hallway. The hall led past the cellar door and the laundry nook, into the kitchen.
Blair was on the patio. Via the back door he would enter a rear hallway which fed into the dining area. Gage would join him when it was time to go in.
That left only Cain himself. He would use the front door at the house’s southwest corner. It opened on a small foyer that would permit him to enter without being seen.
Kitchen, rear hall, foyer-the only exits from the living room and dining area.
Each escape route soon would be cut off.
His radio buzzed. It was Gage. “She’s on the phone.”
Cain needed a moment to register the information.
She. Barbara Kent, of course. On the phone. There was a phone in the kitchen.
Calling the police. Hell, was she calling the police
The telephone line always had been a weak link in the operation. Cutting it would have been a sound tactical move. But if the phone service was interrupted for any reason, an alarm automatically would be triggered at the security system’s central monitoring station.
“What do we do now” Gage asked.
Cain didn’t hesitate. “We’re committed. No going back.”
“If she got a look at Gage”-the demurring voice was Blair’s-“she might’ve called for a squad car.”
A gnat whined close to Cain’s ear. He caught it in a gloved hand, snuffed it between thumb and forefinger.
“We can handle a squad car,” he said coolly.
No one disagreed.
9
“All units.” The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio.
“We’ll take it,” Pete Wald said.
Leaning forward, Trish unclipped the microphone and keyed the mike. “Four-Adam-eight-one. What’ve you got, Lou”
Lou was Louise, one of two night-watch dispatchers. The other was Thelma. They’d both caught their share of grief about that.
“Caller reports a possible ten-seventy,” Lou said in her cigarette-froggy rasp. “Twenty-five hundred Skylark Drive.”
Wald gunned the engine, the Caprice speeding up. Trish’s heart accelerated with it.
A 10-70 was a prowler call.
