shooting facility beneath his house. Subsequently he’d had the foundation contractor lay seventy-five yards of large concrete drainage pipe, burying it under the hillside between the mansion’s basement and the northern property line of the estate. Complete with lights and an overhead pulley system with orange track markers, the four-foot- diameter underground shaft allowed Carns to run targets out to preset distances, all the way to a pile of sand in a vault at the far end. It was simple, effective, and soundproof.
Carns entered his shooting room and moved to a gun cabinet against the back wall. After sliding out a middle drawer, he selected two handguns-a. 22-caliber High Standard ISU Olympic target pistol, and a. 45-caliber Colt Combat Elite MK IV automatic-grabbing boxes of ammunition for each. Next he stepped to the maw of the waist-high tunnel. Smelling a must of earth and mildew wafting from the interior, he placed his pistols on a sighting bench, donned ear protection, and cranked a human-shaped Alco paper target out to the twenty-five-foot marker.
For the next twenty minutes Carns shot steadily from a two-handed combat stance, firing two rounds to the body, one to the head-alternating pistols and distances, replacing targets as necessary. He got “good paper” on most, at twenty-five feet clustering all his rapid-fire shots within the black inner-target partitions, most shots at fifty feet, and over sixty percent at seventy-five. After finishing, he returned his pistols to the cabinet. Although his high-tech ear protection had all but blocked the sound of his firing, his headache was worse. He realized that he needed something else to help him relax, and it wasn’t shooting.
Carns exited the gun range and walked to the opposite end of the hall. There he ducked into the darkroom and opened a cabinet beneath one of the stainless-steel sinks. Groping the inside surface of the cabinet face, his fingers closed on a key. Key in hand, he returned to the hallway and inserted the key into the deadbolt lock on the second door. The metal-clad portal swung inward.
With mounting anticipation, Carns stepped inside, the soothing darkness of his secret room enveloping him like a blanket. He fumbled with a switch on the wall. A single lamp came on across the chamber.
Carns glanced around the windowless space, his heart now beginning to race with excitement. Black soundproofing panels covered nearly every visible inch of wall and ceiling, lending the twelve-by-twenty-foot enclosure a surreal, cavelike appearance. On the right, facing a gigantic TV screen flanked by twin bookcases, sat a leather chair. Beside it was a wooden table with sound and viewing remote-control units, along with a carousel slide projector. Above, a rolled up projection screen lay within a ceiling recess, bracketed by a number of surround-sound speakers. Straight ahead, at the far end of the room, the doors of a mirrored closet shimmered like quicksilver.
Carns moved to the nearest bookcase. Its middle shelves held a stereo, tape deck, VCR, and DVD player. The upper and lower levels contained hundreds of video and audio tapes from the past-relics he’d hadn’t yet transferred to digital-each labeled in Carns’s crabbed cursive. He started to select an ancient videocassette, one of his favorites, then changed his mind. After moving to the other bookshelf, he perused racks of chronologically arranged slide carousels and DVD discs. Still not finding what he wanted, he trailed his index finger over a library of audiocassettes, finally selecting one from the top shelf.
Smiling, Carns flipped on the stereo, slipped the tape into the playback slot, and pushed the rewind button. As a soft whirring emanated from the unit, he glanced toward the closet.
Costume party?
No. Today, only sound, he decided.
The simplest pleasures are often the most satisfying.
Carns dimmed the lights and delivered himself to the cool embrace of his armchair. As he waited for the tape to rewind, he mentally revisited Hall’s call earlier that afternoon, realizing his association with the CEO of United Western Packers had become tiresome. Today, for the first time in their relationship, Carns had sensed more than avarice in Hall’s voice. Something furtive had been there as well, something dangerous.
More to the point, half of twenty-three million was a lot of money.
A soft snick sounded as the rewind motor clicked to a stop. Carns lifted the remote control, feeling the throb in his temple finally beginning to abate. Gratefully, he closed his eyes, savoring what was to come. Able to wait no longer, he touched the play button.
A moment later the screaming began.
7
I kept telling Banowski that the bet wasn’t how wide…” Detective Paul Deluca paused for dramatic emphasis. “… it was how long!”
Having heard the story before, I smiled as I crossed the West Los Angeles Division squad room, approaching a knot of men gathered around Deluca’s desk. Deluca’s tale involved a contest years back between then considerably younger Detectives Deluca and Banowski. In the competition, which had followed a boisterous retirement party at the Police Academy, each contestant was challenged to urinate a continuous and relatively unbroken line as he walked-more like stumbled-forward, with the longest trail winning. By the time of the assigned piss-off, however, Banowski-having during the preceding hours prepared for the match by judiciously consuming as much beer as possible-had long since passed the stumbling stage and required the assistance of friends simply to make it to the field of battle.
Detective John Banowski, a thick-necked man with thinning, military-style hair, glowered at Deluca from an adjacent desk. “If you’d moved up the start time like I asked, I wouldn’t of hadda go so bad.”
Deluca grinned and passed his hand over the dark stubble covering his chin, rubbing a five o’clock shadow that typically made its appearance before noon. “Tough,” he laughed. “Anyway, we get to the starting line up there on the obstacle course, and-”
“Hey, Dan,” a heavyset man interrupted, noting my approach. Levering his blocky frame from the edge of Deluca’s desk, my ex-partner and retired homicide detective Arnie Mercer assumed a look of mock insult, his salt- and-pepper eyebrows bristling with bogus indignation. “I finally accepted your invitation to drop by this morning and witness firsthand you guys wastin’ taxpayers’ money, and you didn’t even have the decency to show up.”
After dropping Catheryn at home in Malibu, I had spent the remainder of the morning at the coroner’s office attending the autopsies of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson. “Sorry, Arnie,” I said as I sank into a chair behind my desk. Arnie had been my Training Officer, mentor, partner, and best friend for most of my police career. When he’d retired several years back, I had reluctantly assumed his position as the D-III supervising detective for the West LA homicide unit. Since taking on the additional duties of overseeing personnel, delegating responsibility, and monitoring ongoing investigations, I’d belatedly come to appreciate the scope of my older friend’s abilities. “I would’ve been here sooner,” I added, “but I heard Deluca was reprising his piss story for about the ten billionth time, and I decided to make myself scarce.”
“I’ve made revisions,” objected Deluca. “You’ll like this version.”
Banowski glared at Deluca. “You were never one to agonize over the facts.” Then, to me, “See the news last night?”
“No. Why?”
“’Cause your smilin’ face was all over it, that’s why. That good-looking broad from Channel Two, Lauren what’s-her-name, got a nice shot of you callin’ one of our local psychos a maggot.”
“The other stations picked it up, too,” added Arnie. “Probably get the department sued for slander.”
“Damn,” I grumbled.
“When are you gonna learn not to converse with our brothers and sisters in the media?” chided Arnie. “ Especially the lovely Ms. Van Owen. I swear, every time you open your mouth around her, you wind up sticking-”
“We’re all in agreement that diplomacy isn’t my strong suit,” I interrupted. “So what?”
“So the el-tee wants to have a little conference with you, that’s what,” Deluca answered, referring to Lieutenant Nelson Long, the West LA detectives commanding officer. “He’s been on the phone all morning with the mayor, the chief, and every news agency from here to New York.”
“Sorry, Arnie,” I groaned, rising from my desk. “Can we get together later tonight?”
“Maybe,” Arnie said doubtfully. He had a new girlfriend and recently had been spending most of his time at
