“It was kinda dense part of the time. Like whatever he had in the fireplace wasn’t burning right,” Deluca answered. A long pause. “Different colors, too,” he added quietly. “Gray, white, black. Come to think of it, when the wind changed I caught a whiff. Smelled like burning plastic.” Another long pause. “He made us, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how, but he did. He got rid of his souvenirs.”
“Damn. What now?”
“It’s not up to me. I’m off the investigation.”
“Wait a minute. What the…?”
“What happened?”
“The lights just went off. Every single one. Hold on.”
Ten seconds later Deluca came back on. “I checked with the guys on the other side. They say the same thing. All the lights went off at once.”
“Probably on a timer. Call him.”
“Are you serious?”
“If he’s there, say you got a wrong number.”
“What are you talking about- if he’s there? He’s gotta be there.”
Suddenly I remembered the shooting tunnel in Carns’s basement. At the time I had sensed something odd about it. Now I knew what it was. Even with the tunnel light bulbs off, there had still been a faint glimmer coming from the far end. “He’s out.”
“No way. We’ve been sitting on the house all day.”
“He got out a tunnel in the basement,” I explained, trying to recall which direction the shaft ran. “Check the bushes in the vacant lot behind the house. There’ll be a vault of some kind. Search for a metal hatch, a manhole cover, something like that.”
“Shit. If you’re right-”
“Call him. If you don’t, I will.”
“I’ll get back to you.” An instant later the line went dead.
As I waited for Deluca to ring back, I phoned the beach house again. Still no answer. Next I dialed Catheryn’s cell phone. Same result. Finally I tried Arthur West’s number. Someone finally picked up. Arthur.
“Hello, Arthur. Is Catheryn there?”
Party noise blared in the background. “Sorry. You’ll have to speak up,” Arthur yelled.
“Is Catheryn there?” I repeated, raising my voice. “This is her husband.”
“Oh.” Arthur’s tone frosted noticeably. “Detective Kane.”
“Is she there?”
A hesitation. “She and the children left early. Something about Allison being home sick with the flu.”
“Allison didn’t come to the party?”
“No. Travis and Nate did, but not her.”
“Damn.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Thanks, Arthur. I owe you one.”
“Anytime,” said Arthur, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
“How’s the hand?”
“Better. No thanks to you.”
“Listen, Arthur. I was out of line at the Music Center. I’m sorry. If it’ll square things, you’re welcome to take a free poke at me anytime you want.”
“An interesting proposal,” said Arthur, thawing slightly. “One day I may take you up on it.”
Victor Carns stood in the darkened living room. Fighting to control his growing excitement, he checked the glowing numerals on his watch: 12:31 PM. He was certain they would be home before long, returning from whatever celebration they’d attended.
As he waited, he reflected on his escape from the police cordon, surprised at how easy it had been. Out the tunnel, a crawl through the bushes to Via Pajaro, across several backyards, and a jog to the west gate. Once past the gate he’d met a taxi summoned earlier using one of his untraceable cellular phones. Twenty minutes later he had disembarked near the Mission Viejo rental garage. Simple. And returning would be just as easy, provided he got back before dawn.
He had driven the van to a number of disposal sites, getting rid of everything, even the spectrum analyzer. He saved only the few items he would need for this final encounter. As with the mementos burned at his estate, he regretted losing the playthings stored in his garage. His souvenirs from previous games often came in handy, like the police ID he had used to enter the reporter’s condo. Still, it had to be done.
And anyway, it was time to move on.
Afterward he drove to Malibu and stopped across the highway from the house, inspecting the weathered structure. No lights. No cars in front. Again using his stolen phone, he dialed the number he’d copied from the phone book. No one answered. Satisfied, he proceeded several hundred yards north, parked his car, and walked back along the highway.
He found the electric meter in a service niche near the front door. After turning off the power, he made his way down the side of the house. The flimsy lock on the back door yielded easily. A quick search revealed the residence to be deserted. Nothing to do now but wait.
As Carns savored thoughts of what was to come, a telephone on the coffee table jangled to life. He let it ring. Finally a machine in another part of the house picked up. “Kane residence. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you,” a woman’s voice said.
A beep sounded, then nothing.
Carns reached out with a gloved hand and lifted the receiver. Gently, he placed it on the floor and covered it with a cushion from the couch.
There would be no more distractions.
When Deluca phoned back, his voice sounded strained. “You were right,” he said. “There’s a vault hidden in a hedge that runs all the way to the street. The metal cover was off. We contacted local cab companies. Two hours ago A-1 Taxi picked up somebody at the west gate matching Carns’s description.”
“Two hours ago? And none of our guys at the gate noticed anything?”
“One of the units saw a taxi picking up a jogger but didn’t give it a second thought. We located the cab driver. He said he dropped his fare in an industrial section near Alicia and Fabricante. He thought it was strange, there bein’ no residences down there and all. One of the Orange County deputies thinks there are some self- service garages in that area. Maybe that’s where Carns stashed his cars.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. I recalled Berns’s statement regarding the killer’s willingness to strike at anyone he considered a threat. I paused, asking myself what I would do if I were Carns.
A game.
Thrust, parry. Move, countermove.
Suddenly I knew.
“Listen, Dan,” Deluca continued, “I’ve gotta bring Snead in on this. Other people down here know you’ve been calling. I can’t keep you out of it.”
“Do whatever you have to,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
I hung up and redialed Catheryn’s cell phone. No response. Again I called the beach house. This time the phone was busy. Fighting panic, I dialed the operator, identified myself, and requested an emergency interrupt. What seemed an interminable pause followed as she checked the line.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said at last. “That number is out of order.”
52
