As we'd driven in, Milo had eyed the low white fence, muttered, "No gate. They could've cruised right in."
Moments later, Mike Whitworth coasted up on his Harley and said something to the same effect.
"So you haven't searched yet," Milo said to the tallest guard. "E. Cliff." The one who'd protested loudest until Milo hushed him with a scolding index finger.
"No," he said. "It's past two in the morning, we're not going to wake up the residents. No reason to."
"You'd know if there was a reason?" said Whitworth.
"Absolutely," said Cliff. Adding a barked "Sir."
Whitworth stepped closer to him, using his size the way Milo does. "The way you're set up, anyone could get in-is it Ed?"
Cliff tried to smile as he backed away. "Eugene. Not correct. Anyone entering can be spotted from the guardhouse."
"Assuming the drapes are open."
Cliff's head jerked toward the building. "They usually are."
Milo said, "I'm usually charming." He moved in on Cliff, too. "So tell me, what category would two murderers driving right past you fall into? Sports and Leisure?
Arts and Entertainment?"
"Sir!" said Cliff. "There's no reason to get disrespectful. Even with the drapes closed we see headlights."
"Assuming there were headlights-I know, there usually are."
"There's no reason-"
Milo stepped closer. Cliff was over six feet, but reedy, an elk confronting bears.
He looked at the other two Bunker guards. Both just stood there.
Milo said, "There's every reason to search the premises, friend, and we're going to do it, right now."
"I'm sorry, sir, in terms of your jurisdiction..." Cliff began. Milo's nose moved a half-inch from his, and the voice tapered. "At the least, I'll have to clear it with headquarters."
Milo smiled. "In Minneapolis?"
"Chicago," said one of the other guards. Nasal voice. "L. Bonaface."
"Call," said Milo. "Meanwhile, we start. Give me a map of this place."
"There isn't one," said Cliff.
"None at all?"
"Not a real map, with coordinates. Just a general layout."
"Jesus," said Milo. "This isn't arctic exploration, hand it over. Before you call."
Cliff looked at Bonaface. "Go get it for him." Bonaface went inside the guardhouse and returned with several sheets of paper.
"I brought a bunch," he said.
Milo grabbed the maps and distributed them. A single page of crude, computer-generated diagram. English street names printed in Gothic, the shops and golf courses, Reflection Lake dead center. No indication a mountain range loomed to the east.
Whitworth said, "Except for the golf courses, it's a small area-that's in our favor... Already divided into six zones, and I've got five officers plus me. How's that for karma?"
"Karma's for believers," said Milo, "but yeah, do the golf courses first, then the public buildings and the lake, then door-to-door at each residence. Prioritize any place with anything Jeep-like parked nearby. If the vehicle's got any film equipment in the back, get really careful. If we're right about Crimmins trying to film something, there may be telltale lights."
I said, "In his notes he debated learning how to use the film cameras or sticking with video. He's not one for honest labor, so I'll bet on video. That means he may just be using a handheld cam, keeping it very low-key. Also, I doubt he'd be on either of the golf courses. Too open."
"Assuming he's even here," said Cliff.
"'I'm assuming you've got golf carts," Whitworth told him.
"Sure, but they're the property of-"
"Law enforcement." Whitworth turned to Milo. "You're doing the mountains?"
"If I can get out there. We'll stay in radio contact."
"How're you going to travel?"
"Got a four-wheeler?" Milo asked Cliff.
The guard didn't answer.
"Hard of hearing, Eugene?"
"We have basically one Samurai, over behind the golf shop, with the carts. It's a relief vehicle, just in case."
"In case of what?"
"In case we have to go out back. Like an old person getting lost. But that's never happened yet. We don't use it, I can't even say if the tires have air or if it's gassed up-"
"So you'll inflate and siphon," said Milo. "Bring it over."
Cliff didn't respond.
Milo bared his teeth." Pretty please, Eugene."
Cliff snapped, "Go," at Bonaface. Again, Bonaface hurried away.
Milo asked Whitworth the helicopters' estimated time of arrival.
"I could only get one," said Whitworth. "They're holding it at Bakersfield-five, ten minutes."
"Eugene, is there a road leading from Fairway out to the mountains?"
"Not much of one."
"How much of one?"
Cliff shrugged. "It's maybe a quarter-mile long. It was supposed to be for hiking, but none of the residents hike. It goes nowhere, just ends, and then all you've got is dirt and rocks." He gave a small smirk, decided to hide it by covering his mouth with his hand.
Whitworth drew Milo and me away from him. "The Ott girl was shot, so they've got some kind of firepower. We have vests; how about you?"
"One," said Milo. He looked at me. "None for you. Sit this out."
"Love to," I said, "but you'd better consider using me. It's a hostage situation with two hostage takers, each with a different psychological makeup, in both cases poorly understood. I'm as close to an expert on Peake and Crimmins as you're going to get."
"Makes sense," said Whitworth. "I think we've got an extra vest."
Milo shot him a sharp look.
Whitworth said, "Not that I want to tell you how to-"
"I've been through worse," I said, knowing what was going on in Milo's mind. An undercover situation last year had gone very bad. He blamed himself. I kept telling him I was fine, the worst thing he could do for me was treat me like an invalid.
"Robin will kill me," he said.
"Only if I get scratched. Right now it's Suzy Galvez who's got something at stake."
He looked up at the sky. Out past the development at high, black, unknowable mountains.
"Fine," he finally said. "If there's a vest."
Whitworth trotted over to one of the cruisers, returned with a bulky black package.
I slipped the vest on. Scaled for someone Milo's size, it felt like a giant bib.
"Stylish," said Milo. "Okay, let's get going."
"One place you might check right away," I told Whitworth, "is Sheriff Haas's trailer. Jacob and Marvelle Haas. He arrested Peake for the original massacre, is a major link to the past."
"He lives here?"
"Right over in Jersey." I pointed south. "Charing Cross Road."
Whitworth said to Eugene Cliff, "Get me the exact address-no, take me there personally."
Cliff jabbed his own chest. "What about me? No protection?"
Whitworth looked ready to pound him into the ground. "Take me within fifty yards and scram."
"All of a sudden I work for_yow?"
Whitworth's arm shot up and for a second I thought he'd hit Cliff. Cliff believed it, too. He recoiled, raised his own arm protectively. Whitworth's arm kept going.
Smoothing his buzz cut. He jogged to his bike, pulled another vest out of the
storage box, and slipped it on.
Cliff's mouth was still trembling. He forced it back into smirk mode. "Big-time SWAT attack."
"You find this funny?" said Milo.
"I find it a waste of time. And I'm calling Chicago, now." He took a step, waited for debate, got none, and walked away. The remaining guard followed. Ten steps later, Cliff stopped and looked back. "Remember: these are seniors. Try not to give anyone a heart attack. They pay a lot to live here."
"And look where it gets them," said Milo. "Just a little mindless violence, and gracious living bites the dust."
The Samurai was open-roofed, powder blue, and noisy. An after-market roll bar arced over the front seats. Bonaface left the motor chugging and got out. "It's got half a tank. But hell if I'd use it out there. Makes a shitload of noise, and your lights'll be spotted a mile away."
Milo checked the tires.
"Those are okay," said Bonaface. He had a smooth pink face, blond hair, monkey features, big blue eyes. "Wouldn't use that buggy out there: too easy to spot."
Milo straightened. "You know the area?"
"Not this exact area. Grew up in Piru, but out to the mountains it's the same thing all over. Full of rocks and pits. Plenty of shit to tear up the undercarriage."
"Any caves at the base of the mountains?"
"Never been out there, but why not? So who are these guys, and why would they be here?"
"It's a long story," said Milo, getting behind the wheel and adjusting the driver's seat. I climbed in next to him.
Bonaface looked miffed. "You're using headlights?" He turned at the sound of his name. Cliff barking from the doorway of the guardhouse.
"Asshole," muttered Bonaface. He stared at the vest. Smiled at me. "That thing's way too big for you."
40.
WE DROVE THROUGH the center of the development, passing the gentle swell of
Balmoral, the northern golf course, behind twelve-foot chain link. Moving slowly while trying to keep the Samurai as quiet as possible. Tricky, because low gear was the loudest.
I could hear the low hum of the golf carts, but the vehicles were invisible, except for an occasional suggestion of shadows shifting on the green. Headlights off. Same for the Samurai. The Victorian streetlights glowed a strange, muddy tangerine color, barely rescuing us from depthless black.
We reached the end of the road: the pepper trees that rimmed Reflection Lake. The growth here was luxuriant, fed by moist earth. Miserly light from a distant quarter-moon turned the foliage into gray lace. In the empty spaces, the water was still and black and glossy, a giant sunglass lens.
Milo stopped, told me to stay put, took his nine-millimeter in one hand and his flashlight in the other, and climbed out. He walked to the trees, looked around, parted a branch, and peered through, finally disappeared into the gray fringe. I sat there, absently rubbing one thumb against the warm wooden stock of the rifle he'd placed in my lap. No animal sounds. No air movement. The place felt vacuum sealed.
Maybe another time I'd have found it peaceful. Tonight it seemed dead.
I was alone for what seemed like a long time. Then scraping sounds from behind the trees tightened my throat. Before I could move, Milo emerged, bolstering his gun.
"If anyone's out there, I can't see them." He looked at the 368 rifle. Unconsciously, I'd raised the weapon and pointed it in his direction.
I relaxed my hands. The rifle sank. He got behind the wheel.
When we were rolling again, he said, "It's pretty open once you get past the trees, just some reeds and other low stuff on the other side. No Jeep or any other car in sight; no one's filming." Grim smile. "Unless it's an underwater shoot-new twist on
Creature from the Black Lagoon.... For all we know, they've already been here and gone, did what they wanted to do, dumped the girl in the water. Or they never came here in the first place."
"I think they did," I said. "No other reason to kill Heidi on the route that leads straight up to Fairway. And Crimmins paid the Soames kid to take the Corvette home-just a mile or two from Hollywood. If he was in the city, he could Ve driven the Jeep home himself, walked back in half an hour, and gotten the' Vette. Why bother with Soames unless he was planning to be far away?"
"Because he has plans for Soames? Nice little screen test?"
"That, too. Tomorrow morning. But there'd be no reason to entrust him with the car."
"Why'd he kill Heidi?"
"Because he had no more use for her," I said. "And because he could."
He chewed his lip, squinted, lowered his speed to ten miles per. The map had indicated a service road that hugged the southern end of the White Oak golf course and led to the rear of the development. The streetlamps were less frequent now, visibility reduced to maddeningly subtle shades of gray.
Milo missed the road, and we found ourselves at the sign marking the entrance to
