Voices of the dead

At 10:00 when McCloud was over he escorted Joyce up the stairs that wound through a turret to the second floor, dark oak planks with a Persian runner. Josefina had gone home. According to Joyce, the security company came by every few hours, checked the doors and windows, and patrolled the grounds.

Harry lifted his shirt, showed her the Colt stuck in his belt. “Hess comes-”

“Harry, you have a gun? What kind of a Jew are you?” She smiled, put her arms around him. “A tough one. What can I say? You’re a mensch. I should be so lucky.”

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Joyce opened the door and went in. Harry followed her, impressed by the room that had to be sixty by forty feet, with a sitting area in front of the fireplace, four-post antique bed with a canopy, two TVs. He looked out the windows at the front yard and circular drive, the view extending all the way to the ocean, flat and dark, blending with the sky.

On the other side of the room, French doors led to a balcony off the back of the house, view of the pool and pool house. “If you’re afraid I’ll stay with you, sleep on the couch.”

She smiled. “I’ll be fine. There’s an alarm system. Anyone tries to get in, the security people will be here.”

“‘If you want me,’” Harry said, “‘just whistle.’”

“Who said that? No, don’t tell me.” She glanced across the room looking for the answer. “Lauren Bacall. She said it to Humphrey Bogart. What was the movie?”

“To Have and Have Not.”

“Know what Lauren’s real name is?”

Harry shook his head.

“Betty Joan Perske.”

“You know your movie stars, don’t you?” Harry held her in his gaze. “Unless he has a ladder there’s only one way in. So keep your door locked.”

“Thanks for everything, Harry.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Harry went to his room. It was half the size of the master but still twice as big as the bedrooms in his house. The windows looked out on the back yard, and French doors opened onto the balcony. He pulled the spread down, propped pillows up against the headboard. Slipped out of his shoes, turned off the light, and got on the bed, holding the Colt next to his right leg. His eyes adjusted and he could see the dark shapes of furniture in the room and the soft glow of lights from the back yard. He started to doze off.

Next thing he heard was the deafening high-pitched shriek of the alarm-re-er, re-er, re-er.

It was 3:27 a.m. He grabbed the Colt, got up and went to the window, saw a flashlight beam sweep across the front of the pool house. He went in the hall, looked left, the door to the master suite still closed. He ran to the staircase, looked out the front window, saw a white sedan, lights flashing in the circular drive. Ran back, knocked on Joyce’s door. “It’s Harry. You okay?”

“What happened?” she said, voice muffled by the alarm.

“I don’t know.”

The alarm stopped. The door opened, Joyce was standing in the shadow, pulling her robe closed. “The security guys are downstairs. Stay here. I’ll talk to them.”

“I want to go with you.”

Hess sat 1970 realtor of the year Lenore Deutsch at the kitchen table, aiming the Walther at her‚ tears staining her cheeks blue with eye shadow.

“Okay‚ I’ll tell you, but you’ll never get in. There is a state-of-the-art security system.”

A gun pointed at her, and still she smirked, giving him her insolent tone again. He knew how alarms worked. He had a system at his estate in Schleissheim. “Who is in the house with her?”

“Maybe the housekeeper, I don’t know.”

It didn’t matter. “Do you have rope?”

“Why?”

“So I can tie you.”

Lenore Deutsch said, “You don’t bring your own rope?”

The arrogance of this woman. It was beyond belief.

“It’s in the garage.”

They walked through the kitchen. She opened the door, turned on the light. It was space for a single automobile cluttered with pool supplies and gardening equipment. She handed him a spool of heavy string.

“This is all I have.”

He picked up a shovel with a long handle.

“What are you going to do, bury me?”

It was a good idea, but he had something else in mind. Hess escorted her back through the house to her tidy bedroom and through that into the bathroom, pink tile and towels, large tub in the corner and next to it a glass shower.

“I have to wash my face,” Lenore said.

He could see her in the mirror, wiping off the blue smudges under her eyes and off her cheeks with a wet cloth, and patting herself dry with a towel.

“Get on your knees,” Hess said.

She did, putting her hands behind her back. He walked across the room, closed the window and tossed the spool of string on the floor. He wasn’t going to need it after all. Hess moved toward her, aiming the Walther at the back of her head, firing, spraying the walls with spatter.