Silja?’
‘Yes,’ said Silja, on her cellphone, ‘Lincoln Boulevard, Santa Monica – Noah, what number is it?’
‘Five forty-eight.’
When she had finished talking to the police, Silja came up to Noah and held him close. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. How were they killed?’
‘The same way as Jenna. Their throats were cut. Mo – they cut him down there, too – castrated him.’
‘Oh my God. Do you think it was the same people?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it at all. Who would want to murder an innocent guy like Mo? He wrote comedy , for Christ’s sake. He wrote jokes.’
They were still waiting for the police when they heard a key turning in the front door.
Noah immediately stood up and reached for the knife that Trina had been using to prepare her salad. He gestured for Silja to stay well back in the alcove beside the refrigerator, and then he crossed the kitchen and stood next to the door.
Without any hesitation, a curly-haired young man in an orange T-shirt walked in, and tossed a canvas bag on to the kitchen floor. Noah wrapped an arm around his neck and held the point of the knife up against his right side. ‘You move – you blink , even – you’re going to be very, very dead.’
The young man froze, with one arm still lifted, as if he were playing statues.
‘What are you doing here?’ Noah demanded.
‘What am I doing here? I live here, man!’
Noah hesitated, and then he relaxed his grip. ‘Leon?’
‘That’s right.’
Noah let him go, and lowered the knife. ‘Jesus, Leon, I didn’t recognize you. Last time I saw you, you were only knee high to a high knee.’
‘Mr Flynn! What are you doing here? Where’s my dad?’
Leon was a taller, skinnier version of Mo, with a pale face and close-set eyes and a large, curved nose. His upper lip was dark with an incipient moustache. On the front of his T-shirt was a large picture of the Jewish reggae singer Matisyahu.
‘Leon, you’d better sit down.’
‘Why? Why do I have to sit down? Where’s my dad?’
‘Leon, something bad has happened.’
Leon stared at Noah in panic. ‘What? What’s happened? Tell me!’
‘Somebody’s broken in here. Somebody’s broken into your house and your dad and Trina are both dead.’
‘ What? What do you mean dead? Where are they?’
‘You don’t want to see them, believe me.’
‘I want to see them! I want to see my dad! I don’t understand any of this! Who broke in? What did they do?’
It took Noah almost five minutes to calm Leon down. By that time the police had arrived, three squad cars and two detectives. Then an ambulance from the coroner’s department, and two Humvees from the CSI. A few minutes later, two mobile TV trucks turned up, and several more cars, until the whole block looked like a battle scene.
As the house began to fill up with police officers and crime scene investigators and medical examiners, Noah took Leon out into the backyard, and stayed close to him, with his hand resting on his shoulder.
‘I tried to call Dad last night,’ said Leon. ‘I should have known that something was wrong when he didn’t answer.’
‘It’s not your fault, Leon.’
‘Yes, it is. I should have been here. If I hadn’t stayed over with my friends in Sherman Oaks—’
‘There’s no question, Leon. If you had been here, they would have killed you, too.’
‘But who could have done it? My dad never hurt anybody in his entire life. Dad was just Dad. He made everybody laugh.’
A tall black detective came out of the house, with his coat slung over one shoulder. He had a grey walrus moustache and his bald head sparkled with perspiration.
‘Mr Finn, is it?’
‘Flynn. As in, “in like Flynn”.’
The detective dragged out a large white handkerchief and patted the back of his neck. ‘Hell of a mess, this, Mr Flynn. Any ideas at all who the perpetrators might have been?’
‘There was more than one of them, then?’
‘That’s what the
‘Yes,’ said Silja, on her cellphone, ‘Lincoln Boulevard, Santa Monica – Noah, what number is it?’
‘Five forty-eight.’
When she had finished talking to the police, Silja came up to Noah and held him close. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. How were they killed?’
‘The same way as Jenna. Their throats were cut. Mo – they cut him down there, too – castrated him.’
‘Oh my God. Do you think it was the same people?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it at all. Who would want to murder an innocent guy like Mo? He wrote comedy , for Christ’s sake. He wrote jokes.’
They were still waiting for the police when they heard a key turning in the front door.
Noah immediately stood up and reached for the knife that Trina had been using to prepare her salad. He gestured for Silja to stay well back in the alcove beside the refrigerator, and then he crossed the kitchen and stood next to the door.
Without any hesitation, a curly-haired young man in an orange T-shirt walked in, and tossed a canvas bag on to the kitchen floor. Noah wrapped an arm around his neck and held the point of the knife up against his right side. ‘You move – you blink , even – you’re going to be very, very dead.’
The young man froze, with one arm still lifted, as if he were playing statues.
‘What are you doing here?’ Noah demanded.
‘What am I doing here? I live here, man!’
Noah hesitated, and then he relaxed his grip. ‘Leon?’
‘That’s right.’
Noah let him go, and lowered the knife. ‘Jesus, Leon, I didn’t recognize you. Last time I saw you, you were only knee high to a high knee.’
‘Mr Flynn! What are you doing here? Where’s my dad?’
Leon was a taller, skinnier version of Mo, with a pale face and close-set eyes and a large, curved nose. His upper lip was dark with an incipient moustache. On the front of his T-shirt was a large picture of the Jewish reggae singer Matisyahu.
‘Leon, you’d better sit down.’
‘Why? Why do I have to sit down? Where’s my dad?’
‘Leon, something bad has happened.’
Leon stared at Noah in panic. ‘What? What’s happened? Tell me!’
‘Somebody’s broken in here. Somebody’s broken into your house and your dad and Trina are both dead.’
‘ What? What do you mean dead? Where are they?’
‘You don’t want to see them, believe me.’
‘I want to see them! I want to see my dad! I don’t understand any of this! Who broke in? What did they do?’
It took Noah almost five minutes to calm Leon down. By that time the police had arrived, three squad cars and two detectives. Then an ambulance from the coroner’s department, and two Humvees from the CSI. A few minutes later, two mobile TV trucks turned up, and several more cars, until the whole block looked like a battle scene.
As the house began to fill up with police officers and crime scene investigators and medical examiners, Noah took Leon out into the backyard, and stayed close to him, with his hand resting on his shoulder.
‘I tried to call Dad last night,’ said Leon. ‘I should have known that something was wrong when he didn’t answer.’
‘It’s not your fault, Leon.’
‘Yes, it is. I should have been here. If I hadn’t stayed over with my friends in Sherman Oaks—’
‘There’s no question, Leon. If you had been here, they would have killed you, too.’
‘But who could have done it? My dad never hurt anybody in his entire life. Dad was just Dad. He made everybody laugh.’
A tall black detective came out of the house, with his coat slung over one shoulder. He had a grey walrus moustache and his bald head sparkled with perspiration.
‘Mr Finn, is it?’
‘Flynn. As in, “in like Flynn”.’
The detective dragged out a large white handkerchief and patted the back of his neck. ‘Hell of a mess, this, Mr Flynn. Any ideas at all who the perpetrators might have been?’
‘There was more than one of them, then?’
‘That’s what the
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