car, two men in business suits stepped out of the blue evening and into the beams of his headlights. They made no effort to hide their automatic weapons.
Lowering the window, Haydon held up his shield at the same moment a sharp beam from a powerful flashlight played into his eyes. It stayed there. His temper flared, but he held his tongue and fought the urge to slap down the flashlight as he put the shield in front of his eyes. He could see nothing behind the glare, but he could hear the second man talking to someone over a hand-held radio.
There was a scratchy response, and the man with the flashlight said, "You may continue, senor." He pointed the beam along the paved drive as a gesture of escort. "Please accept our apologies for the inconvenience."
Haydon was surprised they hadn't asked whom he had come to see, which was just as well, because he didn't know if Sosa was married, had a family, or lived alone.
He put the car in gear and drove toward the long, softly lighted loggia that stretched across the front of the house. A man hurried down the steps to wait for him, and was there to open the car door by the time he turned off the motor.
"Please," the man said as Haydon got out of the car. He gave a nodding salute, and indicated that he should be followed. Haydon had the odd impression he was expected, that he was the only one who didn't know what was about to happen next. Their footsteps made rasping sounds on the footlighted stones as they quickly ascended. At both ends of the loggia men with automatic weapons leaned on the shadow side of the columns, and yet another stood at the door itself. Haydon knew there would be no legal impropriety in this ostentatious show of weaponry, but it rankled him nonetheless. He resented the state-of-siege mentality that seemed more appropriate in the Middle East, or in Latin America itself. He was irritated, too, because it reminded him that this was just a more overt representation of an attitude that was increasing among many wealthy United States citizens as well. Especially in Texas, where the right to bear arms was sacrosanct. For the most part, that right had been judiciously and cautiously exercised in the past, but this seemed no longer to be the case. There was a cowboy on every street now. The state bristled with arms.
As the heavy wooden front door swung open, Haydon was greeted by a thin young man with tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a suit and a heavily starched Oxford-cloth white shirt with a button-down collar.
"Please come in, Detective Haydon," he said, stepping back for Haydon to enter a vestibule dominated by a curving double stairway of dove-gray marble that reached to a balcony on the second floor. A heavy chandelier hung from the high ceiling, adding brilliance to the polished marble. "My name is Efren Gamboa. My father is waiting to talk to you in the library."
Gamboa? Haydon didn't say anything. Apparently he didn't need to. Everything seemed to be going according to schedule. Someone else's schedule.
The two men walked across a floor inlaid with a black marble labyrinth pattern that encompassed the entire entryway to a pair of carved wooden doors. The young man opened the doors, and they entered a spacious and richly decorated room. Haydon quickly saw that it was a library in name only, furnished with the kinds of volumes that are the stock items of interior decorators whose clients want the appearance of erudition. Huge tomes of matching leather bindings with gold imprinting lined the mahogany shelves. There were rows and rows of matching sets of dark leather volumes accented with others in red and green morocco, and the butter-colored spines of parchment bindings. Massive folio volumes lay on their sides in the lower shelves. A heavy library table dominated the near side of the room. It was decorated with a giant antique globe on a brass stand, and excellent pieces of pre-Columbian statuary under individual Plexiglas canopies. No room here for spreading out one
Lowering the window, Haydon held up his shield at the same moment a sharp beam from a powerful flashlight played into his eyes. It stayed there. His temper flared, but he held his tongue and fought the urge to slap down the flashlight as he put the shield in front of his eyes. He could see nothing behind the glare, but he could hear the second man talking to someone over a hand-held radio.
There was a scratchy response, and the man with the flashlight said, "You may continue, senor." He pointed the beam along the paved drive as a gesture of escort. "Please accept our apologies for the inconvenience."
Haydon was surprised they hadn't asked whom he had come to see, which was just as well, because he didn't know if Sosa was married, had a family, or lived alone.
He put the car in gear and drove toward the long, softly lighted loggia that stretched across the front of the house. A man hurried down the steps to wait for him, and was there to open the car door by the time he turned off the motor.
"Please," the man said as Haydon got out of the car. He gave a nodding salute, and indicated that he should be followed. Haydon had the odd impression he was expected, that he was the only one who didn't know what was about to happen next. Their footsteps made rasping sounds on the footlighted stones as they quickly ascended. At both ends of the loggia men with automatic weapons leaned on the shadow side of the columns, and yet another stood at the door itself. Haydon knew there would be no legal impropriety in this ostentatious show of weaponry, but it rankled him nonetheless. He resented the state-of-siege mentality that seemed more appropriate in the Middle East, or in Latin America itself. He was irritated, too, because it reminded him that this was just a more overt representation of an attitude that was increasing among many wealthy United States citizens as well. Especially in Texas, where the right to bear arms was sacrosanct. For the most part, that right had been judiciously and cautiously exercised in the past, but this seemed no longer to be the case. There was a cowboy on every street now. The state bristled with arms.
As the heavy wooden front door swung open, Haydon was greeted by a thin young man with tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a suit and a heavily starched Oxford-cloth white shirt with a button-down collar.
"Please come in, Detective Haydon," he said, stepping back for Haydon to enter a vestibule dominated by a curving double stairway of dove-gray marble that reached to a balcony on the second floor. A heavy chandelier hung from the high ceiling, adding brilliance to the polished marble. "My name is Efren Gamboa. My father is waiting to talk to you in the library."
Gamboa? Haydon didn't say anything. Apparently he didn't need to. Everything seemed to be going according to schedule. Someone else's schedule.
The two men walked across a floor inlaid with a black marble labyrinth pattern that encompassed the entire entryway to a pair of carved wooden doors. The young man opened the doors, and they entered a spacious and richly decorated room. Haydon quickly saw that it was a library in name only, furnished with the kinds of volumes that are the stock items of interior decorators whose clients want the appearance of erudition. Huge tomes of matching leather bindings with gold imprinting lined the mahogany shelves. There were rows and rows of matching sets of dark leather volumes accented with others in red and green morocco, and the butter-colored spines of parchment bindings. Massive folio volumes lay on their sides in the lower shelves. A heavy library table dominated the near side of the room. It was decorated with a giant antique globe on a brass stand, and excellent pieces of pre-Columbian statuary under individual Plexiglas canopies. No room here for spreading out one
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