get a few things. She's too upset right now."
The kid nodded, a bit dimly. "I can understand that. And how long do you plan on being up there, Mr. Burke?"
"Maybe a half hour." Burke actually didn't have a clue. "No more than an hour. It wouldn't take that long, except I'm going to have to locate stuff from her directions because I've never been here."
The kid still seemed too suspicious. "You work for the family?"
"I'm a friend of Nicole's," Burke said, with emphasis on the word friend. He changed gears and manufactured a lewd wink.
That did it. The kid relaxed, fully convinced. He stepped back. "Go on ahead, sir," he said, brightly. "Be sure to check out again when you leave."
The main drag was oddly dark for an upper class neighborhood, but as Burke turned the car onto Garfield Lane the lighting improved. The next properties could all rightfully be termed 'estates,' for they were massive. He saw tall rows of trees weaving in and out of giant metal fences with mounted cameras and motion alarms. A Mercedes-Benz sedan passed him going the other way. The driver was a flawless blonde with yet another one of those surgically pinched noses. She smiled, Bel Air style: Hi! Are you somebody important, who can do something for me or my career? The smile flickered out like a pissed-on campfire when she realized Burke was nobody special.
Warner Drive was all one property and the tall fencing stretched for an easy two blocks. Burke was impressed. He arrived at the tall, gothic-looking gates and paused to take it all in. This was a perfect home for a horror author. Far back into the gloomy trees he could just make out a sprawling, two-story property with high gables. The gate looked formidable; the entire, seemingly endless ribbon of impeccable driveway was dark. Burke parked and fished through his pockets for the keys Nicole Stryker had tossed him. There was one large key on the ring, but also one smaller—perhaps for a desk drawer or the lock leading into a library or study. Burke swore under his breath.
Two things sprang to mind: First, why would Stryker leave such an already isolated setting to commit suicide in a hotel suite? Second, why the hell didn't Nicole tell me how to get in the front gate, if she knew it would be closed?
Burke got out of the car, reached back under the front seat. He pulled out a large, police-style flashlight. He took measure of the fence, sighed. He knelt in the grass, checked that the snub S&W .38 was snug in the holster at his ankle. He removed a small travel-sized bottle of baby powder, sprinkled it on his hands and slipped on a pair of thin surgical gloves, just to be on the safe side. He looked in both directions; nothing. He searched the tree line for cameras directed toward the street; nothing.
He walked closer. There was no key opening on, or even near, the large front gate. Burke dialed Nicole on the cell phone, got a machine. He hung up, not wanting to leave a recording that might later serve as evidence.
Thirty seconds later he was at the top of the metal fence, shining the powerful flashlight beam down onto the lush grounds. He checked again for cameras and quickly found a few placed discreetly atop poles and among the trees. He recognized 'sweepers' that were designed to move constantly and search the grounds below. These didn't seem to be activated. He considered, then slithered down some ivy and dropped loose-kneed onto the slightly damp grass. Burke figured he was here legally anyway. The guard could testify to his name having been on the list.
Meanwhile, the closed gate could mean any number of things, but only one that was truly interesting. If Nicole Stryker had left it open for him, then someone else either had recently been on the premises to close it—or that someone else was still here.
Burke stayed at the base of the pines for a few moments, just listening, then crouched low and worked his way closer to the mansion. The grounds had an unnatural stillness to them; the
The kid nodded, a bit dimly. "I can understand that. And how long do you plan on being up there, Mr. Burke?"
"Maybe a half hour." Burke actually didn't have a clue. "No more than an hour. It wouldn't take that long, except I'm going to have to locate stuff from her directions because I've never been here."
The kid still seemed too suspicious. "You work for the family?"
"I'm a friend of Nicole's," Burke said, with emphasis on the word friend. He changed gears and manufactured a lewd wink.
That did it. The kid relaxed, fully convinced. He stepped back. "Go on ahead, sir," he said, brightly. "Be sure to check out again when you leave."
The main drag was oddly dark for an upper class neighborhood, but as Burke turned the car onto Garfield Lane the lighting improved. The next properties could all rightfully be termed 'estates,' for they were massive. He saw tall rows of trees weaving in and out of giant metal fences with mounted cameras and motion alarms. A Mercedes-Benz sedan passed him going the other way. The driver was a flawless blonde with yet another one of those surgically pinched noses. She smiled, Bel Air style: Hi! Are you somebody important, who can do something for me or my career? The smile flickered out like a pissed-on campfire when she realized Burke was nobody special.
Warner Drive was all one property and the tall fencing stretched for an easy two blocks. Burke was impressed. He arrived at the tall, gothic-looking gates and paused to take it all in. This was a perfect home for a horror author. Far back into the gloomy trees he could just make out a sprawling, two-story property with high gables. The gate looked formidable; the entire, seemingly endless ribbon of impeccable driveway was dark. Burke parked and fished through his pockets for the keys Nicole Stryker had tossed him. There was one large key on the ring, but also one smaller—perhaps for a desk drawer or the lock leading into a library or study. Burke swore under his breath.
Two things sprang to mind: First, why would Stryker leave such an already isolated setting to commit suicide in a hotel suite? Second, why the hell didn't Nicole tell me how to get in the front gate, if she knew it would be closed?
Burke got out of the car, reached back under the front seat. He pulled out a large, police-style flashlight. He took measure of the fence, sighed. He knelt in the grass, checked that the snub S&W .38 was snug in the holster at his ankle. He removed a small travel-sized bottle of baby powder, sprinkled it on his hands and slipped on a pair of thin surgical gloves, just to be on the safe side. He looked in both directions; nothing. He searched the tree line for cameras directed toward the street; nothing.
He walked closer. There was no key opening on, or even near, the large front gate. Burke dialed Nicole on the cell phone, got a machine. He hung up, not wanting to leave a recording that might later serve as evidence.
Thirty seconds later he was at the top of the metal fence, shining the powerful flashlight beam down onto the lush grounds. He checked again for cameras and quickly found a few placed discreetly atop poles and among the trees. He recognized 'sweepers' that were designed to move constantly and search the grounds below. These didn't seem to be activated. He considered, then slithered down some ivy and dropped loose-kneed onto the slightly damp grass. Burke figured he was here legally anyway. The guard could testify to his name having been on the list.
Meanwhile, the closed gate could mean any number of things, but only one that was truly interesting. If Nicole Stryker had left it open for him, then someone else either had recently been on the premises to close it—or that someone else was still here.
Burke stayed at the base of the pines for a few moments, just listening, then crouched low and worked his way closer to the mansion. The grounds had an unnatural stillness to them; the
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