plants were rigid enough to appear artificial and the grass, though cool and somewhat damp, felt like the Astroturf flooring of a domed stadium. From somewhere to the south Burke heard the gruff rumbling of an airliner approaching LAX. His tennis shoes whispered through the foliage. His instincts flared. He was soon moving at a good, solid clip. He angled for the side of the massive porch and duck-walked beneath the picture window. At the edge of the doorway he reached for his ankle and unclipped the .38. It felt improbably light—and a bit unimpressive—once in his grasp.
Burke blinked sweat from his eyes. He reached up with one gloved hand and carefully tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked and it swung open. Burke slithered into the foyer, the .38 low and pointed toward the tiled flooring. He was surprised how well he could see. He peered down into the huge living room. The house was riddled with night-lights; they were plugged into dozens of receptacles near doorways and closets.
For some reason, Peter Stryker had been abnormally afraid of the dark.
Burke was on the premises legally, with keys that belonged to the family, and he was licensed to carry a firearm. None of those facts were of any particular value to him at the moment. They would not make him bulletproof. In fact, he wished he'd brought the Kevlar vest he left hanging in a closet at home. He eased through the foyer, barely noticing that the ornate, doubtlessly expensive tiles were identical to those that adorned Nicole Stryker's residence.
The living room had thick, plush carpeting. Burke moved through it rapidly and soundlessly. He did not know what he was looking for, but if Stryker's death was something other than suicide, the presence of an intruder would likely be connected. He had taken the young woman's money. Since he was here, he felt obligated to follow through.
A floorboard squeaked on the upper landing. Burke flattened against a wall near the bottom of the spiral staircase, between two massive wooden bookshelves. For the first time, he noticed several small indicators of a careful, possibly recent search of the property. Some books had been replaced upside down and a few papers slipped under end tables or protruded from desk drawers. He listened intently. He could hear faint music coming from upstairs; something classical, although he did not recognize the piece.
Then footsteps, confident and brisk, crossed the floor above him and paused at the top of the stairs. I saw a man who wasn't there, he thought. How did that old poem go?
Burke braced the .38 in his hands. He would wait for the intruder to deal the cards. He couldn't retreat to the front door, which was still standing open, without being seen. Neither could he approach the staircase. His best hope was that the man on the landing would decide he'd left the front door open himself and make a run for it, or perhaps would know another way out of the home and not choose to take any undue risk. By staying still, Burke might have the upper hand. All he had to do was be patient and wait. Or so he hoped.
The intruder also waited.
Burke tried to get a sense of the man or woman upstairs. The floorboards had squeaked, rather than complained, as they likely would with someone Burke's size. The person was probably not exceptionally large. The lock on the front door was not damaged in any obvious way, and was the likely point of entry because it was open, so the burglar was either a professional or someone with a key. And this was also someone who could stand in utter tranquility for several minutes after having been interrupted in the middle of ransacking a dead man's home.
More time passed with no movement, no sound. Sweat rolled down Burke's face and tickled his lips. He licked it away. His Delta training had prepared him for long and boring periods of motionless anxiety, waiting for a target to appear. He was confident he could wait his opponent out, regardless of how long it
Burke blinked sweat from his eyes. He reached up with one gloved hand and carefully tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked and it swung open. Burke slithered into the foyer, the .38 low and pointed toward the tiled flooring. He was surprised how well he could see. He peered down into the huge living room. The house was riddled with night-lights; they were plugged into dozens of receptacles near doorways and closets.
For some reason, Peter Stryker had been abnormally afraid of the dark.
Burke was on the premises legally, with keys that belonged to the family, and he was licensed to carry a firearm. None of those facts were of any particular value to him at the moment. They would not make him bulletproof. In fact, he wished he'd brought the Kevlar vest he left hanging in a closet at home. He eased through the foyer, barely noticing that the ornate, doubtlessly expensive tiles were identical to those that adorned Nicole Stryker's residence.
The living room had thick, plush carpeting. Burke moved through it rapidly and soundlessly. He did not know what he was looking for, but if Stryker's death was something other than suicide, the presence of an intruder would likely be connected. He had taken the young woman's money. Since he was here, he felt obligated to follow through.
A floorboard squeaked on the upper landing. Burke flattened against a wall near the bottom of the spiral staircase, between two massive wooden bookshelves. For the first time, he noticed several small indicators of a careful, possibly recent search of the property. Some books had been replaced upside down and a few papers slipped under end tables or protruded from desk drawers. He listened intently. He could hear faint music coming from upstairs; something classical, although he did not recognize the piece.
Then footsteps, confident and brisk, crossed the floor above him and paused at the top of the stairs. I saw a man who wasn't there, he thought. How did that old poem go?
Burke braced the .38 in his hands. He would wait for the intruder to deal the cards. He couldn't retreat to the front door, which was still standing open, without being seen. Neither could he approach the staircase. His best hope was that the man on the landing would decide he'd left the front door open himself and make a run for it, or perhaps would know another way out of the home and not choose to take any undue risk. By staying still, Burke might have the upper hand. All he had to do was be patient and wait. Or so he hoped.
The intruder also waited.
Burke tried to get a sense of the man or woman upstairs. The floorboards had squeaked, rather than complained, as they likely would with someone Burke's size. The person was probably not exceptionally large. The lock on the front door was not damaged in any obvious way, and was the likely point of entry because it was open, so the burglar was either a professional or someone with a key. And this was also someone who could stand in utter tranquility for several minutes after having been interrupted in the middle of ransacking a dead man's home.
More time passed with no movement, no sound. Sweat rolled down Burke's face and tickled his lips. He licked it away. His Delta training had prepared him for long and boring periods of motionless anxiety, waiting for a target to appear. He was confident he could wait his opponent out, regardless of how long it
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