Hard Cash (7 page)

After taking a wrong turn inside the gate, I
finally found the Blake house. The crime scene tape was down, there was no
lockout cover on the doorknob, and no cops anywhere. A big maroon BMW sedan sat
in the driveway. I parked on the street, making the short walk to the house.

The house itself was about average size for
Beachview, which is to say, enormous. Peach-colored stucco three stories tall,
with high, draped windows all along the front of the ground floor. Overstated
bay windows graced the corners of the second floor. A four-car garage sat to
the left, and even that rose two stories. It was the kind of house that would
stand out as garish in a lesser neighborhood, but here hardly raised an
eyebrow. On the expanse of the deep green lawn, a line of tall desert palms
swayed gently in the morning breeze moving in off the water.

Before approaching the front door, I walked around
the perimeter of the house, looking for evidence of forced entry. No broken
windows, no jimmied doors, nothing at all out of the ordinary. With all its
furniture undisturbed, the rear patio lay still before the shimmering lake.

Back around front, I knocked, and the arched door
opened almost immediately. A guy about my age stood silently in the doorway, his
gaze demanding to know who I was, as well as my reason for being there. A quick
look at his clothing and his haircut told me he probably belonged in a house just
like this one.

"My name's Jack Barnett," I said. "I'm
a private investigator."

I flashed my ID just long enough for him to glance
at it, but not long enough to absorb any of its details. It was a duplicate
license I got before my trouble in California. I kept it, surrendering the
original when they yanked it from me.

It was his move. While I waited for his response,
I noticed another man in the background, standing in the large foyer. Both men
were in their early-to-mid-thirties, slender and well-groomed, with short,
nondescript brown hair. They wore high-end dark suits and looked like they
could have been, in their younger years, prototypes for the original
Starbuck's-slurping yuppies.

The one who answered the door stood tentatively in
front of me, uncertainty all over his pallid face. My arrival was evidently
causing them some inconvenience. The one in the background looked at me through
hard eyes and tight features.

Finally, Mr Doorway demanded, "What do you
want?"

"I'm investigating the murder of Sandra
Blake. I was under the impression this was her house."

"It is — was."

"Then, who might you be?"

"The police have already concluded their
investigation at this house, Mr — Mr Barnett. I don't think there's
anything for you here." He started to close the door.

I put up an arm, blocking it. "Well, you just
never know what they might have overlooked, so I'd like to come in and have a
look around, if that's okay with you."

"It's not okay. You may not come in." He
tried for some authority in his voice, but missed by a wide margin. My arm
still blocked the door.

"You know, I didn't catch your name. What was
it again?"

"I didn't say."

I shot him a smile. "Hey, if we're going to
be friends, we have to know each other's name, at the very least. Now, I've
told you mine." Then my voice lowered, just to let him know I meant
business. "What's yours?"

At that point, the guy in the foyer spoke up. "Get
rid of him, Colby."

The door started to close in my face again. Again,
I wouldn't let it. I shoved it back at him hard, so that it flew open, out of
his grip, banging against the doorstop down by the baseboard.

"Now, Colby, we're not off to a very good
start here," I said. "Either you be nice to me and let me in, or
things are going to get ugly in a hurry."

With that, the guy in the foyer moved quickly to
Colby's side.

"Listen, pal, there are two of us and one of
you. It's going to get a lot uglier for you —"

My fist shot straight into his solar plexus,
doubling him forward, leaving him sucking for breath. I nudged him aside, and
elbowed my way around Colby into the house. He followed me in.

"You can't do that!" cried Colby. "That's
assault!"

"Actually, it's battery. But if you want to
call the cops, go ahead." As I shut the door, he swallowed, always a sign
of weakness. "Now, let's start all over again. I'm Jack Barnett, private
investigator, looking into Sandra Blake's murder. And you are … ?"

"Colby Farrow." His eyes tumbled
downward, staring at the patterned marble floor.

"And who's Superman over there." He was
still gasping, but now leaning against the wide spiral staircase, one arm on
the bannister, one arm across his gut.

Colby said, "That's my brother, Ryan."

"How did you get into the house?"

"Ryan has a key."

"Oh, he does? Very interesting. And what
brings you boys here on this fine day?"

"We came to … to pick up some of Ryan's
things."

"His things? What kind of things?"

Colby said, "This is really none of your
business, Barnett. We're —"

I slapped him. Hard. His hand flew up to his
cheek.

"When I'm hired to investigate a murder, and
there's two guys at the scene who don't belong there, believe me, buddy, it's
my business. Now, what kind of things are you taking out of here? Or should I
call the cops myself? Maybe they'd like to know why you're here early in the
morning, one day after Sandra Blake was found with a bullet in her head. Maybe
they'd like to know why you're removing items from this house, which house, I
might add, does not belong to you."

He rubbed his reddening face. "Ryan had a few
clothes over here, as well as some Château Mouton."

"Sha-toe what?"

Disdain crept onto his face. He looked at me like
I was a hunk of shit on a white carpet. "It's wine. Very expensive wine. I
doubt you would know of it."

I shrugged off the insult. "Tell me, why did
your brother have his stuff over here? Was he seeing Sandra Blake?"

Colby nodded. "He'd been seeing her for about
a year."

"And that's why he happens to have a key?"

"Yes."

I walked over to Superman, just now getting his
breath back.

"So, were you living here with the late Mrs
Blake?"

He finally stood up, still clutching his
midsection. "No."

"Just staying here on occasion, right? Kind
of cozy-like."

"I stayed here sometimes. Listen, you'll
regret this, Barnett." His voice was returning, but still on the raspy
side.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure I will.
Let's go get your clothes."

I herded the both of them up the staircase. Ryan
led the way, moving us swiftly into the master bedroom and into the walk-in
closet, which was by itself nearly as big as my apartment. Mostly women's clothing
lined the racks and shelves, and about as many shoes as there are in the state
of Rhode Island. I watched while he gathered his stuff, after which we all
moved back downstairs.

I turned to Colby. "Show me the living room."

He escorted me into the living room, and what a
room it was! One of those you see featured in oversized, glossy,
wouldn't-you-love-to-live-here magazines.

At least twenty feet high, it was dominated by
dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows all along the front, covered by thick, deep blue
drapes that blocked out every last snippet of sunlight. Top-drawer designer
furniture and plush carpeting covered the floor, while high-ticket artwork, or
what looked like it anyway, hung here and there on the walls. A jumbo fireplace,
almost big enough to walk into, sat squarely in the middle of the far wall. A
large mirror hung above it, while a gleaming white grand piano controlled the
right side of the room. A graceful, modernist chandelier, dangling over the
center of everything, provided the only light. The touch of the professional
decorator was everywhere.

Except for the blood.

And it was all over the soft, exquisite yellow carpet
in front of the matching chairs, as well as on the wall behind them. It was all
that was left of Sandra Blake. I stared at it for a few moments, visualizing
her death. And wondering why.

I turned to Colby. "Where's the wine?"

He led me to the kitchen. Next to the big Sub-Zero
refrigerator was a narrow door. He gestured toward it and I opened it.

It revealed a small pantry-like area no more than
two feet wide, shelves rising about four feet off the floor. It had been
converted to a miniature wine fridge. The coolish air immediately drifted out
of it into my eyes and my nostrils, giving me an odd little temporary
pick-me-up. The shelves, each containing semicircular slats, held the wine
bottles. There were about a dozen of them, lounging lazily on their sides,
corks wet and waiting.

"Which one's the big one?" I asked.

"There." He pointed to the floor. There
was a wooden case, unopened. It looked pretty old. It also looked like it
belonged to Sandra Blake, not to either of these jokers.

"The whole case? How many bottles are in it?"

"Six."

Something didn't smell right. Coming over here for
your own clothes is one thing, but this wine sitting there in a big wooden box?
I let them take this, then what was next? Sandra Blake's jewelry?

"The wine stays," I said.

His eyebrows came together in a frown, causing
prominent lines to surge upward on his forehead. They were so prominent, in
fact, I could tell he'd made that move many, many times in his life. "You
can't do that! It belongs to my brother."

"And a broken rib is going to belong to you
if you give me any more shit about this. The wine stays. Now let's go get you
and your brother out of here."

I turned to Ryan. "Give me your key to the
house."

"Hold on, Barnett," Ryan said.
 
"You can't do this."

"I
am
doing it, junior. Now, put down
the clothes, reach into your pocket for the key, and place it in my hand. This
minute. And give me your driver's license, while you're at it."

"My driver's li —"

His stomach still hurt, I could tell. He didn't
want a repeat blow to it, but my eyes told him there would be one if he
resisted. I slapped him for good measure.

He did as he was told.

Putting the license in my pocket, I escorted them
out, then locked the door behind us with Ryan's key. As we walked over to their
BMW, I told them, "If anyone comes back here for that wine, or for
anything else in this house, Ryan, I know where you live." I pulled out
his license and held it up to his face. "And believe me, you will not
enjoy the consequences."

I opened the driver's side door to the big sedan
and shoved him in.

"Now, both of you get the fuck out of
here."