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“He didn’t because I didn’t. There was no conversation, just him informing me of his plans. When I redialed I got Ms. Robot. Speaking of which,hisvoice was kinda flat.”
I said, “Maybe she’s actually his assistant.”
He laughed. “We go to his office and it’s all automatons in hipster clothing? Which actually sounds like Silicon Valley. Anyway, back to his demeanor. Totally matter-of-fact, no curiosity when the police call. Bizarre. Can you make it at five?”
“Sure.”
“Convenient, huh? You living so close. Gonna try to jog it this time?”
“Got that out of the way this morning.”
“Did you,” he said. “My aerobic challenge was waking up.”
—
At three p.m., he called again. “Turns out Mr. March caught a direct flight from Memphis and plans to be home in forty minutes. Allegiant Air, I looked it up, discount outfit, hundred and fifty bucks. That house, you’d think he owned his own jet or at least chartered. Guy’s full of surprises. Either the worst kind of suspect or the best. Can you make it in forty?”
“No prob.”
He hummed the first few bars of “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here.” “Glad we’re doing our thing again.”
Click.
—
I arrived on time at the March estate. Milo had beat me to it and was parked in the same spot.
This time the gate opened after a single ring. No inquiries from within.
When we reached the front door, it was shut, requiring another button-push.
Several moments passed before Irma Ruiz opened it. Looking no less uncomfortable than she had yesterday.
Behind her, Adelita Santiago, likewise.
No one else in sight.
Irma said, “Please come,” and led us around the left side of the double staircase into a second circular reception area. Black marble checked with white, smaller than the grand hall but still generous at twenty or so feet in diameter.
In lieu of more portraits, Gothic niches showcased vases and urns. Beyond the space was a domed, window-backed room paneled in nearly black walnut inlaid with brass. Bookshelves on the side walls, most of them empty. The same kind of overstuffed furniture as in front, arranged in three groupings. One fireplace with a black granite surround.
Beyond the glass a columned patio larger than some apartments looked down on several acres of green grass. A sprinkle of trees: mature olives, a favorite of landscapers because their root balls are small and they transplant easily. A pair of fifty-foot pines was sited too precisely to be Mother Nature at work. A cobalt-tiled Olympic-sized pool featured a swim-up bar at the deep end. Meagin March hadn’t run to Gio Aggiunta’s place for the water.
Much of the property’s back border was taken up by a two-story mini-me of the main house. Accessed by a motor court at the end of the left-hand drive. Rooms on the second floor, six-car garage on ground level.
Irma stopped and said, “They here.”
A man sitting near the fireplace sat up and made himself visible. Staring at us for a second, he stood and came forward.
In the flesh, Douglass March looked even younger. Mid- to late twenties, five-six, a hundred thirty. His mouth was narrow, the lips plump and dark and set in a lemon-sucking pout. Smallish hazel eyes were blurred by the lenses of black-framed specs.
March’s hair, lank and colored a strange beige, had grown out since he’d posed for the photo, now trailed an inch below his shoulders. The front flap swooped across one cheek, nearly concealing one eye. He wore a wrinkled white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, skinny blue jeans that bagged on skinny legs, and white Reeboks grimed gray in spots.
Easily taken for a struggling grad student.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis.” He held out his hand.
March nodded but kept his hands at his side. “Doug.” Surprisingly deep voice.
