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“We’re not talking about a bad guy lying in wait,” I said. “Worst case, there are two corpses in there and my nostrils can handle it.”
“Yeah, well, the last time I thought I had everything figured out.”
“The last time is irrelevant, no need for superstition.” The harshness in my own voice surprised me. Like listening to an evil twin.
He said, “Being careful is superstitious?”
“Finding causation where there is none is the definition of superstitious. Don’t worry.”
“I always worry.”
I walked quickly toward the mansion.
His turn to catch up.
—
When we reached the front door he said, “You can come in but stand well back and let me do my thing. No debates, okay?”
I said, “Quantify ‘well back.’ ”
“Jesus, what’s got into you?”
“The promise of adventure.”
“Consider it a broken promise.” He unlocked the door. No alarm buzz. Just inside, an alarm company monitor saidReady To Arm.
Emptied of people, the marble-floored space felt cold and sepulchral. Like a museum after hours.
The first thing both of us did was sniff the air. Scanning for the cordite bite of recent gunshots or the stomach-turning fetor of death.
None of that, just sterile, odorless air, but in a house this huge that meant nothing. Milo took out his Glock and stomped the floor with a desert boot. Three times. The sound echoed.
He said, “Police,” in a loud voice.
Silence.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the quantification: you can stand here or get comfy in the living room. Concentrate on producing psychological wisdom while I do the scut work. If there’s nothing to report, I’ll be back soon enough.”
I said, “Okay. Mom.”
Muttering and shaking his head, he pointed the gun forward and passed under the right side of the double staircase. Left alone, I circled the center table a few times before making my way to the same seat I’d occupied the day we’d talked to Douglass March.
The path took me past one conspicuous change: the photo of the Marches in full dress was gone. In its place, propped against a lamp, was a framed artist rendering of a residential complex.
Belle-Vieux Gardens. Atlanta, Ga. Venture Quest Properties.
Douglass March embracing true love.
—
Milo was gone for twenty-two minutes. During that time, I checked and rechecked my phone, then punished myself by scanning national, international, and local events on a “news aggregator” andencountering nothing but the shrill squawks of click-addicted misery pimps. Tired of sitting, I circled the massive room thirty-eight times. Failed to come up with a shred of wisdom, psychological or otherwise.
When Milo returned, he was shaking his head. “Place is crazy-big, checked everywhere including the garage and the pool house. She drove a Porsche Panamera and his hot wheels are a Mazda SUV with eight hundred miles on it. No sign of struggle anywhere including the maids’ room. Irma and Adelita shared it, there are two beds. Both are made up and tucked tight and all their belongings are gone.”
“Orderly retreat.”
“Hope so for their sake.”
